The Brotherhood - Bite Me Part 1

THE BROTHERHOOD.

BITE ME.

by Willa Okati.

Dedication.

For "The Mouse," who fell in love with Bree and encouraged me to make and keep him the wild, wicked bad boy he is. You keep me rockin'!

Prologue

"You're early."

"So I am." Julian slid into his accustomed seat at the bar's end. Amour Magique boasted several watering holes of varying cla.s.s and convenience, each with its own bartender specifically chosen to suit the typical clientele. Some were easier to find than others -- some had to be looked for with deliberate intent to make them appear, some hid in the shadows, and some catered to any who happened by. Julian had long since chosen this one, hidden by magic and shadows in a corner of Amour Magique, frequented only by those in the know and the occasional b.u.mbler who stumbled across it by curious accident.

His kind of people. His kin.

Not that they acknowledged him, or he them. They might throw him a glare, as one would toss a bone to a dog, but he had long since perfected a slight smile that drove them absolutely mad. None dared approach him for a challenge. They knew his power to be greater than their own, that he had risen as far above them as a G.o.d before an ant. He had worked to perfect his skills, something few of his lazy brethren could understand. Every so often, to his great amus.e.m.e.nt, sycophants would raise the banner for him to become king of their breed -- and were shocked at his refusal.

No, not for him the responsibilities of a monarchy. He took pains to make that clear. Despite all temptations throughout centuries of existence, he emphasized that all he wanted was to be left alone to savor his preferred drinks, amuse himself with beautiful men, and observe the richness of life as it pa.s.sed by the bar.

He was patient, for one of his sort -- another of the skills he had worked to perfect. Patient enough to put up with Silas's odd choice for bartender in this particular corner. While the owner of Amour Magique did have a peculiar sense of humor, he never failed to show good business sense, so Julian never complained, accepting that the specific choice of bartender was deliberate.

But, really. A garrulous, tactless, utterly unbeautiful, balding shrimp of a man in charge of a bar designed for his kind?

A meat puppet sent to control the vampires?

It delighted Julian to no end that Silas's odd design worked. The bartender, plain old Tom, brooked no nonsense from the blood-drinkers who liked to pose and threaten. He laughed off their threats to bite him and laid odds on their fangs even being able pierce his tough old hide. Julian often had to stifle his chuckles at the young undeads' absolute bewilderment at Tom's total unconcern over being their natural prey.

He didn't often decide he liked someone, but he believed, after weighing it thoroughly, that he liked Tom. Tom seemed to favor Julian, as well, so it all worked out.

The mortal had been humming to himself as he set up a row of gleaming shot gla.s.ses. Now, he cut a frankly curious look at Julian. "So?"

Julian affected a blank face. "So, what?"

"What's with the early? You don't stumble outta your digs until sundown. Least, not since I've known ya. Somethin' up, or goin' down?" Tom winked. He knew that such nosiness was akin to putting his foot in a bear trap, but he did it with all the vampires, most of whom were so taken aback that they blurted out all their plans.

Julian, however, was beyond such foolishness and had learned to guard his tongue. "Possibly," he responded, trailing his finger over Tom's polished bar. "Are you set up for the night?"

"Nah. Not yet. Gotta wait for the Red Double-Cross to make their delivery." Tom grinned. "So, no good stuff yet. Guy tipped me off we might get some AB-negative, only a couple days past date."

"It all tastes the same."

"Yeah? I figured. Not like vodka versus gin versus rum, after all. Blood's blood. Too bad you can't taste it right. Got a fabulous Scotch in this morning. Fifty years old. Dust on those bottles near about made me sneeze up a lung."

Julian quirked an eyebrow. "How can I resist a sales pitch like that?" he asked dryly. "I can taste well enough. I'll take a sample of it."

"Your funeral. Or not." Tom cackled to himself as he set up the gla.s.s and uncorked a still-dusty bottle. The heavy smell of peat and smoke filled Julian's nose. Hardly neat or polished in his approach, Tom splashed the expensive liquid in with abandon and shoved it across, grinning. "Get yourself a snootful of that. Had a sip myself earlier."

Julian took the gla.s.s and inhaled, wistful despite himself for the days when he could have enjoyed every nuance of the drink.

It would be costly. "Add it to my tab, of course, but out of curiosity, how much does this run?"

Tom rolled his eyes, whistling. "f.u.c.kin' fortune, man."

"You might have said before you poured it out." "Like you can't afford the stuff. Drink hearty. I'll take ten percent off if you tell me, honest and true, how it tastes to a vamp.

I gotta know how it works on your kind of tastebuds. If it's still good, which I bet it is, Silas owes me fifty for betting no vamp would be interested."

A wager? Well, anything to pa.s.s the time. Julian lifted the gla.s.s, breathing in the bouquet once more before trying a small sip.

