The All Encompassing: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 1) Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page Book 1

  Copyright

  Chapter One Aaron

  Chapter Two Lily

  Chapter Three Anik

  Chapter Four Aaron

  Chapter Five Lily

  Chapter Six Shiori

  Chapter Seven Aaron

  Chapter Eight Lily

  Chapter Nine Rodas

  Chapter Ten Aaron

  Chapter Eleven Lily

  Chapter Twelve Anik

  Chapter Thirteen Aaron

  Chapter Fourteen Lily

  Chapter Fifteen Shiori

  Chapter Sixteen Aaron

  Chapter Seventeen Lily

  Chapter Eighteen Rodas

  Chapter Nineteen Aaron

  Chapter Twenty Lily

  Chapter Twenty-One Anik

  Chapter Twenty-Two Aaron

  Chapter Twenty-Three Lily

  Chapter Twenty-Four Shiori

  Chapter Twenty-Five Aaron

  Chapter Twenty-Six Lily

  Chapter Twenty-Seven Rodas

  Chapter Twenty-Eight Aaron

  Chapter Twenty-Nine Lily

  Chapter Thirty Anik

  Chapter Thirty-One Aaron

  Chapter Thirty-Two Lily

  Chapter Thirty-Three Shiori

  Chapter Thirty-Four Aaron

  Chapter Thirty-Five Lily

  Chapter Thirty-Six Rodas

  Chapter Thirty-Seven Aaron

  Chapter Thirty-Eight Lily

  Chapter Thirty-Nine Anik

  Chapter Forty Aaron

  Chapter Forty-One Lily

  Chapter Forty-Two Shiori

  Chapter Forty-Three Aaron

  Excerpt Book 2

  Dedication

  About Author May Ellis Daniels

  The All Encompassing

  Pureblood Predator MC

  Book 1

  May Ellis Daniels

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 May Ellis Daniels

  All rights reserved.

  The All Encompassing is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events portrayed in this story are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, shared, down-loaded, compiled, stored, or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author.

  CHAPTER ONE

  AARON

  THE STRICKEN MOTHERFUCKER strapped to a chair in front of me knows he’s about to die and the fear-stink coming off him is so strong it makes me light a smoke.

  How Stricken look doesn’t always match who they are and what they do. They like to try and throw us Purebloods off the scent. But this one? He’s a fat, quivering greasebag with puffy, heavy-lidded eyes and a shining bald head and even if I didn’t know he’s a Stricken I’d think he’s a sick bastard, some kind of perverted fuck.

  And I’d be right.

  I run my hand over Greasebag’s sweaty bald head, drop a claw out, scratch him a bit. Every instinct is screaming at me to gut the worthless bastard and get the fuck out of his stinking lair, but sometimes with a Stricken kill it’s best to take your time.

  Murdering Stricken boosts my MC’s morale.

  Greasebag whines through the cotton wad stuffed in his mouth as his filthy black blood oozes from the scratch mark.

  I hate whiners. Best we can do is die with some fucking dignity.

  Mia slides a heavy-looking metal box on the table. She found it under Greasebag’s bed. I run my claw under Greasebag’s chin, down his neck while he whines and quivers and denies.

  I don’t need to look in the box.

  Prefer not to, actually. I know what this sick bastard is.

  What gets him off.

  But Mia’s into the whole this-is-your-sin thing. Kind of a righteous kick. As if being a Stricken isn’t reason enough to have your black heart torn out. Mia’s violent-green eyes sparkle as she reaches in the metal box and tosses a few photos on the table in front of Greasebag.

  Those fucking snake eyes. Damn.

  They still get to me, even after the mountain of shit we’ve been through.

  Mia’s animal’s running close, and scenting her bloodlust makes my wolf pace and growl. I clench my hands together in a tight fist behind Greasebag’s head. Takes some willpower to keep my animal reigned in when I’m preying on this kind of filth.

  Takes a lot of willpower.

