Johnathan’s sensual thoughts stuttered. He was a virgin.
Frowning, he held up his palm, the puncture long gone, though he swore the healed-over skin itched beneath his scrutiny. No, this demon had a clear preference for young women. Every victim thus far was a young woman. He didn’t fit the pattern, not really…
“The wound looks better,” Vic said. “But nowhere near fit for fight.”
Vic’s words confused him, until Johnathan realized he referred to his shoulder. That’s right, Vic had forgotten the wound as easily as he had, and Johnathan didn’t bother to draw attention to it now. He shook himself. “I’ll be fine.”
“Will you,” said Vic, “because Alyse said you looked pale as death when you staggered from the lodge house. What happened in there?”
“We can assume the target is Alyse,” said Johnathan. He ignored Vic’s noise of disgust over his avoidance. There was nothing Johnathan could tell him that wouldn’t put Vic and Alyse in greater danger. “I will hold a perimeter and call to you when the beast approaches. You stay inside so that you may deal with the beast when—”
“That is absurd. It will tear you apart, John!”
“You can’t be seen.” Johnathan caught Vic’s hand when he pulled back. “Evans has eyes on the house. He knows more than he’s letting on, and he’s willing to put others in danger for his plan. Don’t give him this.”
“How do you know? Maybe he’s just an ignorant ass.”
If only it were that simple.
“He’s my mentor.”
Vic’s jaw worked for a moment before he spoke. “He was there when…”
“Yes. He was the one who recruited me.”
Johnathan couldn’t look at Vic just then. Shame at his connection to the Society was a newer emotion, especially when he still considered himself to be a part of that Society. He still believed the Society was there to protect the people of Cress Haven, but there were other doubts, about his future, about Vic’s fate, that left him unsettled.
Vic ran his thumb over the top of Johnathan’s knuckles. “You were a boy. You were scared and trying to survive.”
“I regret it,” Johnathan whispered.
Vic inhaled a sharp breath. “Don’t do this now. This isn’t a deathbed confession, John.”
It might as well be. Dr. Evans set him on this course, but Johnathan had begun to suspect his former mentor still had a larger part to play. That bothered him more than anything else about this situation. How well did he really know the man? Before he came here and met Vic and Alyse, before everything that happened since he arrived, he would have never suspected anything ill of his mentor.
“You’re right. It will be night soon. We need to prepare.” Johnathan moved out of the shelter of Vic’s presence and eased into his clothes. There was a stiffness in his fingers that could prove difficult for gripping a gun. Long as he could pull a trigger, he’d manage.
Vic stopped him at the door, sliding a hand around his waist, a far more forward move than he expected. His breath caught as he stared into Vic’s concerned gaze. “John, be careful tonight. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”
Johnathan braced a hand on the vampire’s chest, not exactly pushing the man away, but a firm barrier. “Of course. Do I look capable of heroics?”
“You never did, and yet here we are,” said Vic. There was a hint of disappointment in the vampire’s gaze, disappointment that Johnathan kept him at bay.
Johnathan wondered himself why he’d staved off Vic, though the way his pulse throbbed, he knew if he let Vic carry through with his intentions, they wouldn’t stop. Johnathan couldn’t afford to be derailed, not with so much on the line.
Damn Vic and his terrible timing.
“If you don't stop flattering me, we’ll be absolutely caught off guard.” Johnathan kept his tone teasing to cover the tremor in his fingers as he pulled away.
The reply lifted a corner of Vic’s mouth, and Johnathan put on a good show until he was well out of sight.
The late afternoon sun soaked into his weary bones. He perched himself against the outer wall of the Shaw household, noting when Alyse returned to the household, alone, before dark. He wasn’t surprised, though he did wonder how she convinced her father to let her go.
Still, Johnathan was grateful to have fewer variables in play. Waiting for the hammer to fall, as it were, gave him time to ruminate over the twisting situation. It did seem to keep spiraling in a new direction on him. Between fairies and demons, he hadn’t expected Dr. Evans to present such a kink in their endeavors. Johnathan still couldn’t puzzle out where the doctor fit into it all. Nor could he figure out why the symbols had reappeared in such sudden abundance.
