Blood and Magick

  BLOOD

  AND

  MAGICK

  James R. Tuck

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  BLOOD AND MAGICK

  Light from the sign above the door cast down on the warlock. It cut shadows under his sharp brows, eyes glittering from pools of black. He smiled, teeth a white slash in a tangle of midnight beard. He looked like a skull.

  “Kill them, my children. Do not let them pass. Drink their blood. Bring me their heads.”

  Magick pulsed behind his words. The vampires turned, making a wall of undead flesh between us and the wizard. Stepping over and on tangled corpses they stalked down the hall toward us.

  My finger squeezed thunder out of my gun as it kicked back in my hand. Three times I pulled the trigger. Three bullets smacked into the chest of the bloodsucker nearest to me, the one who had been snacking on the old man. He shuddered to a stop as twenty-four ounces of lead punched through the meat of him. They went in with a quarter-sized hole and came out his back in a spray of chunky flesh shrapnel. The vampire looked down, jaw slung open in shock.

  Then his skin closed up, sealing shut in the slow blink of an eye . . .

  Books by James R. Tuck

  BLOOD AND BULLETS

  BLOOD AND SILVER

  BLOOD AND MAGICK

  Novellas

  THAT THING AT THE ZOO

  SPIDER’S LULLABY

  CIRCUS OF BLOOD

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2013 by James R. Tuck

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  All Kensington Titles, Imprints, and Distributed Lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational or institutional use. Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington special sales manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018, attn: Special Sales Department, Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat & TM Off.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7582-7149-5 ISBN-10: 0-7582-7149-2

  First Mass Market Printing: March 2013

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedicated to the Missus.

  The one woman who makes my world go round.

  Acknowledgments

  Too many people go into the creation of a book, more than you could ever know. Thank you to my family and friends, The Missus, The Son, The Daughter, and The Kevin. Thank you to the folks at Kensington; I know there are a ton of you wonderful people whose names I don’t even know, but your work is truly appreciated. Thank you to John Scognamiglio for taking a chance and keeping me straight on these books. Thank you to Lou Malcangi. Thank you to Gene Mollica and James DiNonno for bringing Deacon to life on the covers. Thank you to my critique partners in Mass Forward (lol); y’all shaped this book. Thank you to the wonderful ladies at Foxtale Books; you really know how to treat a fella on a book release party. Thank you to Dragoncon, specifically Derek Tatum. Thank you to every convention that has had me. Thank you to Stephen Zimmer and Fandom Fest. Thank you to Antonio Jones for being awesome! Thank you to all the book blogs who have totally rocked and supported this series; man, you kick ass. Thank you to my crew at Family Tradition. I have gathered a tremendous group of writerly friends whom I love dearly. Y’all inspire me to keep Y’all inspire me to keep working, keep striving, keep reaching. The other members of the Four Horsemen Of The Doompocalypse: Janice Hardy, Delilah S. Dawson, and Carol Malcolm. John Hartness, Kalayna Price, Faith Hunter, Jeanne C. Stein, Linda Robertson, Alex Hughes, Annabel Joseph, Laurell K. Hamilton, Brian Keene, Debbie Viguie, Nancy Holder, David B. Coe, J. F. Lewis, Misty Massey, Rachel Aaron, and the ladies of both the Word Whores and MPERWA. THANK YOU TO ALL THE LOYALS AND TRUE BELIEVERS! You are absolutely the most awesome fans an author could ever have. You inspire me to write this crazy world and I love you all.

  1

  I should have known.

  There were signs. I’m supposed to be the damn expert.

  I should have caught the warnings.

  I should have.

  But I was completely clueless until the minute the restaurant exploded in a wave of eldritch flame and burning glass.

  “You look absolutely amazing tonight.”

  She really, really did. It was the God’s honest truth. Tiff was wearing a black evening dress that crossed her shoulders and plunged in a scalloped V, baring her back from the base of her neck to the dimples at the bottom of her spine. I had seen that expanse of skin before, but to have it so elegantly displayed was downright damn breathtaking. The dress was a frame on a beautiful piece of art.

  She turned, face close to mine, body tilted just so toward me. The front of the dress plunged sharply to below her breastbone in another deep V that was working overtime to display a gentle swell of cleavage. It was impossible for me to keep my eyes off her.

  This was nothing new. I had a hard time keeping my eyes off Tiff in general, but in that dress? With her in that dress, you could set me on fire and I wouldn’t notice.

  Her blue eye twinkled. “You think so?”

  “I know so. You are a knockout, little girl.”

  A tilt of her head made dark chestnut hair fall over the left side of her face. It was an unconscious move, a habitual twitch she had developed. The sweep of hair covered the eye patch she wore. I was used to the movement, but it still sent a sharp pang through my heart.

  Six months ago, she stood with me in a battle against an asshole Were-lion named Leonidas. Lives had been on the line and she had gone after him and one of his gang, a Weregreat white, by herself.

  I got there in time to save her life, but not her eye. Where it once was she had four razor-thin scars, mementos left by Leonidas’s claws.

