by Kristie Cook
I’d asked him the same thing more than four times. For some reason, pushing buttons felt like the solution for relieving the pressure in my head.
“We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere, Alexis. Do you see a tower anywhere nearby?”
Apparently, he felt the need for an argument, too, and the overwhelming urge to fight consumed me.
I threw my arms in the air. “You’re the big toy collector. Why don’t you have one of those fancy satellite phones that get signals everywhere . . . even in the middle of fucking nowhere?”
“And when did I have time to buy one since leaving Hell?”
“Well, let’s see . . . maybe during that whole week doing whatever the hell you wanted before you came back to me?” I yelled.
He shot a vicious look at me, and for a brief moment, I expected to see the old fire in his eyes. That was a low blow, and I knew it. I didn’t apologize, though. I didn’t feel like it right now. I wanted to strangle anything I could get my hands around.
“So what now?” I asked sharply. “Should we go back to Jax’s?”
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Tristan sneered.
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I saw you ogling him out at the pond.”
“I wasn’t ogling him! He was naked and standing right in front of us!”
“Which you didn’t mind one bit, did you? Or the way he looked at you?”
I stopped in my tracks and stared at him as if he’d slapped me. What’s wrong with him? This was not my Tristan. My Tristan was sweet and caring and definitely not jealous. He had no need to be. He was the center of my world, and absolutely no one could ever compare to him.
“I spent seven-and-a-half years waiting for you,” I spewed. “It’s always been you and no one else. How dare you!”
I glared at him, my fists balled on my hips. He glared back. Well, if he’s going to be that way . . .
“At least Jax would be able to find this place. I trusted you to know what you’re doing, and now we’re lost.”
That did it. Tristan’s perfect face twisted and contorted as several emotions tried to take over at once. The gold in his eyes sparked—not like they used to, with real flames, but like anyone’s eyes when they’re overcome with anger. My trust in him was sacred ground, not something to be thrown around lightly.
But before he could settle on any single emotion, something behind him caught my eye. The air itself wrinkled. I first thought it was the heat rising from the ground, but as I watched, it did it again, and it was definitely not normal.
“Oh! Tristan! I think we found it,” I shouted, my anger replaced by surprise and jubilation. “Over here!”
I tugged on his hand, pulling him with me. We took two strides toward the wrinkle when a large Jeep burst out of that space, charging right at us. A musical laugh chimed over the grinding of tires on sand and gravel as the Jeep slid to a stop twenty yards in front of us. Tristan and I spun back around, but had nowhere to go. We were surrounded. Six Jeeps encircled us—some drivers and occupants with fangs, some with wands, and yet others quivering, about to transform.
“Sorry to spoil your spat,” Vanessa chimed. “I was quite enjoying it, and it kept you nicely distracted.”
Tristan squeezed my hand, and I knew he was about to flash and I was to follow him. But before we had a chance, the air around us whooshed upward and our surroundings suddenly changed, like an abrupt scene change in a movie. We stood in the center of a wide road, a handful of old, brick buildings and squat houses spread out beyond the Jeeps. Kuckaroo. Vampires, Weres, and mages surrounded the Jeeps that surrounded Tristan and me.
“These two are mine but the rest are fair game,” Vanessa yelled.
Chaos erupted. The vampires became blurred streaks as they flew at each other. Daemoni Weres changed on the fly as they lunged at their enemy cousins, bits of skin and goo—were-pulp—raining down on us. Magic spells shot around and across the circle. Jaws snapped. Buildings and Jeeps burst into flames. The screech of metal against stone echoed off the buildings.
Vanessa laughed maniacally, then lifted her arms and jumped toward me, flying across the twenty yards between us.
I knew what she planned to do before she did it, but I saw a chance to retrieve my necklace wrapped around her gloved arm, so I didn’t stop her. Just as she was close enough to touch, her fangs bared for the bite, I ducked out of her way and reached for the pendant. My fingers brushed her ice-cold shoulder, and a spark crackled as they barely touched the ruby. Damn it! I missed, but her fangs didn’t—they sliced across the inside of my arm, from wrist to inner elbow.
