Bad Blood

Blake’s hand convulsed, blood loss taking a rapid toll. His fingers grazed his carved oak blade. His vision was beginning to blur, his mind lost in a swirl of thoughts. Blake drew forth the wooden spike, all half-dozen of the fangs going hesitant for a second.

A good magician entertains you, distracting your eagle eyes to one hand while the other plays its tricks. A bad magician hopes for some luck, so that when all was said and done someone asks him how he did it. Blake was damn lucky; every monstrous gaze in the house was on his weapon, not his free hand. Not on the cell phone he just hit SEND on.

Blake could swear he already heard the roar of motorcycle engines, jets of hot flame shooting from exhausts. “You shouldn’ta poached on Speed Tribe turf without permission,” Blake said with a grin.

The Japanese Speed Tribes; they made the Colombian kill-crews look like Quakers off of the farm for the first time. Demons on wheels. Hell was coming to The City and Blake was about to be caught in the middle of it.

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