He closed his eyes involuntarily as the strong wash of flavors raced over his tongue. Few things besides blood tasted of more than water or sand to a vampire, yet this had flavor aplenty For a moment, heady with the rush, he felt mortal again.

Tom didn't have to ask. He broke into a hoot of laughter and slammed the flat of his hand on the bar. "Knew it!"

Julian allowed him a smile. "You have a gift, Tom."

"Nah. Just been hangin' around you creeps so long, I can figure what'll do the trick and what won't." Tom rolled his eyes.

"Yet you still stock wine coolers."

"Eh, the wannabe babies gotta have something that won't set them pukin' right off." Tom grinned, whipped out a white cloth, and began polis.h.i.+ng the spotless bar. Julian watched with interest. Was it merely something all bartenders did out of habit, or was it to keep their hands busy, much like habitual smokers needed the feel of a cigarette between their fingers to keep their minds on an even keel?

It pleased him that he could be curious. As long as his mind remained active, even with regard to trivia, it meant he was still sharp. Still at the top of his game. Still in control of himself. Every aspect of himself.

Julian was a vampire and had long since accepted what that meant in every aspect of his undead life. He knew himself as few ever did, mortal or otherwise. That, above all else, was what made him dangerous. Very few were smart or lucky enough to understand that.

It kept him on top.

Allowed him to do as he pleased.

Let him enjoy the ages stretching on and on. True, maintaining his power and status took discipline, but it left plenty of time for other pursuits. One of which was indulging his taste in Amour Magique's clientele. And like a skilled hunter, he always laid careful plans to trap his prey.

He took another slow sip of Scotch, riding out the wave of bliss that came with its strong taste, then put it down. It would last him for hours. Tom didn't mind Julian taking up a stool at his bar, and he would, of course, be purchasing blood once the delivery came. In the meantime, this corner was a peaceful place to examine his latest acquisition.

Not bothering to conceal his actions, Julian slid an envelope from his pocket and opened it. A variety of pictures, from Polaroids to printed Web pages to mugshots, spilled across the bar top. Julian studied them with great interest, plucking up the sole line drawing amongst the others -- a drawing of a young, slender man with a fall of impish curls and sparkling eyes. He wore a blue crystal around his neck, the only spot of color in the picture.

"Liam," he murmured. "Son of Lilith." They had met before on occasion, but it had been centuries since their paths last crossed.

Completely unashamed of being nosy, Tom paused in his polish work to poke his nose in. He made a noise of approval.

"Buncha cuties there," he said. "Who's the dish in the sketch?" Only Tom would refer to an incubus as a "dish."

"Liam," Julian said, tapping the image of the blue crystal with a fingernail. "Do you know what this is?"

Tom peered at it, then shrugged. "Got me. Looks like that new doodad Silas hung up over the door."

"Ah. I hadn't noticed." Careless of him. Still, it explained much. Vampires rarely crossed paths with the children of Lilith, but Julian made it his business to keep tabs on new developments in Amour Magique.

So. Silas had somehow gotten his greedy hands on one of Lilith's Tears. A sure-fire magnet for the amorous. He could not have gotten it from any save an incubus, and since he himself had spotted Liam speaking with the club owner a week ago ...

A trade, then? That seemed the most likely explanation and filled in the answers to questions Julian had spent the week pondering. A seer whom he had paid handsomely had informed him that a particular group of mortals, graced with temporary power beyond mortal capability, would be visiting Amour Magique on the next "Freak" night. Humans often made it past the ropes, of course, but the seer had insisted that this group was "special."

Blessed by an incubus? Yes, that would certainly make them special.

It had sparked Julian's curiosity, and he had decided to indulge it. One quick phone call to a suitably disreputable photog- c.u.m-PI, with a few details about Liam and a promise of handsome payment for a full investigation, had netted him the envelope full of pictures and a scribbled sheet of notebook paper detailing each of the men.

He had to stifle a laugh as he read through it. Incubi were noted for being flighty, and Liam's decision to ally himself with a group of no-hoper gay men called the Brotherhood tickled Julian's fancy to no end. He a.s.sumed that Liam had traded the Tear for an all-inclusive pa.s.s in the hopes that his chosen companions would get lucky. His choice to bring them on a Freak night? Well, that was a bit more interesting. He did not think Liam malicious enough to serve his friends up like food. Perhaps he thought they might have better luck among the supernatural who walked the earth.

He might be right.

Casting the letter aside, Julian picked through the pictures a second time. From plain to rugged to academic to jailbait, the Brotherhood had a pleasing diversity to it. He paused over several of the pictures, holding them up to the light for consideration.

"Like pickin' hors d'oeuvres off a tray, ain't it?" Tom cracked, watching him without embarra.s.sment.

