The Rouje Kith

Chapter 7

Hate wasn’t efficient; too much emotional involvement meant a greater chance of mistakes. When fighting an almost-unstoppable collection of claws, sharp reflexes, hunger, and utter violence, errors were the last thing anyone could afford.

Especially a demi with a missing half, hunting alone. At least on a muggy-cool Miami night, sirens in the distance and wet darkness pressing against every surface, there was nobody around to witness him struggle.

demiChasing the Broken away from populated areas was only moderately difficult. Simply impersonate good prey before turning on the thing with just enough calculated savagery to keep it baffled, rinse and repeat as necessary.

Jackson Rouje faded aside as the beast swiped for him, its snarl echoing in the alley’s throat. He had it cornered; if he worked with a team they would be clustering, wearing the fallen Kith down before moving in for the kill.

Alone, he was forced to other methods. The change burned in him, bloodlust answering the call of combat, and his golden hair caught a random reflection of streetlamp light. A flurry of quick strokes, his own claws breaking free just enough to tear tough hide; there was a burning low on his left side where the beast got lucky and tagged him, and they were both bleeding now.

Which wasn’t ideal.

The thing that had once been a proud Kith backed up, its lip lifting and fangs gleaming. Swaying fur rippled over muscle; all the power and glory were gone from its maddened gaze. Its hip brushed a lurking dumpster, crumpling metal—it was getting stronger the further it fell.

Stronger, yes. But also more stupid as its cannibalistic fury mounted.

An answering growl thrummed in Jack’s chest, a sound too deep for his current, smaller, but still muscle-dense shape. He sank into an easy crouch, left fingers tented against cracked, filth-greasy pavement. This far south “winter” was still warmish, but the humidity clung to every breath and a man in jeans, heavy boots, a flannel button-up, a hoodie, and a hip-length leather jacket was overdressed.

The Broken lunged, halting in confusion when he didn’t flinch. Jack simply waited, his breathing turning into deep easy swells, dark eyes half-lidded.

Come on. You’re getting hungry again, we don’t have all night.

Come on. You’re getting hungry again, we don’t have all night.It growled again, pacing from side to side. One hairy fist pistoned out, puncturing the dumpster’s side with a hollow noise; its claws sank in and tore more metal as it lunged for him again, gaining confidence when he still didn’t move. The bloodlust and smoking fury it radiated in waves almost overpowered his own scent; it might be thinking him too wounded for further battle or simply submissive, battered down by its fury.

As usual, when he wanted to be still, he thought about her. A black-haired toddler, her bright blue eyes closed and her lashes a charcoal fan against chubby cheeks as she slept, one hand outflung and her breathing filling his own chest. The end of the memory was always the same—he was lifted out of the crib and carried away, disliking the separation but having to endure it, the pediatrician’s office a semi-familiar wonderland of cold antiseptic glare and his father’s broad, safe, capable hands keeping him still for the examination.

herJust a little irritation, nothing wrong. How’s the other one?

Just a little irritation, nothing wrong. How’s the other one?And his father’s reply. Safe at home, healthy as a horse.

Safe at home, healthy as a horse.Except she wasn’t.

Any calm from that memory was always transient. Still, it worked, and he had to believe she was still alive. Somewhere, somehow.

The alternative was unacceptable.

The Broken flung its head back to roar, then darted for the alley-mouth. Jackson unfolded, the spring performed with thoughtless, accurate speed very much like the thing’s own, and his leap was precisely calculated to hit just before his opponent reached apogee. A crunch, a silver flash of pain as its claws sank into his side again, his fingers hooking just under its chin and a lunging, fishlike effort—he twisted, his boots kissing the brickwork on the left side of the alley.

twistedHis own claws sank deep, one of them finding the hot throbbing highway of a carotid, and he wrenched at exactly the right moment. A c***k like a dead-dry tree snapped in half by a hurricane, a gout of warm crimson, and he landed, shaking slippery gore from his right hand and breathing deeply, wrestling the rage back into its home.

crackControl, his father said, his hand brutally hard on a young Kith’s nape. You are my heir, you are demi, and you will exercise proper control.

