That Day

"Take her. I'm tired of her anyway."

Devlin's eyes were locked on Kit's across the green felted tabletop, drinks and cards spilled between as he gave the werewolf away like an old broken toy - to the gangster whose brother Kit had killed. 

Whose strawberry blonde lover Devlin had snatched out from under him, and devoured. 

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as handcuffs clinked shut around his wrists. As they led him away, Devlin's smile only widened. 

"Don't leave this room. That's an order."

Kit had woken up with a pressure bandage on, weak as a kitten. During the days that followed Devlin was cold, leaving him in his bedroom, in his bed, and sleeping beside him - fucking him - every night.

The days blurred together, and the windowless room made it impossible to tell how much time had passed. Devlin didn't speak to him again, even when he pressed him into the mattress. 

Carefully, deliberately, he tore into Kit's branchial artery at his elbow and then the popliteal artery behind each knee, bleeding him to keep him weak and pliant. He gave him water, but no food. 

After what might have been a week - but felt like longer - Kit woke up once more in Devlin's dark bedroom, alone, stiff and feeling much older than his 21 years. Glancing up into a dark, full-length mirror propped against a wall facing the bed, he startled.

His hazel eyes looked hollow and tired. There were marks all over his body - bruises and scars, cuts and scratches, old and new. His skin was mottled in purple, blue, yellow, green, red, reddish-black, pink, and his ribs and collarbone stood out sharply. 

Naked and wrapped in rumpled sheets, shoulders sloped, he looked very small. 

I've got to get out, soon. I'm not gonna survive like this. 

The door creaked and suddenly Devlin was standing there, looking sleek and cruel in a steel-coloured bespoke suit and shiny shoes that gleamed in the light from the door. Kit covered his eyes with his arm, the light stinging them. 

"We are going to a card game in New Mexico. At a private venue. You're to deal the cards," Devlin said, tossing him a bundle that Kit caught reflexively. 

It was a black silk playsuit, just like the first one. When Kit saw it all the memories of that night came rushing back and his hands started trembling. 

You bastard. 

Devlin smirked, eyes hard. "What are you waiting for?" 

A few hours later they were in the car, driving, Devlin giving him the details of his assignment as if nothing had changed. As if he had not told Kit that he loved him... As if the young werewolf had not turned him down, shouting that he hated him. 

Did that mean he would ignore it? That things would go back to the way they had been? 

"This meeting is to smooth things out between us and a few Latino gangs we have been having - conflicts of interest - with. You remember, Kitty."

Kit remembered long nights stitching up knife cuts and trying to close bullet wounds, Kosta and Ilya dragging away bodies so mangled they were barely recognisable. He remembered standing behind Devlin and biting his lip so that he would not cry out or throw up as he watched - 

Don't think. Don't remember. 

"There will be someone there you recognize," Devlin promised. 

They drove into Santa Fe late that night. The buildings were all one or two storeys and in shades of sandstone tan and ochre, with wooden rafters showing, surrounded by cacti and desert pines. 

The house they stopped at seemed like any other on the edge of town, but Kit had learnt that appearances meant nothing, necessarily - inside there could be anything. 

What faced them behind the wooden double doors was something like a miniature casino - complete with card and roulette tables, and a wide oak bar. 

Several men and a few female escorts were already seated at a large black-jack table in the middle of the room, giving their orders to a willowy bartender on stiletto heels. 

Devlin leaned in close to his ear as they walked towards the table, his breath raising goosebumps on his skin.

"Do you remember the man in the middle, Kitty? With the dark skin and tattoos?"

Something like ice rushed through his veins - he had seen the man before. Under flashing lights, in a trendy nightclub. Those dark eyes had been trained on a strawberry blonde girl melting like butter under Kit's fingers. 

"Her lover..." he whispered, feeling sick.

Devlin snickered. "Not just that girl's lover. He is also the younger half-brother of the first man you killed for me, Kitty. With the garrotte, do you remember? Can't you spot the resemblance?"

It felt as if someone had punched him. Kit actually swayed. 

"Now get over there and cut the deck."