I didn’t have vampire skin, but close enough, and, just as they can cut through their own skin, vampire fangs could cut through mine. Vanessa’s left a deep gash that didn’t heal instantly, and they couldn’t have been more precise on the vein. Blood spurted to the rhythm of my speeding heart.
And I was suddenly surrounded by ravenous vampires. Including ours.
If there was any blood even Amadis vamps with the highest control couldn’t resist, it would be mine. Owen had called it an energy drink for vamps—and that was before the completion of the Ang’dora. Now it was more powerful, and the vamps could smell it. They closed in on me.
Tristan let out a deafening growl, and the vampires flinched. At once, he held one hand out and hit the Daemoni vampires with his power, and with his other hand, grasped my wrist, lifted my arm to him, and ran his tongue along the gash. I could feel it starting to heal before, but his saliva sealed it instantly, stopping the blood flow.
“Well, isn’t that sweet,” Vanessa sang right before Tristan swung his hand toward her. She disappeared with a pop.
Her retreat signaled the rest of the Daemoni. The vampires, disabled by Tristan, disappeared first. He hit the Weres the best he could without hitting our own as they fought, and the evil Weres ran away. We both aimed at the mages who shot spells everywhere, some hitting buildings, some hitting our people. We blasted them together, cutting off their spells, and they finally flashed, too.
The air hung still and silent long enough for me to take in the destruction—burning buildings and vehicles sent smoke plumes skyward, injured Amadis moaned with pain, and crumpled bodies lay motionless on the ground. But not long enough for someone to finish yelling “Shield!”
Popping sounds filled the air as a new round of Daemoni appeared. After all these years, I still recognized the leprechaun face of Ian, the former Amadis who’d told me about the arranged marriage between Tristan and me, and the narrator of the beheading video. He quickly threw his hands in the air, as if in surrender, as he’d done with Tristan so many years ago.
“Just deliverin’ a message,” he said with his Irish accent. “You two stay ’ere, we keep attackin’.”
“You have no right,” Tristan yelled. “These are innocents!”
Ian laughed his sick ogre’s laugh, his red hair shaking and his pale blue eyes crinkling. “But you ain’t! And . . . so’s ya know . . . the boy is ours.”
My breath caught. Dorian! The realization that he and Owen were supposed to be here slammed into me like a Mack truck. The thought of them in a burning building or among the bodies drained all of my sensibility.
“Dorian,” I yelled, turning around in circles, the obliterated village spinning in blurs. “Owen! Dorian!”
A female vampire knelt in front of me and took my hand. “They’re not here, Miz Alexis.”
I turned to Tristan, jerking my arm away as the vamp sniffed at the drying blood. The gold in his eyes was dim, the green dark, his expression unfathomable.
“They have him?”
Ian laughed. And I couldn’t help it. Every time I saw the disgusting ogre, he was laughing at my heartbreak. I didn’t electrocute him, though. Ian hated the Amadis in a different way than other Daemoni—he held a vendetta for his own heartbreak by my mother, who rejected his advances. So I pushed all my Amadis power through my hand and directed it rig
ht at his chest. Love, hope, and faith . . . everything good wrapped into a thick rope of energy that I jammed into his heart. He fell to the ground, writhing.
Maniacal laughter—laughter at his misery—bubbled in my chest, but I managed to suppress it. I’d torture Ian until he begged for mercy and would only let up long enough to take what I needed from his mind. And then I might kill the bastard.
The other Daemoni advanced two steps toward me as I continued with the force on Ian. I held my left hand up.
“Don’t. Make. Me. Fry. You.”
A warlock held his own hands up, threatening me with his magic. “Leave then.”
“We leave after you do,” Tristan said. “We’re not abandoning these innocents.”
“We’re watching,” the warlock warned. “You don’t leave, we attack. Again. And again. And again . . . until you do.”
Tristan cocked his head, and I heard what he heard—with my ears and my mind—and my breath let out with relief. I let Ian go.
“Not a problem,” Tristan said.
