by Kay Hooper
Callie didn’t offer platitudes, just said, “And I can’t understand how that feels—so far, at least. Honestly, I hope I never have firsthand knowledge. Though I can imagine, I think. Question is, what do we do about it? Maybe we should take the chance and hike down the mountain. Get you out of range of whatever it is, at least until we can get some backup on scene.”
Luther considered. “How long would it take to reach town?”
“Well, given that we want to keep moving away from Jacoby’s cabin and take the most direct route, that means we’ll be covering some pretty rough terrain, straight down the mountain. You’re still favoring your leg and need to; put too much strain on it too soon, and you won’t be able to hike at all.”
“What about the old logging roads you talked about?”
“They make the trip shorter—if you’re in a vehicle. But it’s not at all a direct route, and on foot following the roads would take twice as long as heading straight down the mountain.”
“Okay, that makes sense. So how long?”
“Probably a few hours. Wouldn’t want to start now; by the time we got ready and got out of here, it would mean night would catch us long before we reached town. Dunno about you, but I’d rather not either camp or hike out in the open at night, at least until we have a better handle on exactly what this energy is and whether it’s still expanding.”
“You won’t get an argument on that. But it means giving Jacoby more time to do whatever it is he’s doing.”
“It’s a risk. Stay or go, if he takes us out, there’s nobody to warn either the town or our respective bosses and other law enforcement that Jacoby is a lot more than a simple bank robber and dangerous as hell.”
“We just don’t know how he’s dangerous. Besides his guns, I mean.”
“I’m less worried about his guns than I am the negative energy. And I still want to know as much as possible about that blood. Check it out more extensively to see if there’s more, maybe a trail that maybe leads somewhere useful.” Even if she’s already gone, don’t I owe it to her to find her? Owe it to her family?
“Callie, going back out there is not a good idea.”
“I’m sure I’ve had better,” she agreed. “But we need intel. Even before we leave this cabin, we need some idea of where that blood came from and where it leads, if anywhere. And we need to know for sure if the energy is centered on Jacoby or on the area around his cabin.”
“Callie—”
“Look, I’ll take Cesar and I’ll keep my shields up. And my shields don’t have a crack or a chink or any other vulnerability.”
“As far as you know,” Luther said grimly. “We can assume I was targeted because of a vulnerability, a chink in my shield, but we can’t know that, not absolutely. There could have been some other reason, and maybe that didn’t involve testing your shield. So we can’t possibly be certain your shield has been tested and can withstand that energy.”
“The whole point of being chosen for this,” she reminded him, “is that I deal well with negative energy. My shield holds up against it, and sometimes I can even deflect it.”
“But you admitted yourself this energy is unlike anything you’ve sensed before.”
Callie shrugged. “Uncharted territory in some ways. We face that a lot in the SCU, and I’m guessing Haven operatives do as well.”
He nodded reluctantly.
“So we get on with the job. Face what’s in front of us, deal with it as best we can, and keep going.” Callie shook her head. “I just . . . have to be sure there’s not a victim somewhere up here being hurt.” Even if Cesar is sure. Even if I can’t help her. I have to know. “Before we leave. I couldn’t live with myself if I found out later that I could have helped someone and didn’t when I had the chance.”
Luther finally voiced a possibility that had been bothering him. “And what if that blood was deliberately left to draw you out?” He lifted a hand when she would have spoken. “I know you said you thought Jacoby hadn’t noticed you, wasn’t aware of you as any kind of threat, but when we talked about that, it was in a slightly different context. The assumption that he was too busy struggling against what was trying to dominate him to bother worrying about you.”
Callie sighed. “We didn’t talk about something else being aware of me as a possible threat, because we didn’t know for certain that it had a consciousness separate from Jacoby’s. That negative energy.”
“You believe it took my memories of more than a day.” Luther kept his voice even with an effort. “A day with you. A day during which we talked about ourselves—and cleaned our weapons. And maybe knowledge I have, about Haven, about the SCU. It could have gotten that information even if it didn’t take it. If that energy does have a consciousness with a plan, it knows exactly who we are. Both of us. And that means it knows we’re both a threat.”
* * *
COLE JACOBY THOUGHT at first that he was just slipping into sleep, and he was thankful because he was so, so tired.
When the blackness began to slide over his mind, the small inner self that still wanted to survive, that still wanted to be Cole Jacoby and alive, sensed the difference between this and other times. In all the other times, he had been allowed to rest, to sleep.
This time, he wasn’t going to sleep.
He was going.
He was dying.
Not his body. His soul.
There was, fleetingly, the instinct to fight it, if only because he was afraid his soul was going to hell. But in his final conscious moments as Cole Jacoby, he realized that there was something far, far worse than hell.
There was being consumed by pure evil.
And as Cole Jacoby was swallowed up, there was only the shell evil would use, and his whisper added to the vast chorus of whispers that had all earned their place through the commission of horrifically evil acts.
And the vow of more to come.
