Now the bloodsucker's goons had a good fix on his scent, and they knew what he looked like, too, and knew his ride. The problem with high-up vampires wasn't so much their own power but the sheer force they could bring to bear if they wanted to.
And given what Levi had just taken, Mortensen would be pretty damned motivated to do whatever he could to stop him.
Screw him, though. Screw the vampire, screw Levi's clan, and screw everybody who stood in his way. Levi had something that represented real power, the first chance for everyone in his clan to finally be free of vampiric threats or dependence.
No more uneasy truces. No more negotiations. No more contracts. With what he had, he could cut ties to them, and they couldn't do a thing about it.
Of course, that would only work if he survived to use what he now had. And the first step in raising his chances of survival would be to ditch his motorcycle, which was probably being broadcast on police channels across three states by now, and get another ride.
The thought gave him almost a physical pain. He had scrimped and saved for his bike for a whole year back before he'd established his main business, taking jobs he had no interest in for rich scumbags and paranoid husbands, all with the goal of owning this beautiful beast. Riding a motorcycle was the closest he could come to feeling like a wolf in human form, and on it, he kept all the keen intelligence and analytical ability that gave way to primal instinct and visceral immediacy as a wolf.
And riding this motorcycle, in particular…. If riding a motorcycle was like sex, he thought, the Supersport versus his old, secondhand hog was like the difference between having a long night with a beautiful woman and rubbing one off in a dirty bathroom stall.
But now it was a liability. If everything worked out well, he could buy as many Ducatis as he wanted. If it didn't, well…. Dead men-or wolves-didn't have much use for a bike.
He had to ditch it.
As if on cue, a car appeared on the opposite side of the road as he crested the hill, a golden Buick from the late '60s or early '70s. If he could get it running, that could be perfect. He blew past it and made a U-turn in the middle of the empty road to come up behind it again at a more sedate pace.
He could see a girl with a butt to die for leaning into the open trunk, and he spared a moment's pity for her, since he was planning on commandeering her ride. It was a shame to upset the owner of such fine assets.