  I killed the bastard, but that didn’t give Tiff her eye back. Her hand pulled my face to hers. Soft lips touched mine with an almost electric shock. Just a brief press and then gone. Her smile twitched, voice low and breathy. “Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

  It was a nice compliment, but I knew better. I looked like a thug. It was the suit’s fault.

  Because we were out to a nice dinner with friends, I pulled out a suit I hadn’t worn in over six years. It was dark gray and summer-weight. When you’re my size, you wear a summer-weight suit no matter the season; winters here in the South are just too mild. Back in the day, it had set me back over five hundred dollars and had been tailored to fit.

  Occult bounty hunting had made me a bit leaner in the stomach and broader in the shoulder than I had been the last time I wore it. It still fit with room for my shoulder holster and two big-bore Colt .45’s.

  I had taken them off a dead Yakuza assassin with a Japanese demon trapped under his skin as a tattoo.

  No, I’m not kidding. Why would I make that up? I’m the one who killed him.

  They were a matched set. Nickel-plated with ivory grips carved into grinning skulls. Delicate scrollwork swirled and whorled along the slide. They were pretty sweet.

  What can I say? I lik
e guns. I’m a gun guy. Go with it, it’s okay.

  My head was freshly shaved and my goatee slightly managed with some product Tiff had in the bathroom. It smelled like strawberries.

  The suit did cover most of my tattoos. Not the ones on the backs of my hands or the ones that crawled out of my buttoned collar to spread under my jawline and across the back of my head, but most of them. Put all that together with my size and I looked like a real leg breaker.

  Like I said, a thug.

  Tiff began to pull away, turning back to our dinner companions. My hand snaked out, sliding along the smooth skin of her shoulder, coming to rest in the thick hair at the back of her neck. My fingers tensed slightly, pulling her back to my mouth.

  Her lips parted, yielding. I pressed in, her tongue warm against mine. The sweet taste of her overwhelmed me. My head spun just a touch, making my fingers tighten in her hair. She made a little sound in her throat that vibrated up through the kiss, igniting me like a match to fuel.

  “Okay, okay. You two get a room, the dessert’s here.”

  We broke the kiss. Pulling away, I could still taste her. Dessert was going to be a disappointment now.

  One long chestnut hair tangled around my finger. Shaking it off, I picked up my spoon as the waiter sat a small bowl of crème brûlée in front of me.

  Looking to the couple on the other side of the table, I pointed the spoon at Larson and Kat. “All right, you two. Spill with the announcements you wanted to make after dinner.”

  Larson opened his mouth to speak, wavy ginger beard brushing his suit lapel. He was stopped by Kat’s hand clamping on his arm.

  She cut eyes at him. “Not yet. Not until after dessert.”

  He looked at me, shrugging in a “What are you going to do?” motion. He had filled out over the last few months, getting back to his normal weight of 140. His hair was still long, blending into a full beard like a redheaded hippie Jesus, but the weight gain had erased the dark hollows that used to rest under his eyes. He looked healthy. He looked happy.

  Hell, he looked sane, which was a big improvement.

  Kat rubbed his arm, affection shining in her eyes. She still had her corn-fed, midwestern, girl-next-door looks. Straightforward and simple. Even dressed up in a midnight blue evening gown, her impossibly thick honey-blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail.

  Tiff leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. “Now you two are just being mean.” Her hand fell on my thigh under the table, palm hot through the thin material of my pants. “We’re both dying to know what you have to tell us. We’re betting it has something to do with a date.”

  Tiff and I had speculated about Kat and Larson’s relationship. It was intense. Both of them had been through bad stuff, some of it together and some of it apart. I hadn’t seen the two of them getting together, nobody had, but now that they were, it felt . . . inevitable. Like they had always been a couple.

  Kat and Larson just grinned.

  “After dessert.” Kat’s voice was firm. “The sooner we start the sooner we finish.”

  We all picked up our spoons. The crème brûlée in front of me was beautiful: caramel crust a dark roasted honey brown, with tiny bubbles of captured air marking the surface. The edge of my spoon pushed against it. It was thick, resisting the pressure. Tightening my fingers on the slim silver stem, I pushed harder. The crust split with a tiny, audible crack just like it was supposed to.

  The dessert breathed out a sour, clotted stink.

  It wafted up, crawling into my nose, tickling my gag reflex. The air at the table filled with it as the other desserts belched out the same rotten, sour-milk stench.

  “Ugh.” Kat’s fingers pinched her nose shut, making her voice hum. “That is disgusting.”

  Larson pushed away from the table. His shoulders bunched, spinning his wheelchair around. “I’ll be right back. I’m getting the waiter.” His hands jerked harshly on the wheels of his chair, rolling him away.

  Larson had lost the use of his legs almost a year ago in a battle against a hell-bitch named Appollonia and her horde of mind-controlled vampires. It was only in the last few months that he had stopped hating the chair and learned to work with it.