  “These are for you, hey asshole?” Mia says, rapping her knuckles on the pictures while she speaks. “Your personal stash?”

  Greasebag keeps his head lowered.

  Mia lifts a handful of memory sticks from the box. “And these are for your customers? Quite a brisk business you got here, hey asshole?”

  “Fuck sakes,” I say, making damn sure not to look at the photos.

  Greasebag glances at the photos and starts up weird high-pitched squeal. It’s a nasty sound, halfway between excited and terrified. Either way the sound grates into my ears and holy hell do I want to murder this sick motherfucker.

  “C’mon, Mia,” I growl. “Let’s gut him. Nash needs a feed.”

  Mia ignores me and says, “Old enough to pee, old enough for me,” mimicking Greasebag’s throaty voice, which sounds really odd coming from a beauty like Mia. She has a punk biker-chick look going on that makes a guy both want to stare ‘cuz she’s so hot and also makes him nervous about getting caught staring ‘cuz he knows she’ll kick his ass.

  Girl looks damn good in the Pureblood’s leather cut.

  Deadly fucking beauty. I should know.

  But right now I’m using most of my mental energy just to stop myself from ripping Greasebag’s head off, and with the rest I’m half-thinking about Mia ignoring me. She’s been doing that recently. Not a lot, but enough to make me think about it, and fretting like a weak-ass bitch…yeah, that’s a buzz kill for sure.

  An MC Prez can’t allow his crew to ignore him, or he won’t remain Prez for long.

  The pigs’ll find his torn-up body in a ditch. Pure and simple. Black and white. That’s natural law, and that’s how it should be. The strong prey on the weak. Pureblood prey on Stricken. Only the Skins—the humans—feel the need to fuck the world up by overcomplicating everything.

  Mia lifts her heavily-inked right arm. Her skin ripples and darkens and then her hand elongates into a hissing snake’s head, a green-scaled silvery thing with a flicking forked tongue and wicked-looking vertical pupils set in bright green irises.

  Greasebag’s urine reek fills the tiny apartment.

  Mia smiles, flicks out her tongue.

  Nash makes a disgusted let’s-murder-the-ugly-fucker sound.

  I’m in complete agreement, but I hold back, letting Mia have her fun.

  I take a heavy drag on my smoke while Mia’s snake slides under the table and by the way Greasebag tenses and gasps I know exactly what the snakes are rubbing down there.

  That Mia. What a trip.

  “They look at you?” Mia asks while her other hand becomes a blue-black snake and slides under the table to join the first. “Those babies look at you when you touch them?”

  Greasebag blubbers and whimpers and and tries to push away from the snakes rubbing his crotch, but I lay my hand on the back of his neck and hold him tight.

  This Stricken shitbag isn’t going nowhere.

  There’s no justice in the world. I’ve been alive long enough to learn that, and I’m a slow learn
er. Mia torturing Greasebag isn’t a case of what goes around comes around.

  It isn’t fucking karma.

  Sometimes you just get caught. Unlucky.

  Sometimes you get…preyed upon.

  Sorry, my kid brother, chuckles from his position guarding the door. I smile too, because suddenly Mia torturing Greasebag does strike me as funny and then Nash looses a barking laugh and Sorry’s chuckle becomes a kind of chuffing growl and then all I want to do is howl, long and loud, and rip Greasebag’s ugly head off and race out of this filthy apartment and get on my Harley and lean into the night wind, bending the throttle back so hard my wrist aches, cutting way too sharp through the corners and feeling the back wheel slide out, just a bit, and knowing there’s a fine line between freedom and death.

  Always.

  But tonight I promised this Stricken’s beating black heart to Nash and like he’s reading my mind Nash leans over the table, inhales a rail of blow as long as the interstate and says to Mia, “He’s mine girl this feed’s mine I’m a open him up.”