The warmth and light of the long afternoon lulled him. He knew he’d dozed off when Alyse gently shook him awake, the sun long sunk below the horizon. Dusk leached the light from the sky.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
Alyse waved off the apology. “You needed it. If you weren’t so stubborn, Vic would have dragged you inside to rest, but it seemed safe enough in the daylight.”
“Did he stay inside?”
Alyse nodded. She lingered, pinching the fabric of her skirts, unspoken words in the shuffle of her feet. “About earlier, I’m sorry, John. I—”
“Don’t,” he said. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Alyse bit her lip, clearly caught between an insult and a laugh.
“Get inside, will you?” he said. “Unless you plan to use me as a temporary shield.”
She scowled. “The second you catch a hint of one of those demon beasts, you better hobble inside.”
She stalked away from him but shut the door to the house with tedious care. The quiet set in, a confirmation something was coming in the absence of noise—no birds, no rustle of brush and bracken. The silence was weighted, the hush before the swing of the executioner’s ax.
Supposedly, Dr. Evans’ men watched the household. Did they sense it too?
The fine hairs on Johnathan’s arms rose, but not a creature stirred. Gray twilight faded into true night, an inky darkness so thick he could barely see his hand if he held it in front of his face. Johnathan wasn’t worried.
He would see the beasts by their eyes.
Instead, Johnathan settled on a tree stump close to the pastor’s house and let his mind turn to puzzles surrounding Cress Haven. There were many. They knew the beasts were servants of the demon, but what was their purpose in marking a house other than to build their ranks? Why did the demon feel the need to keep making others of its ilk? The number of disappearances and deaths had increased dramatically in the past few months, which hinted that the demon was rushing to build up his horde of servants. There was also the outlier of the Shaw household. It didn’t quite fit any of their known criteria, and the fact the demon hadn’t taken advantage of Vic and Johnathan’s absence whilst they were trapped in the fairy realm was another piece that didn’t fit. Why choose Alyse and her family at all?
“They have to be tainted, they have to be pure,” he murmured. He was close enough to one of the windows to see the mark. How did the demons evade Vic’s enhanced senses? “None of this makes bloody sense.” He stared at the mark, the same one they found etched in the rib cage of Mary Elizabeth, the same symbol that haunted his dreams. “Why can’t I remember?”
Bidden, the memory stirred, of his encounter in the forest with the antlered creature, the horned symbol engraved in a gold coin around its neck. Sweat slicked the small of his back. How did he not remember that until now?
The palm of his hand gave a twinge. A hint of something rotten and burnt teased his senses. He recognized the whiff of sulfur. Johnathan frowned and ventured closer, kneeling on the ground below the window. Despite the dark, he swore he could make out the faint shape of paw prints on the ground, the dirt blistered and blackened.
His palm gave a twinge again, the pain so sudden and sharp it cut through the fierce ache of his shoulder. “The hell?”
&nb
sp; The faint drag of cloth over the ground caught his attention. His fatigue faded at the flood of adrenaline in his system when Mrs. Fairchild padded barefoot from the womb of the night.
His breath caught at the sight of her, pale and ethereal, a fallen angel, her hair in tattered wisps that clung to her scalp. Her dress was reduced to frayed streamers that hung from her thinned frame. The bones of her face stood stark against her waxen skin, further exaggerated by the whimsical smile she wore, her head tilted as if she listened to a faraway song. She stopped a few steps from him, her eyes lit by an unholy gleam.
“They have to be tainted; they have to be pure,” she whispered, her voice a shattered husk of sound. “Did the old fairy whisper her useless warnings? Did she drip pretty promises into your ear?”
Johnathan jumped up from the ground, the rough wood of the house siding at his back. “Mrs. Fairchild? We thought you were dead.” He tried not to show how unnerved her words left him.
“Aren’t I? I was certain I was.” She spun in a half circle, and the moisture dried up in Johnathan’s mouth. The back of her skull was simply gone, cleaved away to reveal an oozing mass of gristle and jagged bone.
He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t move. His palm burned. “What does it mean? They have to be tainted; they have to be pure.” His voice was a whisper.
