The Bonds of Blood (The Final Formula Series, Book 4.5) Page 7

  Waylon’s grin died, and his gaze met James’s, his stare direct. “How do you know?”

  “Era and Elysia were confronted by one of them. If my brothers are still nearby, they are no longer close enough for me to see. I would like to track them.”

  “Track them?”

  “As the hound.”

  “I see. We’ll join you and—”

  “No. I will not put good men at risk for something I can handle myself.”

  “That’s not your decision to make.”

  James opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. All he needed was for Waylon to clear the crowd. He could vanish into the veil as soon as he figured out where his brothers went.

  “My other form can sometimes cause a panic. Could you clear the area?”

  “I could.”

  “Then I’ll change in the van and await your word.”

  James returned to the van and closed the doors behind him, returning the clothing to where he had found it. An instant later, he was the hound.

  The doors opened and he tensed, surprised that they were ready for him. Had the crowd been shooed away so quickly? Waylon stepped up to the opening before he could jump down.

  “I’ve got an idea to make your presence less conspicuous,” Waylon said. A gesture, and the agent James had spoken with climbed up in the van beside him.

  “We do have a canine unit,” Waylon explained, “but I didn’t think we’d need it on a routine fender bender.”

  “Here it is,” the agent pulled out a small black vest with the familiar PIA logo. James detected the strong scent of dog and realized it was a canine vest.

  James huffed out a breath, half amused, half annoyed at the delay.

  “You’re not going to bite me, are you?” the agent asked, dropping to a knee beside him.

  James regarded the guy, making no other response. Most people found any sounds he made threatening.

  “I need to loosen the straps,” the agent told Waylon. “He’s one huge dog.”

  James longed to jump down and begin the Hunt. The excitement was already surging through him. But the vest wasn’t a bad idea. It would give him the freedom to move around a public area without too much attention.

  With a snap, the vest was finally in place, though it was still extremely tight. Fortunately, it would vanish the moment he jumped into the land of the dead.

  “One more thing,” the agent said.

  James pulled back his lips, ready to get moving, when the agent dropped something over his head. The world abruptly went dim. A steel choke chain encircled his neck. Iron. Oh shit. James had been cut off from his other half, only this time, the animal side of his nature was in charge.

  “It’s just for show,” Waylon spoke up. “A disguise until we’re free of the onlookers. This way, you can hunt without distractions.”

  Hunt. Yes, the hound was eager to begin. And he knew who he was here to Hunt: those who had tormented him as a pup. Their scents filled his memory. The one called George and the one called Henry.

  “Here we go.” The agent hopped down, holding the leash in one hand. He gave James a questioning look, then a small tug. “Are you ready?”

  The hound jumped down beside him, his paws hitting the asphalt without a sound. He immediately dropped his nose to the ground, sifting through the miasma of human scents, searching for the ones he sought. He remembered catching a faint scent while in his weaker form. It had been near the two smashed cars.

  He took a few quick steps in that direction, and the chain around his throat tightened. The steel burrowed through his fur and pressed against his skin. The metal seared his flesh as if it had been heated, and he yelped.

  “Pay attention, Agent,” Waylon commanded. His voiced lowered. “That’s not an actual dog, remember?”

  “Sorry, sir.” The man hurried closer to the hound’s side. The chain loosened, and the burning ceased.

  With the pain gone, the hound could focus on the Hunt once again. His lowered his nose to the asphalt, inhaling the mixture of tar, motor oil, and a variety of human odors. As he neared the cars, he caught the scent again, only so much stronger with his senses at full capacity. It was easy to follow his human brother, the trail almost glowing to his nose.

  The man holding his leash hurried to keep pace with him. The hound remained conscious of the man, not wanting to leave him behind again for fear of the burn from the iron collar.

  “I hope he’s got the right scent,” the agent holding the leash said to Waylon who followed them as well. The hound could hear the other agents trailing not far behind them. The pair remained silent, however. Either they didn’t question their superior, or they were good hunters, remaining silent so the prey didn’t hear their approach. Either scenario was commendable to the hound.

  The scent trail led him to a grassy area along the edge of the paved lot, and beyond it, a derelict warehouse. No sound came from the deteriorating building, but the scent trail led toward it. Unfortunately, the structure was still too far away for him to see his prey by sight.

  The hairs along the back of his neck rose. He was being watched. Lifting his lips, he growled.

  “Sweet Jesus,” the agent holding the leash whispered. “What the hell is he?”

  “I think you already figured it out. He’s a hellhound,” Waylon said. “What is it, James? Are they in the warehouse?”

  The hound didn’t like standing here in the open. Given the option, he would Hunt his prey from the veil. But that wasn’t an option. Nor was there a way to approach the structure under cover. But it was too late. His human brothers knew he was here.

  He paced forward, his paws parting the new spring grass that was already fetlock deep.

  “Sir?” the agent called to Waylon.

  “Stay close to him,” Waylon said, then turned to the other agents. “See if there’s a back entrance.”

