I posed for a few pics before the team stepped between me and the lookie-loos, allowing me to stroll toward my bike. Bitsa, my bastard Harley, looked great. For a bike that had been out of service for way too long, she seemed fine, showing signs of recent maintenance in a faint gleam of oil and a smear of grease here and there. I didn’t really miss doing her maintenance, but I did miss having the time to do it.
Bitsa was beautiful, her paint job perfect, the snarling cougar, fangs bright as she leaped forward across the tank, claws outstretched on either side.
But there was no motorcycle helmet strapped to the seat. “Crappity crap,” I muttered. I distinctly remembered strapping it to the seat. My eyes darted left and right, hoping to spot the helmet. I loved that old helmet. It was not on my bike. Not beside my bike. Not being held by my unit.
My heart tumbled. It was illegal, and stupid, to ride a motorbike in North Carolina and Tennessee without helmets. But—
I glowered. Security were—to a person—wearing what they called shit-eating grins, though the eating of shit would not make me smile. Growling in suspicion I demanded, “What?”
“A present, Queenie girl,” Quint said. Her tone was droll, amused, as if she knew full well I was confused, growing ticked off, and couldn’t do a thing about it. She swaggered around her crotch rocket, a Kow-bike in an iridescent shade of black-cherry that glistened with hints of black and ruby. She extended a brown box tied with a huge red bow. “Happy wedding and all that shit, from us.”
“I . . .” I stopped dead and stared at the box and bow. Flushed. Wiped my palms on my riding pants. I didn’t do presents. “Uhhh.”
“Fuckin’ chicken?” Quint whispered at me. Her tone made it a joke, but her expression, was a little mean.
I narrowed my eyes at her, giving my queenlyhow dare you? Off with your head,look. “Language,” I said.
She laughed. Snidely. Sneeringly. Scornfully. I couldn’t think of any more S words, so I scowled at her and she laughed again.
“Come on. You give away sh—stuff, presents, all the time. Take it.”
This time she sounded almost kind, which made me think the box held venomous snakes or—
“The bloody head of my worst enemy?” I asked.
Quint whooped with laughter and some of the others joined in. Sarah—AKA Grizz—Manuel, Hernando, all laughed, enough of the guards to make me hope the gift wasn’t something dead or venomous.
“Give me time,” Quint said. “Besides, all your enemies are dead, aren’t they?”
“A girl can hope,” I said, knowing I’d have enemies no matter how many heads I took.
I accepted the box and put it on Bitsa’s seat, pulling one end of the bow so the loops slid out of place and fell away. The box wasn’t taped and no snakes slithered out. No stench of old blood. Plucking away the brown paper packing material, my fingertips slid across something smooth and cold, and part of my brain knew what it was before my hand followed the rounded contours to the bottom of the box and the edge of the . . . bike helmet. I pulled it out, dislodging a long twisted mass of crunched brown paper and protective molded foam.
Reflexes like the snake I had halfway expected to be in the box, Quint caught the paper before the wind carried it away.
The helmet was gorgeous. It was Beast’s head, a near duplicate of the art on Bitsa. I was gonna ride the Dragon in Beast art.
Beast is best hunter,she thought. The I/we of Beast is beautiful.
Yeah. We are,I thought at her.
“This is stunning,” I said aloud, holding it up. My team clapped and wolf whistled.
I snugged the helmet on over my head and tucked my long braid into my leather riding jacket.
“Rules, people,” Eli shouted, holding up one finger. “No skin left on the roadway.” He lifted another. “No bikes on the Tree of Shame.” Everyone roared or hooted approval. Eli grinned, his eyes still bright. His heart beat fast, happy, his breathing steady. Once again, I cut off the connection between us. I was getting better at that.
I glanced at the Tree of Shame. Attached to the tree by rope, wire, string, cable, steel hardware, physics, and gravity, were motorcycle parts in every color under the rainbow. Including rainbow hues. It was a rite of passage for any biker who crashed and survived to attach a bike part to the tree. It was a colorful junkyard of art from the ground, up the trunk, and over every reachable limb—and some that had required ladders.
I snugged my leathers tight and made sure comms were on, inside the new helmet. No armor today, though there was a thin layer of Kevlar incorporated into the leather’s kill spots. My people weren’t wearing my colors, no black and gold decoration. No visible weapons. No super-strong, super-fast vampire team members, since the sun was shining. Just humans and an Onorio and Eli (whatever he was now) and me. And Quint, my personal psychopath lady-in-waiting bodyguard. All on the Tail of the Dragon. What could go wrong? I was asking myself that a lot lately.
I straddled Bitsa and kicked her on, set my worn, comfy boots on the ground beside her. An unnamed feeling sped through me, something peaceful, rooted, and happy. Something that almost felt like home. Quint gunned her crotch rocket into a spin around the Tree of Shame and out of the parking lot, heading for the hairpin turns of the Dragon.
???
The scenery was winter-hard: bare trees, long frozen vistas, deep cliff-like plunges. In places, the land fell away on both sides at once and I slowed to take in the views. It was like sitting on top of the world.
The Harleys roared, the Kawasaki bikes screamed. The world I knew best welcomed me home. The most famous twists and hairpin turns on the Dragon had names like Copperhead Corner, Hog Pen Bend, Wheelie Hell, Shade Tree Corner, Mud Corner, Sunset Corner, Gravity Cavity, Beginner’s End, and Brake or Bust Bend.