An old, rusty truck appeared down the road, heading straight for us and swerving for the Daemoni. They popped out of sight.
“Need a lift?” Owen yelled from the driver’s side.
“Get in, princess,” Jax called from the passenger’s seat as the truck slowed down enough for Tristan and me to jump into the back. But I didn’t move until I saw the little blond head wedged between Owen and Jax. He’s safe. I sprang into the truck’s bed.
“Take cover,” Tristan yelled at the Amadis and the burning village instantly disappeared. “The truck, too, Owen!”
Owen thrust his hands up to shield and cloak the truck and then yanked the wheel in a hard left turn, throwing Tristan and me against the side of the bed. Several figures popped into existence in the direction we had been heading, but not able to see us, they gave up and disappeared again. Then the truck backfired, slowed, and stopped.
“Is something wrong?” My voice cracked on the last word as panic tried to grip me.
“Nah. This is where I get out, princess,” Jax said. “I only came to show warlock here how to find Kuckaroo. He would have never made it in time, the direction he was going.”
“How did you know?”
“My bird friend brought me a message about the Daemoni. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they’re looking for.” He peered back the way we’d come, as if he could still see the hidden town. “I guess those are the closest I got to mates. I can’t abandon them. Better see what I can do.”
He took off down the road, no time for any of us to say long goodbyes.
“Thank you for everything,” I called out.
“Any time, princess.”
Owen jammed the truck into gear, and it lurched, then rumbled on. I jumped to the front of the bed and pulled Dorian through the open window to the cab, welding him against me, never wanting to let him go. I kissed all over the top of his head, every part that wasn’t buried against me.
“Mom . . . can’t . . . breathe,” Dorian gasped against my chest.
I laughed, an unfamiliar sound mixed with joy and grief—joy to have my baby in my arms, grief for what we left behind.
“You have a plan, Scarecrow?” Tristan called over the truck’s ear-splitting engine.
“You’re the plan man,” Owen yelled back.
“Can you still fly?”
Owen laughed. “Oh, yeah! Those were the only classes I didn’t mind sitting through.”
“There’s a private air strip about a hundred-and-fifty kilometers due west.”
“Gotch’ya! It’ll take a while with old Bertha here,” Owen said, slapping the ancient truck’s dashboard, “but we should get there before dark.”
We rumbled along through the bush on no apparent road. The benefit of Owen’s shield, besides the fact that it made us literally disappear in the Outback and lose the Daemoni, was that it magically protected us from the dust. Not that I could be any nastier with dirt stuck to the dried sweat and blood from the morning.
Tristan leaned against the front of the truck’s bed, wrapped his arms around us and pulled us between his legs, Dorian still in my lap.
“I love you, ma lykita,” Tristan murmured against my ear. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
“Me, too. I have no idea what overcame me.”
“Could have been Vanessa’s mages messing with us before we saw them.”
“Ah.” I closed my eyes. Bitch. “You know I love you more than anything, right?”
“Of course.”
“More than me?” Dorian asked.
I thought for a moment. How do I explain the difference to a seven-year-old? “Hmm . . . more than anything but Dorian. And Dorian, I love you more than anything but Dad. Okay?”
Dorian considered this for a moment. “Awesome. I’m the same as Dad.”
I leaned my head against Tristan’s chest and closed my eyes, tears silently seeping through my eyelashes. Another village attacked, more people dead. Because of us. And we couldn’t even stay to help them. The best thing we could do for them was leave and never return.
We were on our own.
Chapter 13
Tristan squeezed his arms around me and whispered in my ear, “At least we’re together.”
I nodded against his chest.
Those were the last words spoken for nearly two hours as Bertha bumped through the wilderness, her rusty moans and creaks filling the silence. Dorian fell asleep in my lap, my body cushioning him on all but the worst of the bounces while Tristan’s body cushioned mine. After grieving for the Amadis we left behind, my thoughts switched to our escape, and I hoped Tristan was concentrating on the best solution to get us off this God-forsaken continent. My experiences so far marred my perception of Australia—wild, dirty, and frightening.