Julian couldn't deny as much. He narrowed the stack down to six, then to three, and finally selected one. He laid it on the bar in front of him, gazing at the image in deep thought. A mugshot, not flattering in the least, of a young man bristling with piercings, decorated with tattoos, his hair spiky, and his eyeliner smudged. His eyes were large and dark, beautiful despite being unusually guarded, even for a mugshot.

"This one," Julian said, sliding it across for Tom's opinion.

The bartender wrinkled his nose. "You picked the punk? Jeezus, vampire, that one looks like trouble on a hot plate.

Probably kick you in the nuts if you come too close."

"Exactly." Julian c.o.c.ked his head, gazing at the photographed eyes. "I like a challenge."

Tom shook his head and clucked his tongue. "Gonna bite off more'n you can chew one of these days."

"I think I know my limits. This man, this ..." He flipped the picture over to read the name scribbled on the back. "... Bree. I wonder what that's short for? There's more to him than meets the eye. He, among all the others, is the one I would get to know better."

"Your funeral."

"He's hiding something," Julian mused. "I wonder what. Such an adventure to find out."

"Yeah? How can you tell?"

Julian smiled, the smile that never failed to drive human or vampire barking mad. He flashed his fangs at Tom. "I know a little about living undercover, you might say ..."

Chapter One

There isn't enough aspirin in the f.u.c.king world.

Bree pinched the bridge of his nose. Felt weird to not b.u.mp against a stud or a hoop when his fingers touched his face.

Never could get used to the sensation. Kind of like losing a tooth on a caramel and only realizing it when you ran your tongue through your mouth to clean it. First shock, then a sinking realization of oh, s.h.i.+t, this isn't right.

Being without the jewelry made him feel naked. Exposed. Like the people who looked at him could see straight past his face and get a look at his thoughts. Thoughts he'd much rather keep to himself. He wasn't stupid enough to think he could get away with all the decorations during the day, though. Not when they made him live by too many other rules, like wearing long sleeves and high necks in the middle of summer to cover up his tattoos. He had the biggest d.a.m.n collection of lightweight preppy turtlenecks he'd seen since the time he'd picked up a trick with a bad case of worse taste and a serious yuppie infection.

G.o.d, he hated every one of the soft, clingy things. The gentle brush of cotton rasped on his nerves like a kid trying to play violin for the first time. Wearing these, losing his jewelry, brus.h.i.+ng his hair back neat and straight, donning hard, polished dress shoes that pinched his toes without mercy ... it was like being inside a sh.e.l.l or wearing a mask. Fake Bree.

Still, gotta pay the rent somehow.

"Sir?" A pair of bony knuckles rapped the plastic veneer of his till window. "Young man? Excuse me!"

Ah, s.h.i.+t. Customer. Head still pounding, Bree looked up, arranged his face into a bland smile, and recited: "Welcome to Money Now! My name is Brian, and I'll be your a.s.sistant today. How may I help you?"

The owner of the knuckles, a woman in her seventies with pale lavender-white hair and her polyester pants pulled up to just beneath her alarmingly sagging b.o.o.bs, scowled at him from among her wrinkles. "It's about time. I've been waiting for almost ten minutes!"

Bull. I only had my head down for a second. Sat.u.r.day's our busiest day.

"Were you asleep?" She peered at him in deep suspicion. "You were napping, weren't you?"

Bree smiled on, mask perfectly in place. "No, ma'am, I promise I wasn't asleep. Just a little headache."

"Liar! I'm seventy-three years old, and I know asleep when I see it. I should tell your manager."

"There's no need for --"

She fixed him with a lemony glare.

Hiding his sigh, Bree pushed over a business card. "Her name is Ms. McVeigh. All the pertinent details are printed right there."

"Good!" His customer s.n.a.t.c.hed the card up like a prize, peered at it, then tucked it into the depths of a yawning knit purse even he could see was filled with junk -- a few dozen receipts, parking tickets, movie stubs, and unopened mail. She looked up in triumph, as if she'd just taught him a darn good lesson. "Now, are you going to help me, or not?"

Bree smiled again. Patient. Placid. Calm. "Of course, ma'am. In case you're not familiar with our operation, let me give you a quick rundown. Money Now! is a payday advance company, designed to give you a little help if you find yourself short before your next check comes in. We'll just need some ID, a recent pay stub from your place of employment, and --"

The customer reared back. "Employment? You mean, like a job?"

Bree's inner alarms whooped. He kept the smile on. "Yes, ma'am, a job."

"I don't have any job! I just told you, I'm seventy-three years old. Where would I get a job? I just want some money. Your sign says money now, nothing about all this information you're asking for. I came in to talk about getting some money. Is that clear?"