Kelly Meding - Wrong Side of Dead

“Maybe.” He checked his wristwatch. “Well, let’s do this so I can still make my appointment.”

The utter normalcy of the statement took me momentarily aback. For the majority of Halfies, the infection makes them go mad. They can’t think about anything except blood and death, and they rarely run around making plans and speaking about appointments. The normal conversation (so to speak) I was having with Felix was an anomaly. The insane Halfies were the ones we most often encountered and killed. It made me wonder again just how many other lucid Halfies were out there—and how many more Felix had made in the two weeks since he was infected.

I just nodded.

“Ladies first?”

“You’re fucking out of your mind if you think I’m turning my back on you.”

Felix smiled. “That’s the Evy I remember.”

He pushed off the wall and strolled past me. Other partygoers, tired of the grind, slid quickly into our places. I kept my attention on Felix as I followed him through the smoke-and-liquor-scented throng, barely an arm’s reach between us. As much as I wanted to look for someone in my group, to signal them about my destination, I couldn’t risk Felix disappearing into the crowd. Now that I had him, I wasn’t about to let him get away.

His path wound us in and out of clusters of dancers and groups of drinkers, but his goal always seemed to be the roof access door at the opposite end of the warehouse. Three-quarters of the way there, I spotted Quince. His attention was on Felix, who he knew on sight from photographs. If Felix sensed the full-Blood vampire nearby, he made no indication. But if Felix was signaling anyone else, I couldn’t tell.

I passed into Quince’s line of sight and pretended to adjust one of my clip-on earrings—the signal that I had engaged the target.

Felix reached the access door. It was partially hidden behind a stack of old wooden pallets, in what was a pretty lame attempt at keeping people from opening the door. The door itself was large and metal, but he opened it easily with one hand and slipped into the stairwell. I grabbed the door handle before it could slam shut and nearly wrenched my arm from its socket. The fucking thing was heavy .

The stairwell itself was dark and stifling. I stopped inside and let my eyes adjust to the murky shadows. Felix’s pale skin came into focus, several steps up the first flight. He beckoned, and I followed the sound of his echoing footfalls.

He could have attacked at any time, using his extra-sensitive night vision to gain the upper hand and kill me, but he didn’t. He just kept going until he reached the roof door. It didn’t open right away, probably rusted shut from disuse. I waited one step below the landing while he slammed his shoulder into the door.

It squealed open, and he stumbled out onto the roof. I followed, maintaining distance and caution as I stepped into the humid night air. The roof was tar and metal, longer than it was wide, and dotted with dozens of vents. It sagged in places. We’d probably missed a sign warning that it wasn’t safe to walk on, but it was too late now.

The noise of the rave was muffled, bass vibrations occasionally dancing up through my feet and ankles. The sounds of the city seemed far away, even though we were still in her midst. Maybe three blocks from here was the old potato chip factory where I’d nearly died.

The rush of air clued me in to duck, and I narrowly missed the fist aimed at my skull. I slammed my right shoulder forward and up, hitting muscle and ribs, and ejected an “oof!” of air from Felix. I drove my left fist sideways and landed a perfect kidney shot. A regular human male might have dropped to the roof in pain. Felix only stumbled, and then returned the favor by driving his elbow down into the middle of my back.

Bolts of fire blossomed from the point of contact, searing all the way to my toes. I dropped to my knees, saw his knee coming at my face, and rolled with the blow. It glanced off my cheekbone, a flash of pain, and I tumbled sideways. I used the momentum to keep rolling, and also to reach into my boot.

I came up in a crouch a few feet away, one blade curled backward against my wrist, ready to slash at anything that came at me. My cheek smarted, and something warm dripped down my neck.

Felix grinned, fangs gleaming brightly. “First blood,” he said, as if it were some sort of accomplishment. And maybe in some ways it was. Prior to his infection, he’d spent weeks battling chronic pain and poor mobility, courtesy of old injuries. He never thought he’d walk without a limp, much less draw first blood in a fistfight with an ex-Hunter. But he was still a half-Blood, and far worse (and far better) men had made me bleed.

“Lucky shot,” I said. The open wound concerned me. If he managed to get saliva into the wound (gross, yeah, but possible), it could spread the parasite. Fighting the infection would hurt like hell, and I’d much rather avoid the agony.

“I wish I could make this last, Evy, but we’ll be interrupted pretty soon.”

I didn’t know if he meant by my people, or by his. “Come and get me, big boy,” I drawled.

He lunged, and I leapt up to meet him.

11:35 P.M.

I seriously overestimated my leaping abilities.

We slammed together in an awkward tangle and hit the roof with a dull thud, thrashing and seeking purchase. I slashed with my blade and felt it cut skin and cloth. Warm blood slicked my fingers, making my grip on the knife less certain. Felix clawed with his hands and kicked with his knees, landing blows on my thighs and upper arms. We probably looked like a pair of angry chicks in a catfight, for all the grace either of us was showing.

Pretty sad for a pair of former Hunters.

He snapped at my face with his fangs, and I rewarded him with a head butt that cracked his nose. He howled and reeled back, even as his grip on my arms tightened, fingernails digging into skin. It exposed his throat, but I couldn’t get my hand up. I couldn’t get the blade across his windpipe to put him out of his fucking misery.

I did get my right knee up and between us (not a small feat, considering the leather miniskirt), and used it as a brace to keep him out of biting distance. My knife hand was stuck making shallow stabs at his ribs, but I was not close enough to cause real damage. We were at an awkward impasse that neither one of us was going to win.

Interruption was inevitable. The only question was by his people, or by mine?

It turned out to be both simultaneously. An explosion of activity stole Felix’s attention first, and it loosened his grip on my arms just enough. I shoved my knee against his chest, broke his hold, and rolled away. Someone slammed into me sideways, and we went tumbling across the tarred roof, my arms and legs scraping against what felt like a lifetime’s accumulation of grit. I ended up on top of my attacker, my back to his chest, and slammed my left elbow backward. Bone connected with bone and sent a jolt through my arm from wrist to shoulder.

Plan B. I lifted up my head and crashed it back down. A nose crunched and the person below me—male, from the serious lack of breasts pressing in my shoulders—screeched and shoved. I lunged and came up in a crouch. He tried to scuttle away. I scrambled up behind him and slit his throat. As he slumped to the ground, gurgling out purplish blood, I observed the chaos.

Kismet and Phineas were going two against five with some teenage Halfies about fifteen feet away. Neither of them had drawn guns. So close to the rave and hundreds of innocents, gunshots would be too damned loud. They fought with blades, and with as much skill as any Hunter I’d ever seen. Especially Phin. He moved like liquid, dancing out of arm’s reach, lunging in to draw blood, then back out before the Halfie could bite.