  “That’s weird.” Tiff covered her dessert with the thick linen napkin from her lap. “Must have been made with a batch of spoiled cream.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a woman two tables over pull a small mirror from her purse. She held it in front of her, using it to examine a large dark spot on her cheek. Her voice came to me as she spoke to her dinner date. “But where did it come from? I’ve never had a mole there.”

  Larson was rolling back, waiter trailing him, apologizing.

  The lights blinked, flashing fever bright, flickering off and then back on.

  That’s when the whole world exploded.

  And I had no idea it was coming until it knocked me flat on my ass.

  2

  My suit was ruined. Spoiled crème brûlée splattered across the front of it, clotting with dust and debris. I could feel dozens of tiny cuts littering my body. A piece of glass stuck deep in my shoulder with a cutting grind. The table had flipped over and was laying on top of me, pressing hard with weight, trying to crush me into the floor. Splinters bit my palm as I clamped on to the edge of it. My jacket ripped as I heaved and shoved, muscling my way out from under.

  Tiff . . .

  Scrambling, I whipped my head back and forth, searching for her. Dust and smoke filled the air. People who could move were running away from the blast. One man, bleeding from a gash in his arm that I could see bone through, smacked into me. He bounced off, stumbling away.

  I kept searching.

  There—laying in a tangle of skirt and wreckage. Crawling, ignoring debris that rammed and cut into my knees, I scrambled to her. She moaned as I reached her.

  Dark chestnut hair was tangled across her face. A slender hand came up, sweeping it away from her good eye. “I’m okay. What’s going on?”

  I looked her over for injury. Please, God, let her be okay. “I don’t know yet. There was an explosion.”

  Her fingers curled around the lapel of my tattered jacket.

  Pulling, she sat up. My arm went behind her to help. There was a long, shallow cut on her chest running from between her breasts, across her collarbone, and up her throat. It was ragged, jagging back and forth, probably from some flying piece of debris. Dust had clotted it, there wasn’t much blood, but it was already inflamed and angry. We stood up. Tiff was steady on her feet as I let go of her arm.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded.

  I raised my voice over the chaos. “I’m going to find Kat and Larson. You find your purse.”

  Her purse had her gun in it. I didn’t know what she was packing, but I had a feeling she would need it. This explosion wasn’t a coincidence. My life didn’t have coincidences in it, not since I started tangling with the supernatural.

  She nodded again and I turned away to find our friends. The floor was littered with broken furniture and broken people—a handful of them too injured to move and even more dead. We had been seated in the middle of the restaurant, which was one of the things that had saved us. There was a hole in the front of the building that you could drive a semi through. The edges sputtered with unnatural black flame that snapped and popped, sucking in light. The people who could run had gone to the back of the restaurant and out through the kitchen, leaving behind the wounded and the dead.

  And me.

  I spotted the table that had been beside ours. It had flipped over in the blast, tablecloth still hanging across on it. It faced away from the destruction, so the cloth was still gleaming white even though the table was charred and soot covered. Kat lay on the floor in front of it. Larson knelt beside her, feeling along her body for injuries. It looked like the table had shielded her from the worst of the explosion. Her ponytail had fallen and she was filthy, but other than that she looked perfectly normal.

  Larson’s hair w
as wild, blown to the side and singed. He had a cut on his left cheek that ran freely with blood, staining his beard dark crimson on one side. His suit jacket was scorched on one side and full of rips. The blast would have hit him from the left, knocking him sideways.

  I strode to them, stepping over chunks of table, pieces of busted chairs, and bits that once were the people closer to the blast. Larson was helping Kat to her feet. “Are you two okay?”

  “Nothing broken. I can’t hear a damn thing out of my left ear, though.” He turned his head. Blood was leaking from his ear canal in a thick trickle.

  Kat reached up, turning his face back toward her. “Your eardrum is burst. It’ll heal.”

  He nodded, making his hair fall down over the wounded ear. He stepped back and looked around the demolished restaurant.

  Wait a fucking minute.

  My mind chewed on what I was seeing.

  Larson was standing? What. The. Hell?

  A rush of something supernatural slammed into me, driving the thought out of my head by yanking the power inside me to the surface. Magick swarmed over my skin with tiny insect legs. It whipcracked across my nerves, lighting them up like a row of matches.

  Since my resurrection at the hands of an Angel—yes, a real Angel of The Lord—when I first was hunting the monster that killed my family, I have been not-quite-human. I am faster, stronger, and heal quicker. Not much, but enough to keep me alive. I also have a power that lets me sense supernatural shit. It’s from where the Angel gave me a transfusion of her blood, or whatever Angels use for blood. I can feel the weird and otherworldly because of it.

  I hate it. It’s tied to my other senses, so it comes through in jacked-up ways that are usually more distraction than information.

  Right now, my power was a shark in a feeding frenzy on my senses. My mouth dried up, skin itchy with magick. No doubt about it, bad shit was coming.

  Both hands went under my jacket and came out full of gun, thumbs brushing the safeties down. The Colt .45 1911 is a piece of gunsmithing genius. It shoots big ass bullets that go in the size of a dime but come out the size of saucer. They will fuck some shit up. It holds seven in a clip, eight if you carry one in the chamber.