Page 39 of Bite Back

DELILAH

My stomach flutters when I spot Asher in the alleyway after my shift.

He picked up Praline from Sarah’s apartment right after we got back from Connecticut, and then we combed the area where Luka and the new woman were spotted, going door to door, talking to every shop owner and resident we could in a five or six block radius.

But our urgency and effort didn’t translate into anything beyond more frustration.

I haven’t seen Asher much in the week we’ve been back thanks to some Academy training.

I’ve been burying myself in work and training on my own with the routines he gave me, trying not to think too much about the possible new woman, the ticking clock hanging over our heads.

The information about her was just a whisper, an offhand remark a source for another slayer’s case made. But the probability haunts me.

Asher stands slouched against the brick, thumbs slung through the loops of his dark jeans, looking like a modern-day James Dean. The corner of his mouth raises in a smile as he pushes off the wall and stalks towards me.

There’s a predatory confidence to his stride, something possessive almost. A smile bursts across my face as I walk towards him. His fists bunch the collar of my jacket and draw me to him, our hips colliding and shooting sparks straight to my core.

He lowers his lips to mine and kisses me with a raw intensity that leaves me breathless. He pulls back, his mouth fractions of an inch from my lips. A feral growl escapes his lips.

“Mine.”

Mine.

The word ricochets around my brain. There’s a finality to it, a sense we’ve crossed a point of no return. I’ve tipped over the edge of the cliff and I’m falling.

His lips crash down against mine, cutting off the eddies of my thoughts.

I lose myself in the sensation of him, in the warm press of his body against mine.

I slide my hands under the cool leather of his jacket, seeking skin.

The contours of his broad back, the texture of the constellation of his scars greets my questing fingers.

His hands tangle in my hair, cradle the nape of my neck, anchor me to him.

Finally, he pulls away, smile broad across his face.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I found a lead.”

He outlines the information for me. The Academy intercepted a text that suggests Luka will be attending a poker game tonight, hosted by Vlad, my old boss.

Sneaking in will be impossible. Too much security and too many vampires.

I briefly considered the possibility of asking Vlad for an invitation, but that opens us up to other questions and complications.

I don’t want to pull Vlad into any drama, any mess.

So we plan to track him when he leaves. Anticipation curls in my gut. This could be it. It could finally be over.

Smoke drifts from the hookah lounge that we meet outside of, filling my lungs with its fragrance.

The poker game is in the Lower East Side, a few blocks from St. Mark’s Place, so I suggested we meet here, by the karaoke bar we hid in before.

It’s a good place to blend in among the hustle and bustle of the nightlife, with vendors hawking their wares, drunken groups stumbling out of bars and into tattoo shops.

I love it here. Luka always turned up his nose at St. Marks’. It wasn’t classy.

And he’s right, it’s not. But it’s alive. The heartbeat of the city strums among the graphic band tees, the flash tattoo signs, the teetering studded heels.

My cheeks heat as Asher steps out of the shadows. Like me, he’s dressed in all black. Ready for what’s to come.

We leave the busy stretch behind for increasingly quieter streets. Each footstep echoes on the sidewalk, and the hum of electricity reverberates above us.

Wings flutter and murmur overhead as a flock of pigeons take flight. A shiver runs down my spine.

The alleyway is empty when we reach it, save a black dumpster, overfull bags bursting out the top. My nose wrinkles as the scent of stale food laced with cigarettes hits me.

“Sorry,” Asher mouths. He rummages in his pocket and produces a small plastic nose clamp, like what swimmers use. Warmth washes over me as I clamp it over my nose.

It’s a small gesture. But I love it.

He points out the fire escape and shimmies up, moving his broad body with a grace and control that speaks to years of training.

I follow, the rusty metal—cold in the night air—stinging my fingertips. When we summit the roof, I shove them into my pockets, thankful for the fleece-lined warmth of my coat.

We lie on the edge of the roof, keeping as low a profile as possible.

And we watch. And we wait. After fifteen or twenty minutes have passed, something rustles beside me. A small bit of metallic silver flashes in Asher’s hand. His migraine medicine packet. Good.

I nudge his shoulder gently. “You okay?” I whisper. He gives a thumbs up. One, two, three, four, five passersby cross the street in front of us, and the moon climbs higher in the sky.

Then they arrive. One by one, black-suited figures descend on the black door below.

The first figure arrives in a fox mask, obscuring the top portion of their face. The next hides behind a silver swan mask, gleaming silver in the moonlight. Then a man arrives adorned in a green dragon mask.

The night air stretches thin as I watch the empty alleyway until a gleam catches my eye.

Pale, silvery hair, shining like a beacon in the moonlight.

Luka.

I stifle the urge to pounce, to end it here.

That’s not the plan. I have to stick to the plan. Asher’s drilled it into me. It’s not safe to make a move here. Not with so many vampires right inside the poker game, coming and going.

Asher turns to me and I nod. It’s him, it’s him, it’s him, I want to scream. Every muscle in my body curls tight. Asher reaches for a blowdart gun and brings it to his lips. A faint blur of motion arcs through the air, toward the back of Luka’s neck.

Asher explained to me how the nanotech in the tracker makes it so small and light it’s nearly undetectable, even to vampire senses. Still, I hold my breath, waiting for Luka to react, to notice. The door creaks open. A pedestrian saunters by on the main road.

Nothing.

We actually did it.

We got away with it.