  “Yes, sir,” one answered, and the hound heard them move off to the left. Clearly the men underestimated their quarry.

  “Hellhound, huh?” the agent muttered as they walked. “What does that mean? Are we talking actual hell?”

  The hound wished he would be silent. His prey no doubt watched their approach, but silence would enable him to make better use of any sounds they might make to alert him to their location.

  “Maybe I should drop this leash and go,” the agent continued. “It’s just for show, anyway. You don’t need me, right?”

  The hound agreed, but before he could swish his tail, the one called Henry finally came into view. He was higher up in the structure, no doubt watching through the gap in the warped siding.

  The sound of the rifle report was incredibly loud to the hound’s ears. The agent fell to the ground beside him.

  Free from the man holding the leash, the hound sprang forward, running for the open door ahead of him. Sensing that he was now in the Hunter’s sights, he sprang to the side. A pop sounded in the patch of ground he had just vacated, and a puff of grass jumped in the air, severed by the bullet.

  His next leap took him through the open door and once again, he jumped sideways, springing out of the rectangle of light thrown by the open door. He could see George’s soul on the far side of the room, but moving quickly toward him.

  On silent paws, he trotted into the shadows, intending to circle around behind him. Suddenly, the leash jerked tight, and the burn of the metal once again pulled a yelp from him. He realized the trailing leash had caught on a rusted piece of old machinery.

  A soft thump sounded as Henry landed beside him, having jumped down from the loft above. “Hello, little brother.”

  The hound lifted his lips and snarled.

  “None of that.” Henry pointed one of his steel throwing knives at him.

  With his human blood, the hound wasn’t at risk of dying from the iron in the blade, but it
would be debilitating. He didn’t want to give his brother that kind of advantage. He stopped growling.

  “That’s better.”

  George jogged up, stopping a few feet away. “What the hell is he wearing?” he demanded of Henry.

  “Maybe he got another job.” Henry laughed. “Are you Hunting us, little brother?”

  “Shh.” George looked over his shoulder. “We have company.”

  Henry stilled, glancing toward the open doorway. The hound could hear Waylon’s hesitant steps. Knowledge of the man’s coming death broke through the hound’s indifference, and James whined.

  “You don’t want us to kill the director, do you?” George whispered, the words so soft not many humans would have been able to hear him.

  James maintained his silence, waiting for the inevitable.

  “I’m going to remove that collar,” George continued in the same soft tone. “You’re going to change, then I’m going to put it back on you. Try anything, and Henry puts a bullet between his eyes.” George glanced at Henry and jerked his head toward the low ceiling above them.

  Henry grinned and jumped up, catching the edge of the loft, then pulled himself up.

  George stepped forward and James stilled. He had no choice but to stand there and let him remove the collar. But that would change once the collar was off.

  James listened to the near silent movements in the loft above him. Henry could move without making a sound, but preparing the gun was another matter. James heard the soft click of metal on metal, and pinpointed Henry’s position.

  George’s fingers wrapped around the choke chain, and he pulled it over James’s head.

  James’s senses roared to life. He sprang to the side, landing in the veil.

  “Fuck!” George shouted. “Henry, shoot the—”

  James didn’t hear the rest of it. A split second later, he landed beside Henry, shifting human the instant his paws hit the rough wooden floor. He wanted to subdue his brother. Capture him. And he needed hands for that.

  Catching a glint of movement, James dipped his shoulder. The throwing knife whirled past his ear, but he was moving before it thumped into the wall behind him. Staying low, he reached for Henry’s heel, but Henry was moving as well.

  James’s fingers grazed Henry’s boot, but failed to gain purchase. Shit. He rolled to the side, and the butt of Henry’s gun slammed down where he had been. This was taking too long. George would take matters into his own hands.

  James rolled onto his stomach, then shoved himself off the floor, leaping over the side of the loft in the same motion. He landed in a crouch, making no sound.

  George stood in the dimness just beyond the light from the open door. He lifted his crossbow, pointing it at the opening as Waylon stepped through.

  James lunged at George. He clipped the bow just as George fired. The quarrel failed to hit its target, lodging in Waylon’s shoulder instead of his heart.

  George jumped back, out of James’s reach, and pulled out a new quarrel. James closed on him, but it wasn’t until he was in motion that he realized he had left Henry alone too long.

  Iron slammed home between his shoulder blades. A throwing knife.

  James staggered, his balance thrown off as his senses winked out—or more accurately, became little more than human.

  George sidestepped him, swinging the crossbow like a club aimed for James’s head.

  James got an arm up, blocking the brunt of the blow, but it still knocked him to a knee.

  A short burst of machine gun fire echoed around the room.

  James turned to see the two other members of the PIA SWAT team moving toward them.

  “Hold your fire!” Waylon shouted. He had taken shelter beside the door.

  “Where did they go?” the agent who fired asked his companion. George and Henry had vanished into the darkness.

  James shoved himself to his knees. “You have me,” he shouted to his brothers. “Let them go.”