Owen must have grown bored after two hours of driving through the barren terrain—he broke into song. He had an unbelievable voice I never knew about, imitating the singers perfectly, from Elvis to Chester Bennington, and even the instrumental parts. It was the closest we had to a radio, so we didn’t mind. As he finished Shadow of the Day, the sun already low in the western sky, he slowed Bertha, eventually bringing her to a stop.
“Is this it?” Owen asked.
I opened my eyes and almost whooped out loud when I saw the homestead. Bertha sat in front of an old farmhouse, facing a faded red barn. My mind was already inside, drinking a cold glass of water and then standing under a hot shower. But as I looked around more closely, my heart sank to my lap. Siding hung off the dilapidated barn, and the roof was caved in. The fields and stock pens were overgrown and unkempt. Paint peeled off the walls of the house, and grime tinted the windows a yellowish-brown color. A tiny, old airplane sat at the end of what once may have been a dirt runway, but now was littered with overgrown weeds and potholes nearly the size of Bertha. This can’t be it.
“Yep, this is it,” Tristan said, pushing me forward so he could stand up.
Owen turned in the driver’s seat, and his face looked how I felt. “Dude . . . seriously? I think the owners abandoned this place decades ago. Probably ran away scared.”
“Perhaps. I haven’t been here in . . . a lifetime.” Tristan hopped out of the truck. “Come on. Let’s check it out. There’s nothing here you can’t fix, Scarecrow.”
“True,” Owen agreed, sliding out of the driver’s seat, “very true.”
Somehow, Dorian slept through the loud screech and bang of the truck’s door closing. I stayed with him in the truck bed and listened while Tristan and Owen explored. Their discoveries didn’t sound good. Based on their comments, Owen was right—the owners apparently took off years ago, leaving everything behind as if they were going to the store, including trash and dishes in the sink. The pipes creaked as they tried to turn the water on, but it sounded as though only a few drops actually dispelled from the faucet. So much for a drink or a shower.
Tristan suddenly appeared beside the truck, and various screeches
, pops, and bangs came from the house. I stiffened. It sounded as if Owen was fighting someone.
“You left him in there?” I whispered anxiously to Tristan.
“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “He’s fixing it up.”
“Running water?” I asked, my voice mixed with doubt and hope at the same time.
“That’s most of the noise—the pipes are a disaster. If Owen can’t fix it, though, no one can.”
“Good to go,” Owen said, emerging from the house. He raised an eyebrow at me, questioning my doubt in him. “Including running water.”
“Dibs on first shower!” I handed Dorian to Tristan and scurried out of the truck.
The house still looked the same on the outside, but when I walked through the front door, it could have been a model home . . . from the 1970s. Though outdated, the plaid-upholstered furniture appeared as though it’d just come off the delivery truck, and the avocado-green carpet as if it’d recently been laid. The orange kitchen appliances gleamed, and water poured out of the faucet . . . brown water.
“Ew. Can you fix that?” I asked.
“You sure do ask a lot,” Owen teased with a grin. “It already looks better than it did. Just give it a few minutes.”
The water eventually ran clear and hot, and I finally became clean and felt human again. Well, as human as I could be. With the dirt scrubbed away, my face looked perfect—no more bruises or any sign I’d been whacked by a kangaroo. Whew. A raccoon face wasn’t the best disguise for our escape—a little too memorable. The gash on my arm from the morning’s fight had also disappeared. I was as good as new . . . almost. Some decent sleep would take care of the rest.
Dinner consisted of snack food Owen and Dorian had in the truck, and as soon as he finished eating, Owen crashed in one of the bedrooms. Besides Dorian, he’d need the most sleep, and we had to leave in the middle of the night and travel in the dark. After putting Dorian to bed, Tristan and I loaded the luggage Owen had brought for us in the six-passenger airplane. I didn’t know how it would ever get off the ground—it looked as though it’d been sitting for decades. Tristan and Owen had worked on it while I showered and then bathed Dorian, but they could do nothing about the old fuel. Tristan told me to have faith.