* * *
LUTHER HAD DONE his best, but Callie, he discovered, had a quietly stubborn nature. She didn’t argue with him, she merely got herself ready to go look for a trail, then left with Cesar.
Because she was a good agent, and she had to know.
Only the memory of his knife at her throat kept Luther from going with her. Whether she could withstand or deflect that negative energy might still be an open question, but his inability to do so had been proven.
Starkly.
Luther wasn’t a man to pace, which was probably just as well for his healing leg. But in a quiet cabin where the only sounds were the grunts and snores of sleeping dogs and the occasional pop and crackle of the low fire, he had entirely too little to occupy his mind.
Which meant that he thought about why he was sitting here helpless to do his job while his partner—tacit partner, given the situation—was out there facing God only knew what kind of danger. At best, her shield would hold and she’d only be left possibly facing something that looked like Cole Jacoby but was pure evil and could use a gun with skill.
At worst, her shield would fail . . . and Luther had no idea what that black sludge of evil energy would do to her mind. He only knew what it had done to his.
To him.
Eternal minutes passed. An hour.
Even in the worst military situations he had faced, Luther had never known time to pass so slowly. To creep.
But his imagination didn’t creep, it raced. And everything it showed him as a possibility scared the hell out of him.
Dammit, Callie, where are you?
* * *
THE BLOOD WAS gone.
Callie stood there staring down at it, frowning. No reason to clean blood off the ground, not way out here. So maybe an animal had gotten to it. No tracks, still, except those she had left herself, but—
She could feel it. Feel that strange, dark energy. Pressure, but more than that. Power. Hunger. Determination. Ev
en with her shields up, she could sense it.
Need to go.
The one mental voice that could always reach her, even behind her shields.
Callie looked at her dog, her partner, and said quietly, “You still can’t smell any kind of trail from here?” Out of long habit, she repeated the question silently, in her mind, because she had learned that Cesar understood that inner voice in a way he didn’t completely understand her when she spoke aloud.
No trail. Bad. Bad smell. Bad feeling. Need to go.
“Do you hear anything?”
No. Ears hurt. Smell hurts. Need to go.
Callie didn’t smell anything, and her ears didn’t hurt—but she felt that pressure, same as before. It had to be what Cesar sensed as well. She gave up speaking aloud.
Cesar, if all you can smell is the bad smell, then how do you know we can’t help her?
Smelled death. Before. She’s dead.
And you’re sure?
Sure. Need to go, Callie. Need to go now.
He didn’t often use her name, and the level of worry it indicated made Callie want to reassure him. She leaned down a bit to touch him.
Something slammed into her with an odd whistling sound.
She looked down and saw something sticking out of her jacket. A stick of some kind. With something on the end . . . feathers? How odd.
Cesar grabbed the sleeve of her jacket and jerked her to the ground.
Callie heard another of those peculiar whistles, then a sort of thud, and saw an arrow sticking in the ground a few feet away. One matching the arrow stuck in her. It didn’t take Cesar’s urging to make her scramble awkwardly behind the cover of a thicket of brush to her right.
An arrow? The bastard has a bow and arrows?
Not uncommon for hunters to use compound bows, which could bring down even big game quickly and cleanly, but—
The shock of the sudden attack past, Callie felt the pain. Red-hot and paralyzing. It stole her breath, and made clear thought almost impossible. So it must have been instinct that made her peer in the direction of Jacoby’s cabin, the direction the arrow had come from, to look for her attacker.
Need to go, Callie. Now.
“He could still be up there,” she heard herself say, even as her gaze tracked up the slope, scanning, seeing nothing. At least, she thought she saw nothing. No one. But she was getting dizzy.
Gone. Black thing gone.
A bit fuzzily, Callie wondered if that was how Cesar saw whatever was left of Cole Jacoby. As just a black thing a canine mind could make no sense of.
Not that a human mind could make much sense of it either.
Go, Callie. Go now.
Taking care to remain behind the screen of the thicket, Callie sat as straight as she could, looking down at the arrow. It had gone in at an angle, since the bowman—Jacoby—had been on higher ground when he shot her. She didn’t have to feel behind her to know that the end of the arrow was sticking out of her back somewhere near her shoulder blade. What she wasn’t sure of was what kind of tip the arrow had. When she forced herself to try reaching behind to touch that tip, the wave of pain nearly made her throw up.
Callie.
“I have to pull it out,” she heard herself mumble. “I know you aren’t supposed to pull things out if they go into your chest or back, but . . . I won’t be able to move with . . . both ends . . . of this thing . . . sticking out of me.”
Get help? Luther?
“No time. I need . . . to get to him, Cesar. I need . . . back to the cabin. Let me—”
She grasped the shaft of the arrow with both hands, as firmly up against her body as she could manage. Then sucked in a deep breath—and pulled.
Everything burst crimson and then went dark.
Callie wasn’t sure how long she had been out, but she woke to Cesar licking her face and whining, and in his mind was wordless urgency. She knew she had lost blood, maybe a lot, and her left shoulder was hurting like hell, but there was nothing she could do about either except get back to the cabin and Luther.