Control,You are my heir, you are , and you exercise proper control.The Broken slumped behind him, a hulk of fur and heavy bone, foxfire nerve-death twitching through muscles gone slack. It was finally at peace, after tearing through at least five skin victims; Trenckow the elder and his office were going to have a busy few days tidying this up. The shamans would mourn, and wonder if they could have halted such a disaster.

Sometimes skate—the only street d**g that really affected his kind—didn’t just kill its user, but others around them as well. But now it was over, and the Kith who had fallen from grace, control, and sanity was at peace.

Jackson shuddered, the change fighting him; nobody was supposed to hunt a Broken alone lest the rage go viral and ensnare them too, but who would take a chance at running backup when the analyst tracking the thing could fall just as quickly?

Still, he hadn’t fallen yet. An analyst, even a usanaugh male with his demie absent, had a natural defense against the animalistic fury. The cold clarity of passionless logic simply became more difficult to employ every time it was used as a bulwark.

usanaughdemieJack was aware of a faint thrumming that was definitely not a growl, and when he opened his eyes, every edge in the dark alley stood out in sharp relief as if under noontide sun. Even the twisted paper garbage and rotting food bore a small measure of charm just by default of that clarity.

notThe sound was his phone, and there were only a handful of numbers that would ring through while he was occupied this way. Jack’s jaw creaked as he forced himself fully into his smaller skinform—still tall and broad-shouldered, but not likely to cause the skins any discomfort even on a subconscious level—and he fished the thin silver rectangle with its hard rubbery case out of a padded pocket with his left hand, glancing at its glowing face.

Shit. He thumbed the right spot to accept the call, glad his claws weren’t out. The Broken’s blood would degrade at high speed, becoming thin, viscous amber sludge as individual cells turned on themselves, not knowing or caring their bearer was gone to the heart of the Sun or the dark side of the Moon to be purified.

ShitThe hunger of a Broken went all the way down to mitochondria. Regular Kith flesh didn’t degrade as quickly as the Broken did, but it still hurried to return to the earth’s embrace.

The skins wouldn’t get any forensics worth mentioning, as usual.

“Sir?” The word held a touch of Voice, just enough to make it stand up with a little starch.

“Hunting alone again?” Trevor Rouje’s baritone, even translated through wireless and tinny speakers, was rich and resonant. “Whatever you’re doing, stop. We have a location.”

There was only one thing that could mean. “Where?”

that“Texas. How soon can you get to the airport?”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. “Depends on if I run or get a car. I’ll only need a light cleanup at this location before leaving; Trenckow’s team is monitoring.”

“Well, that’s good news. Trenck’s already dispatching transport to your location, they’ll get you a flight and Hermann will meet you at the other end. It’s the Howler’s territory, so don’t make any waves.”

“Yes, sir.” He had to ask. “Is it a confirmed sighting?” It didn’t make any difference; Jack would chase even the faintest whisper.

He had before.

But Texas? That was news. They’d only gotten a break from Nebraska because some two-bit podunk pastor had filed for widower benefits using Angelina’s Social Security number. The Bible-botherer was also suspected of burning down his own church for an insurance payout; a low-grade arson case was still wending its way through an investigative labyrinth.

The federal administration had processed the “widower’s” claim, but let it hang fire without approval or denial since Trevor Rouje had applied a little judicious pressure to gum up the works.

Nobody, including Dad, had thought his vanished wife would be stupid enough to stay in the States. And the truly important person in all this mess was had vanished into the haze.

“It’s double confirmed.” The leader of the largest, most successful Kith family on the continent paused, and Jackson was already slipping past the shattered bulk of the dead Broken as it began to bubble into fast-forward decay. “Get going, son. Bring her home.”

I’ll do more than that. “Yes, sir.” He thumbed the disconnect; there was nothing more to say.

I’ll do more than thatMoments later, the alley was empty except for a twitching corpse. Trenckow’s crew was already en route to this location and would make certain of the scrubbing, and by sunup there would be no sign of the battle remaining.

And Jack would be in the air, winging toward Texas and hopefully, his salvation.