Devlin pushed him forward with a hand on the small of his back and Kit focused on the green, felted, half-moon table in front of him. Focused on nothing but the cards flowing through his hands. He counted them almost reflexively, the mathematical exercise giving him just enough distraction to still his shaking hands. 

Keeping his eyes down, he tuned out their conversation. More and more drinks arrived, hours passing, stakes rising. Laughter and tension ebbed and flowed throughout the room.

"What a useful girl you have."

Kit jolted as a caramel-coloured hand touched his wrist lightly. He looked up and saw Devlin watching him.

"Exceedingly useful." Devlin slurred his words slightly and Kit's eyes widened before he schooled his expression back to neutral. 

He was drunk. Definitely drunk. That's a first.

"I did too. Do you still have her?" the latino man asked softly. 

Devlin smiled. "No. I no longer have her." 

"I've seen you with this one before. Is she your favourite?"

"Oh no... Not at all." He paused, eyes flicking over to Kit. "How about..."

And the werewolf watched with dawning horror as Devlin smiled his most cruel, close-lipped smile, laying down his cards. 

"You take her. I'm tired of her anyway."

Their eyes met over the card table - hazel and burgundy-black, equally furious. 

Fuck you, Kit thought at Devlin, and the vampire's tongue flicked out to wet his lips. 

Devlin's eyes were locked on Kit's across the green felted tabletop, drinks and cards spilled between as he gave the werewolf away like an old broken toy - to the gangster whose brother Kit had killed.

Whose strawberry blonde lover Devlin had snatched out from under him, and devoured.

Kit felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as handcuffs clinked shut around his wrists and fear, cold and heavy in his gut, replaced his anger. As they led him away, Devlin's smile only widened.

They steered him out into the night and into a sleek black sedan.

Kit felt his heart sink. Handcuffed and with a gun pointed at his head. Why do I always end up in these situations? 

"Maybe you know where my girl is," the caramel-skinned man said conversationally, like he was talking to a dog or a small child, nudging Kit's jaw with the muzzle of a Browning Hi Power 9mm. 

"I don't know. Last I saw her she was calling a taxi," Kit lied. 

"I've seen you with him before. Maybe you know what he does. Who he sees."

"I don't know anything. He just hired me. I don't know."

The man smiled. "Maybe."

He nodded at the two men.

"We will find out." 

That was when they put a black cloth bag over his head.

Shit. 

What was it that Kosta had taught him?

The trick to fighting multiple opponents it to fight one at a time - make sure you never get caught in the middle, fighting them all at once.

When they pulled the bag from his head, he was handcuffed upright with his hands over his head, attached to two slim iron heating pipes running from floor to ceiling. The room was bare and small, with empty plaster walls and a grey concrete floor. There were no windows. 

A blow landed in his gut before he had time to think and he barely tensed his abs in time. More followed - they hit him until he gasped but just with their fists, not hard enough to do internal damage, and not in his face. He angled his body away and tensed his muscles without thinking about it, hours of sparring with Devlin and Kosta kicking in. 

His toes barely touched the ground, steel cuffs digging into his wrists. The gang leader was nowhere to be seen, but his two guards were watching him hungrily. 

Kit let a whimper escape, catching his breath. Maybe I deserve a beating, he thought. Maybe I have it coming.

"You'll talk, won't you, pretty?" one of the guards taunted. 

The other laughed. "If you have any voice left."

Something in their voices made him raise his face. Kit's eyes flicked over their faces and his throat tightened, suddenly bone dry. Their eyes, the way their bodies turned towards him, breathing changing - Kit closed his eyes agains the wave of dizziness. It was a paralysing, bodily fear.

Not again, he thought.

The look in their eyes... this was different from the violent play that he often enjoyed. It had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with power. 

They were going to rape him. 

Think, Kit. Think.

He was hanging in the air, handcuffed to a goddamn heating pipe with nothing to leverage against, nothing in his skimpy outfit to use as a weapon, panicking. 

If only Devlin were here... Kit hated himself for thinking it, for wishing for him. 

No-one was coming to save him. He was alone. His shoulder bag and hoodie lay out of reach, dropped by the door.