  Nash always speaks in a breathless rush. He’s an impatient bastard, and even more so now that his jaws are thickening and his fangs dropping—

  Mia sighs and the snakes reappear from under the table. They pause in front of Greasebag’s face, hissing and spitting, then rub up and down his sweaty cheeks and neck. Greasebag moans through the gag. Then the snakes are gone. Mia wipes her hands on her jeans and inspects her black-painted fingernails with disgust.

  “You liked it,” I say, messing with her a little just because I can. “Admit it.”

  “Piss off, Aaron,” Mia says, moving away from the table and turning to face Nash. “Make it slow, will ya? This asshole deserves to suffer.”

  “Every Stricken does,” Nash answers.

  Sorry laughs again, then leans out the doorway and scans the hall.

  We’re in Greasebag’s one-room apartment in Seattle’s Chinatown. The apartment stinks, just like the rest of the city. There’s a hot plate and a sink and a sweat-stained bed and a video camera on a tripod linked to a laptop and that’s about all. Greasebag, you see, is an amateur videographer and internet entrepreneur. Oh, and there’s cardboard and tinfoil duct-taped over the only window.

  That’s helpful tonight.

  Nash paces beside Greasebag. Nash's brow deepens and his chin gets long and wide and his hands grow huge and then he reaches up under his Pureblood Predator MC cut and tears his black t-shirt down to expose swirling black-ink tattoos and an inch-thick iron collar strapped around his rapidly swelling neck.

  Which, I now understand, is when the whole fucking world starts to go sketch.

  But at the time, in the moment, I don’t notice nothing as my animal surges and the feeling’s like sticking your hand in a flame and not being burned and Nash is taller now, his long, lanky, tight-muscled frame growing heavier, the iron collar digging into his skin and that’s about as close as he can get to his animal before his neck swells too large and the collar fucking strangles him.

  The kill-need comes off Nash in rank, desperate waves, the need to be himself, to free what he is and always will be, and his need sparks mine and I reach up and dig my nails under my iron collar and pull and tug and tear at it. The skin beneath is raw and seeping but I don’t care, fuck it, the world is pain inside and out and —

  Greasebag makes a not-cool sound.

  He laughs.

  It’s muted by the gag, of course, but it’s a laugh.

  For fucking certain.

  Nash circles around real fast and doubles back and circles around like he’s chasing his own tail. His hands are large as dinner plates and he’s sporting inch-long yellow claws and his face narrows around his massive jaw like a sculpture with too much stone carved away and he’s repeating over and over, “Please Aaron let me open him Prez let me rip his fucking heart out—”

  Fucking guy’s near mad with hunger.

  Which makes me realize a couple things. First is that it’s been a while since Nash had a kill, and I need to watch that more carefully unless I want to find Nash knee deep in Skin blood one night.

  Second is that they’ve never given me nickname. My crew. My pack. No AKA. I’m just Aaron. Prez of the northwest chapter of the Pureblood Predators MC. Say those words and anyone with any sense knows exactly who you mean.

  And that’s enough.

  I nod to Nash.

  Nash leaps across the room so fast I wouldn’t have been able to see him move unless my wolf was so close. Mia hisses and Sorry over there at the door starts mumbling, “Hey man I’m really sorry about all this, you know, I need to apologize, ok…”

  That’s Sorry’s kick. Apologizes to whoever’s about to die. Does it right before every kill. There’s no telling what a man will do in the glorious moments before a murder. The air changes. All the inhibitions that hold us back, keep us pent up and pinned down during our day-to-day—they just disappear. I’ve seen guys chew on their own arm when the murder-scent descended on a room. Seen others fall to their knees and cry before the first blood was spilled.

  Needless to say, those bitches didn’t make it into the club.

  Nash slams his hand into Greasebag’s chest, aiming to tear out his filthy black heart. I shriek and howl as a wave of icy black blood spills out of the Stricken, so cold it sizzles and smokes as it hits the table.

  This Stricken is Pureblood Reaped.

  A fucking goner.

  Nash howls and barks like the blood-hungry hyena he is and I know we’ll have to ride out right fucking quick because some neighbor’s sure to call the tool and the last thing I need right now is another night in a cell.