Using Cesar’s sturdy, powerful body, she managed to lever herself upright, more or less. She had to pause without moving for a moment or maybe awhile, until the dizziness faded a bit. When she could finally focus, she found herself looking at the bloodstained arrow she had pulled out of her own body.
“New war story,” she whispered.
Go, Callie. Go now.
“Yeah. Yeah . . . go now. Let’s go, boy. Slow and easy.”
There was nothing easy about it, but Callie hung on to her canine partner and just fought to stay on her feet and moving, allowing him to guide her.
* * *
TWO HOURS.
Unable to sit still a moment longer, Luther retrieved his weapon from the drawer by the couch and examined it. Cleaned, definitely. And reloaded; if he remembered correctly, he’d had only about four rounds left in the clip when Callie had found him in the woods, his extra ammo lost along with all his other gear.
The clip was full.
Ah. They carried the same handgun, a Glock, and Callie had obviously provided him with ammo. He still didn’t remember cleaning or reloading the weapon. Or the war stories. Dammit.
He replaced the clip and leaned forward to place the gun on the coffee table within easy reach, and it was only then that he realized the dogs were all awake.
And tense.
But they weren’t looking at him. All three of them, still lying on their makeshift beds, were staring at the front door. Not growling, just staring. Just . . . waiting.
Luther found himself staring at the door, still leaning forward, his weapon still in his hand and ready.
Ready for—
He didn’t know for what, but when the door swung wide open to admit Callie and Cesar, he felt only relief. For a moment.
Callie pushed the door shut, leaning back against it. She lifted a hand to push her hood away from her face, and he saw the blood on her fingers.
He was already on his feet and moving toward her when she spoke, her breathing labored enough to make the effort to speak clear.
“In the Marines. Did they teach you . . . assumption is the mother . . . of all fuck-ups?”
“I learned,” he said.
About half a laugh escaped her. “I assumed I didn’t need to worry . . . about anything but . . . the negative energy. Wrong . . . assumption.”
Luther caught her before she could hit the floor.
ELEVEN
“It’s Friday,” Hollis said.
“I noticed,” DeMarco said.
She glared at him for a moment, then dropped it and sighed. “I know. We’d be back at Quantico by now, or on the jet heading for a real case, if I could just do what I came to do and make contact with Daniel for Anna.”
“I wonder.”
“You do? Why?”
DeMarco stopped and stood looking around yet another wide hallway that was dark despite the lights and all the sheet-draped furniture; they were, with the permission of their hostess, exploring the wing of the house normally closed except when this was a hotel.
They had looked just about everywhere else for the spirit of Daniel Alexander, and Hollis had suggested this more out of desperation than any real hope of encountering the man’s elusive self.
“Reese?”
“Is it the same here as everywhere else?”
“If you mean the spirits, yes. Not that many, but during the day in a hallway of bedrooms and suites, I wouldn’t expect many.”
“Anybody stand out?”
Hollis looked around, by now more baffled than creeped out by what she saw. “Not really. Mostly maids cleaning the rooms. More than you’d see in your average luxury hotel in a single hallway, but I imagine part of the extra-deluxe service here is not walking into your room at two in the afterno
on and discovering the maid hasn’t gotten there yet.”
DeMarco didn’t frown often, but he did then. “Like everywhere else, from different times?”
She took a closer look. “Yeah, I think so. Wait—definitely. The maid uniforms stayed pretty much the same over the years, apparently, but the hemlines go up and down, and so do the sleeves and collars.”
Apparently musing aloud, DeMarco said, “Lots of servants. Lots of guests. Lots of family members you’ve matched to various portraits and photos Anna let us go through. But no Daniel.”
“Yeah, I don’t get it. He should be here. He lived his whole life here. He died here. Where else would he be?”
“Maybe he moved on.”
“I wish I believed that. I’d tell Anna and we could get out of here. But . . . I don’t think so, Reese.”
“Why not?” He was looking at her now, intently.
“I don’t know. Just a feeling. Sometimes I think if I only turned my head fast enough, I’d see him.”
“As if he’s deliberately staying out of your sight line?”
It was Hollis’s turn to frown. “Maybe. But . . . Why would he?”
“Maybe that’s what we should be asking ourselves. Not why you’re seeing so many spirits, but why you aren’t seeing the one you’re looking for.”
She resisted the urge to clutch at her hair. “Jeez, that sounds like a cosmic riddle. I hate riddles. They’re like those math problems with two trains leaving a station.”
“You didn’t like the trains, I take it.”
“Kept seeing them crash. No matter how I worked the math, my trains always crashed into each other.” Hollis stared at her partner and added, “You’re trying not to laugh.”
“Sorry.”
“Crashing trains aren’t funny. People and animals die.”
DeMarco blinked. “Animals?”
“Circus trains. My trains are always circus trains.”
He cleared his throat, but his question still sounded a bit unsteady. “Why?”