She turned back to him, her smile ghoulish now as she circled him. He needed to call for Vic, for the Society agents hovering in the dark. The words remained stuck to the back of his throat. She bore down on him, until the sweet bitter scent of rot pressed on his senses and her dead fingers brushed his cheek.
“Don’t you know? Haven’t you suspected?”
The pain in his hand intensified, demanding his attention, though he couldn’t look away from her. Sweat popped on his brow as the burn sank into the nerves of his arm. He had to look away.
The symbol burned up through the skin of his palm, the cherry red of live coals. The surrounding flesh blistered and puckered black, right where the claw pierced him that first night.
A mental dam burst and left him reeling. The secrets of his nightmares, his stifled urgency, and the need to tell Vic poured into him. Too late, far too late, in a searing instant, Johnathan saw the influence of the demon. It had been on him since it marked him, keeping his will subdued, leaching away his urge to act, to see the clues until it was ready to strike.
“We waited so long for you,” Mrs. Fairchild whispered against his ear.
A low snarl sounded close, too close. The dead woman laughed and spun away from him. Johnathan looked up as the beast launched at him, silently sailing through the dark. There was an impression of teeth—sharp, wet, and white—and a lick of flame at his throat before the beast tore into his flesh.
The world was full of teeth and flame.
Johnathan choked on his own blood. The beast hovered above him, muzzle stained bright crimson, the color so very vivid that it blazed. How could something be so bright in the dark?
The wedge-shaped head dipped down. A hot wet nose pressed against the fresh bruise on his cheek with an inquisitive whine that echoed in his ear. The beast licked the wound at his neck, the scent of burnt meat wicked the air.
Johnathan’s muscles spasmed as his veins ignited. He tried to gulp air through a torn-out throat, his breath a wet wheeze, his lungs drowning in boiling liquid.
Fire inside. He was going to burn to a pile of ashes.
He jerked at the heat rippling through his chest, soaking each organ in molten fire. The scream finally bubbled up through the blood and torn flesh, a horrible, twisted shriek that shredded the inside of his mouth. Time stretched; the final seconds of life distilled as Johnathan boiled alive inside his skin.
A burst of motion shifted above him. Vic tackled the beast, their fight beyond his awareness. A pantomime of fury and rage, snarls and snapping teeth he vaguely registered through the frayed edges of his consciousness, until Alyse’s horrified face loomed above him.
“No, no, no, no,” she murmured. Pressure against his throat, distant and cool, the brush of her skirts where she tried to staunch the flow of blood from his wound. The cloth smoked and caught fire. “Vic!” Alyse screamed, her tear-streaked face white with terror. “Vic, help me!”
Vic dropped beside her. Ribbons of skin dangled from his cheek. “Oh god. We have to stop the blood. We have to—”
“Don’t touch the blood!” Alyse shrieked.
Johnathan’s head lolled. He couldn’t take a breath. His limbs jerked and twitched. He was aware of it all. He tried to catch Vic’s eye, to beg him for death. Anything to stop the fire.
Vic stared at him, his expression lost. The skin on his cheek began to knit together while Johnathan watched. His awareness faded.
Idiot, he wanted to yell at Vic. Evans’ men are watching!
They had to have seen the attack.
Through the agony, bitterness clawed at his throat. Dr. Evans’ dismissive tones echoed in his ears. His mentor never changed his mind so easily. If Johnathan had allowed himself to pull his theories together, allowed himself to fully see the monster that was his mentor, he would have known that by sending him here, Evans never meant for him to survive the night.
That will do, boy.
Johnathan sank into the fire.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Pain and memory were close companions in Johnathan’s life. Now, as pain ate at him, the two bled into one another, mirages wavering around him, until he couldn’t tell past from present.
Johnathan didn’t want to go home. Sir Harry’s temper was high last night. His touch rough, the press of his teeth edged in pain. He took too much. Left Johnathan lightheaded and weak. There was a flicker of regret in the older man’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Johnny sweet. I’m not myself tonight.” He’d held Johnathan to his chest long after, whispered apologies long after the sun rose, but the damage was done.