That was when Kit realised that this was one of the most dangerous situations he had ever been in. They wanted to fuck him.

And once they realised he was a boy, they would kill him instead. 

He could feel his body reacting to his memories, terror sending adrenaline flowing though his veins. His vision sharpened, his own breath loud in his ears, limbs growing numb.

No. 

They reached for his flimsy clothes. Kit knew he should wait, knew they would be more distracted once they got started. But by then he might be in no state to fight.

Fuck this shit.

Tensing his arms, he grabbed his left thumb in his right hand and twisted it down hard in a move he had only heard about, using the metal pipe as a leaver and biting down on his lower lip to keep from screaming.

It popped out of its socket at the same time the guards ripped apart his top, shredding the silk and baring his tiny cotton bra. He gasped, throwing his head back as pain radiated from his hand. 

Blood dribbled down his chin from where he had bit clean through his lip. 

Kit twisted his left hand through the cuff with a yell, pulling his legs up and kicking the man undoing his pants in the groin. He pulled the empty cuff out from behind the pipes and dodged around the guard.

He kicked the huge mobster in the side of his knee, elbowing him just below his ribs before he could twist around to face Kit. 

Grabbing his own thumb, he pulled, dragging it back into its socket, gritting his teeth and ignoring the sharp pain that brought stars before his eyes.

A punch landed on his cheekbone and he twisted away, trying not to get caught between the two guards. 

Throwing the handcuffs around the man's neck, he grabbed the empty cuff with his right hand and twisted the chain into his throat with all his supernatural strength. With his left hand he reached down and pulled the man's gun from his hip holster, just as the other guard drew his own weapon.

It was a Beretta 92FS - a big, semi-automatic handgun - favoured by the military.

Kit fired a shot at the other man just as the first guard slammed him back against the wall, yanking at the chain at his throat. The boy's shots went wide and he couldn't see a thing, head banging off the plaster wall. 

The other man was pointing his gun at the two of them, shouting, but Kit heard nothing beyond his own desperate gasps for air, crushed between the huge man's back and the rough wall.

"Fuck it!!!"

He emptied his clip at the other guard, screaming. The aim was shit, but the space was small and cramped with no cover to hide behind. 

The gangster tried to duck away, plaster exploding around him, and then his arm jerked, sending his handgun spinning away over the floor.

One second later the side of his head exploded. As his body hit the floor the guy Kit was choking thrashed, elbowing him and throwing him over his shoulder.

Kit flew across the floor, doing a unintentional forward tumble and hitting the opposite wall. He shot to his feet, pointing the Beretta at the red-faced man. He squeezed the trigger. 

"Click."

"Shit!" 15 shots, already? 

The man dove at Kit, toppling him over. In his rage he completely ignored the loaded gun on the other side of the room, focused on choking the life out of the smaller man. 

Kit fought, struggling and kicking, breaking the man's nose in and open-palmed punch and trying to crawl away. He was a werewolf but injured and half-starved, and this human was huge and enraged beyond sense or control.

The guard howled. Using brute strength and his superior weight and reach, he grabbed Kit and threw him down, straddling him. 

Both of the man's hands encircled his throat, thumbs pressing down just below his Adam's apple. Kit bucked his hips up, pulling at one wrist and pushing up with one leg, trying to throw him off, but he didn't budge. 

His vision swam, his body convulsing helplessly. His hands searched desperately over his assailant's body for a weak spot. Was this how he would finally die? Should he give up?

Never!

His hand brushed over something smooth and cold sticking up out of the man's belt. A knife hilt.

Without hesitation Kit grabbed the hilt, tugging the knife free and burying it in his attacker with the last of his strength. 

The man's eyes widened and he let Kit go, hands flying up to the hilt sticking out of his neck. 

Kit yanked the knife out with a wet sucking sound and grabbed the man's hair, pulling him closer on pure instinct and stabbing him again. 

He dragged the sharp, nicked blade against the guard's stubbled throat in a sawing motion, working through sinewy flesh and tough windpipe until he grated against bone. 

Blood was pouring over him now - he couldn't see, couldn't breathe without it filling his lungs. Blood was in his eyes, in his nose, in his mouth. He held on, cramp-like, as the much heavier man twisted and convulsed on top of him. 