  Fact I think that might drive me nuts, and this right here is what I hate about the human in me — the inability to remain in the moment, to remain focused and true to what’s happening right now, because what’s happening right now is that Nash isn’t screaming in kill-lust and triumph as he feasts on the Stricken’s beating heart.

  He’s shrieking in pain.

  Takes me a moment to understand. Been a long while since I heard Nash shriek in pain. Like, a fucking millennia.

  “Rip its fucking heart out!” I scream when I finally catch up to what’s happening.

  Nash violently shakes his head from side to side. His eyes are slammed shut and his face is red with pain and I see my packmate’s skin ripple, the animal in him threatening to break loose and strangle him against the iron collar.

  “He burns!” Nash manages. “His blood fucking burns!”

  A unusual sensation tickles down my spine.

  What is it? Takes me a bit to recognize.

  Fear.

  “What do you mean he—” Mia begins.

  I’m still standing behind the Stricken so I can’t see exactly what’s going on, but from the smell singing my nose I got a pretty good idea: the Stricken's black blood is burning Nash.

  Melting his skin off.

  Not supposed to happen. Never.

  Nash strains to pull his hand out of Greasebag’s chest. But it ain’t budging. There’s fear in Nash's eyes now, real honest-to-fucking-God fear, and his shoulders hunch over and thick tufts of hair matt up on his arms and face and his neck bulges so tight around his collar the iron disappears into his flesh. The animal’s working damn hard to free itself, and I know how that feels, how the fucking thing senses your cage has weakened and knows you need it free and leaps at the opportunity, because the fear and pain is pushing Nash right over the edge.

  Which means I’m watching one of my oldest friends die.

  Well. Gimme a big order of fuck that.

  And make it quick.

  Nash barks and chuffs and gives a strangled gasp as his eyes go straight yellow. He pulls and strains against the Stricken but he’s too weak, and the Stricken is actually sucking Nash closer, sucking my friend’s hand deeper into its chest, chortling through the gag, his fat rolls jiggling and quivering, the air filling with black smoke and the stench of burning hair and flesh an
d I know the Stricken wants to suck Nash right inside its chest, melting and burning him down a bit at a time until there’s nothing left.

  I wrap one hand around the Stricken's chin, ignoring the burning pain I feel from the fucker’s ice cold skin and I notice the gag is suddenly gone, burned to ash in the Stricken's mouth and who the fuck is this guy, haven’t seen one like this since —

  But I stop thinking. Finally.

  Nash is sucked up into the Stricken nearly to his elbow and there’s a horrible black-red light pouring from the Stricken's chest, lighting up the room, and where the light hits the wall the paint blisters and smokes. The light catches Sorry in the face and he throws his arms up to shield himself and drops to the floor.

  The greasebag Stricken speaks. Its voice is like locusts stripping a crop bare. “He shall be reborn, and thou shall…”

  Stricken. With their fucking thou this and shall that.

  Like it’s still the Fourteenth Century.

  Time to update, motherfucker.

  In one swift, practiced motion I slash my claws across the Stricken's windpipe while tugging back on its chin. Usually one swipe is enough to behead a bastard, but this fucker’s thick-necked and surprisingly strong, so I slash again, and again, black blood spraying up to burn into the ceiling and the Stricken's head tips back as I sever the tendons holding it up; the fucker’s staring straight at me, pure black eyes empty as all fuck, and he’s still mouthing off, giving me some half-assed prophecy shit I can’t hear through the roaring in my ears and finally his head snaps clean off his spine and the blinding burning light coming from his chest flickers and weakens.

  Nash tugs his hand free of the Stricken's chest. Burned bad nearly to the elbow. Like down to white bone under melted tissue. Not much blood because the cold seared it out.

  Nash collapses to his knees, quiet now, too in shock to scream, but the animal’s fleeing him which is a good thing because at least it means he won’t die of strangulation.

  Might be a poison in the Stricken's blood that gets him, though, so we’ll have to see about that later.