Johnathan crouched on the broken brick wall, long legs dangling past the cuff of his pants. Growing sure as weeds, Sir Harry would say. His neck ached, the bite still raw. How could he? He promised he would never bite Johnathan in anger. Promised he’d never take too much. Except it was harder and harder for Johnathan to lure the pretty maids and concerned matrons, his frame too long and lean to pass for an unfortunate youth. How long before he was no longer useful to Sir Harry? What would he do then? How long until Sir Harry took and took, until he took it all?
He hugged his knees tight. He didn’t want to go home. In the shadows of the building, a man watched him, a faint glint shone off the spectacles on his face. “Hello, boy. What happened to your neck?”
The brick beside him crumbled to dust. Long fingers painted in soot curled over the top of the wall. Johnathan didn’t remember this part.
“Don’t look.” Mary Elizabeth grasped his chin and turned his face to her. Lovely dead girl, what was she doing here? She looked so sad. “Are you strong enough, sweet Johnny?”
The scene crackled at the edges. He could smell burning. “What’s happening?” he whispered.
“You’re dying,” said Mary Elizabeth.
The world wobbled at the edges.
“Don’t you dare die on me, John!”
“God, Vic, he’s burning up.”
“Vic?” Johnathan looked up, seeking the vampire’s face, but the sky was full of fire. The flames licked and dripped from the belly of the horizon, a silent storm of flame that roiled above him, eclipsing his vision. He shivered. Why was he so cold?
A shadow fell over him, blocking the flames. “Tell me, boy, what would you do to be free of this fiend?” Johnathan’s attention snapped to the figure before him, not the sweet dead girl but another, a shadow of memory. Dr. Evans stood before him, a sentinel in tweed and leather, his head wreathed in cigarette smoke so that only his glasses could be seen, round orbs glinting from the fire above. The wooden cross swung at Dr. Evans’ waist, even though he stood still. That flaming glass gaze pierced Johnathan through to th
e scared little boy who cowered day in and day out in a monster’s lair.
No, he loved Sir Harry. The man was his father, his brother, his friend. How long until Sir Harry drank him down?
He wouldn’t!
The bitter memory of the bite ate away his resistance. He just wanted to be safe. He wanted to live.
“You were only a boy,” said Mary Elizabeth at his side. Her words echoed as she slipped her hand into his, her fingers icy. Because she was dead. A ghost companion through the dark pantomime of his memories and an anchor to the present. “A scared little boy and a monster who took advantage of your fear.”
“He’s not a monster,” said Johnathan.
But the words felt confused. He wasn’t sure who he defended.
Dr. Evans kept a hand on the back of his neck during that long walk. Johnathan once thought it comfort. Iron fingers circled his throat, a living collar to contain a street dog or a human scrap. It was a lead, to control. Dr. Evans’ steps never faltered. He knew where Sir Harry slept. He must have watched Johnathan for days before he approached, waited for a boy’s moment of weakness.
“He’s a predator,” said Mary Elizabeth.
“He’s my mentor,” said Johnathan, again caught by the sense that he didn’t know who he defended or to which side he belonged.
They were in the moment, the worst moment of Johnathan’s life. Evans pressed the knife into his hand. “First lesson, you must aim for the heart. You can’t jab straight on; you’ll just scrape bone and get your throat torn out. Best to stab up through the stomach, twist the blade to inflict as much damage as possible.”
“I—I couldn’t possibly—”
“Don’t lose your nerve now boy. Do you want to die?”
“He’s my family,” whispered Johnathan.
Dr. Evans shoved him forward by the scruff of his neck, so hard his teeth chattered in his skull. Sir Harry lay before him. It didn’t occur to him then how unnaturally still Sir Harry was. Vampires were not dead to the world when they slept. To catch them unaware required stealth and care, yet Sir Harry did not wake while Dr. Evans bellowed and berated Johnathan. He didn’t move when Johnathan pressed the blade to the soft, vulnerable flesh beneath his ribs. The blade began to slide into his flesh, chill blood oozing down the length of metal, coating Johnathan’s fingers.
A Bargain of Blood and Gold Page 20