Salty, hot blood was still pulsing out, pouring down, drenching Kit's half-naked body. Despite sweating from the exertion he shivered, coughing and fighting for breath, trying to find the strength to move. 

Get up. You have to get up. 

The corpse on top of him was so heavy. Kit's fingers, body, and the floor was slick with blood. There was so much blood inside a person...and it was still pulsing out, slowly, in sporadic spurts from his neck as his heart spasmed in death. 

Gasping, heaving, nauseous, and numb, he managed to twist free and scramble away. Kit's whole body shook. 

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck..." 

He tried to breathe. Nothing hurt yet, but he had an inkling that he might be going into shock, and that was dangerous.

"Fuck!!!"

He had to get out of there. Snatching the gun off the floor and checking how many bullets were in it, he pointed it at the closed door. 

Why hadn't anyone arrived? He had fired 15 shots, the whole room was a mess of blood and plaster... 

Where is everyone?

He grabbed his hoodie from the floor and threw it on, slinging his bag over his shoulder. The hoodie covered him down to the top of his thighs, sticking to his wet body. 

The Beretta felt too heavy in his hands. Kit exchanged it for his own small Smith & Wesson and pushed the red clip in with a click. 

Blood dripped from the ends of his messy drenched tresses down onto the floor, and his bare feet left red, smudged footprints on the concrete floor. A picture of Devlin's crimson footprints flashed before his eyes. 

Steadying the weapon up with both hands, he pushed the door open with his foot and peeked out. The corridor was deserted, ending in a windowless wall in one direction. He could hear gunshots in the distance. 

Out of options, Kit headed towards them. 

After creeping down two more deserted corridors he was starting to get a very bad feeling. The shots rang louder, and then stopped. 

Rounding a corner into the run-down lobby where he had last seen the gang leader, he stopped short. The furniture was turned over, riddled with bullet holes. Dust, plater, and bodies littered the floor. 

In the middle of it all stood Devlin Novák.

Several gang members were kneeling in the middle, lined up in front of the vampire. His men - who Kit recognized vaguely - were spread about around the room, fresh corpses at their feet.

He looked glorious, sweaty and dusty and spattered with blood. The werewolf took an involuntary step forward.

Kit wanted to throw himself into Devlin's arms. He wanted to turn and run as far away as possible. He wanted to empty the red clip - every single silver bullet - into his head, between his burgundy eyes. 

The barrel of Devlin's CZ 75 pressed against the temple of the gangster he had given Kit to. The man's face gleamed with sweat, kneeling on the floor in his leather jacket.

When Devlin saw him standing there, his face lit up and he smiled, squeezing the trigger. 

The back of the man's head exploded, chunks of brain and bone landing before the fine crimson mist settled. Kit flinched - it seemed much louder now that he wasn't the one shooting. 

The man's body hit the floor with a barely audible thud. 

Devlin was looking him over, his gaze traveling up his bloody, naked, dust-streaked legs and landing on the gun in his hand. His smile turned into a frown and he stepped forward over the body at his feet. 

Kit raised his Smith & Wesson, holding it level. The mobster's gun was pointing at the ground. 

"Kitty... put the gun down, ano?" he said.

Kit jerked his head to the side. No.

"Let me pass," he croaked.

Devlin holstered his weapon and held his hands up. "I won't hurt you... Come here." 

"No! Stay back." 

Kit edged towards the door, gun raised. Safeties clicked back as several of Devlin's men trained their own firearms on him - handguns, shotguns, even a couple of rifles. The vampire held up a hand to stop them.

"You let them take me away! On purpose - because you were angry! You gave me to them..."

His body was shaking and he hated it, hated that he couldn't control it. Hated how hurt and vulnerable his voice sounded. 

As if he had ever expected Devlin to be there for him, to shield him. His grip on the gun tightened, knuckles whitening. His ears were ringing. 

"You let them do all that to me." 

If wasn't just the men today - it was all of them, he thought. All of the people Devlin had made him lie to, seduce, and kill. He flicked back the safety.