  “You don’t call the shots, little brother,” Henry’s voice whispered out of the darkness above them. “We do.”

  James reached for the knife between his shoulder blades, but it was too late. He heard the near-silent flight of the quarrel, and an instant later, a body thumped to the floor.

  “James.” Waylon was beside him. “The knife—”

  Sensing the hand reaching for his back, he spun to face Waylon. “Don’t touch me. My blood is toxic.”

  The quarrel barely made a sound as it left George’s bow.

  “Wh—” Waylon didn’t get to finish his question before James pushed him back, twisting to taking the quarrel through his side.

  Clenching his jaw against the pain, James jumped up, grabbing Waylon by the front of his sports coat. Mentally counting the seconds until George could reload, he shoved Waylon toward the open door. Another step, and he twisted to the side. The quarrel took him through the biceps this time. He prayed Waylon hadn’t gotten any blood on him.

  “Run!” James shoved Waylon through the opening, then he grabbed the battered wooden door and slammed it closed. He spun, turning his back to the door as he prepared for another shot.

  George stepped out of the shadows to his left. Beyond him, in the dim light from the cracks in the buildings rusted roof, James could see a second body. Both agents had been killed.

  James stood his ground, blocking the door. He prayed that Waylon had listened and run back to his van.

  George stopped in front of him.

  “You have me,” James said. “Let him go.”

  George slammed an elbow into the side of James’s head, knocking him to his hands and knees. “Get up and fetch me that choke chain. Make it quick before Henry puts a slug in the back of the director’s head.”

  James pushed himself to his feet and hurried to do as told. His brothers always had the upper hand because they knew that James would never kill them.

  He snatched up the chain and attached leash, his gaze drifting over the bodies as he returned to George. How much longer was he going to let this go on? It would be easy to jerk the knife and quarrels out of his body and shift forms. But Henry would shoot Waylon before he got the first quarrel free. James didn’t know the man that well, but he knew he was married and had a couple of kids. Maybe even grandkids.

  James released a breath. He would obey his brothers. For now. He returned to George and handed him the collar and leash. He stood quietly while George fastened them around his throat. Even if he got the knife out, the steel chain would bind his magic.

  “Come, dog.” George jerked the leash and turned toward the door. “Henry. Finish the director.”

  “No!” James lunged for the loft, but George still held the leash and jerked James off his feet, the chain digging into his throat.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Henry called down from above.

  “What is it?” George demanded.

  “It’s that damn lich.”

  James lifted his head. Ian? Had he learned that James’s brothers had been spotted here? Rowan had sent Waylon here; perhaps Ian had gotten word of what had happened. He had captured them one other time, and James didn’t doubt he intended to do it again.

  “We need to move.” George gave James’s leash another jerk. The chain dug deeper into his throat. James knew that resisting would only bring more pain. He knew that lesson well. He shoved himself to his feet and stumbled after George toward the back of the building. They had almost reached the back door when Henry jumped down from the loft, and ran after them. He made no effort to silence his tread.

  They emerged into the sunlight, and James squinted against the brightness. It seemed strange to step into a sunny spring day after the scene they had just left.

  A battered sedan sat near the edge of the cracked asphalt parking lot. George pulled out a set of keys, confirming James’s suspicion
that the car was his. He didn’t want to know how they had acquired it.

  George opened the back door and shoved James inside.

  “Slide over,” Henry demanded, pushing James over when he didn’t move quick enough, and settled into the seat beside him. George got in behind the wheel, and a moment later, they were speeding away.

  “Hold still, dog.” Henry gripped his shoulder. “You don’t want to bleed to death.” He gripped the quarrel shaft and ripped it from James’s arm.

  James snarled, his teeth clenched against the pain.

  “Bad dog.” Henry leaned over and licked the bleeding wound.

  In a sick twist of fate, James’s brothers were actually his guardians. Their saliva healed his open wounds and kept him from bleeding out when he couldn’t shift forms and heal. Of course, his brothers were usually the reason he couldn’t change. His blood, impossibly toxic to anyone else, gave them a power boost.

  “Dear God.” Henry groaned. “I forgot how nice that was.”

  “Give me some,” George commanded. “I’m not stopping for supplies until we get out of town and ditch this car.”

  Henry jerked the throwing knife out of James’s back and passed it up to George who began to lick it clean.

  “Lean forward.” Henry didn’t wait for James to comply. He gripped the back of James’s head and shoved him down until his forehead pressed against his knees. Then Henry began cleaning the blood from James’s back.

  James closed his eyes, once again taking up the internal debate as to whether remaining on the mortal plane was preferable to killing these bastards.

  Chapter 7

  James set the last of his selections on the counter, pushing them closer to the cashier who was busy ringing everything up.

  “Ah, man. Have you tried these?” The young man held up the bag of jalapeño-flavored potato chips James had grabbed at random.

  “No, any good?” James kept his attention on the package of cable ties he was opening. It took an effort not to glance out the front window of the convenience store to check on his brothers.