by L. A. Banks
J.L. shook his head. “Marlene’s new prayer line with the Covenant is blocking him. But look alive, stay alive, young brother, and man your post.”
On the third dunk, Damali could feel her skin bubble up and begin to peel away, dissolving into the acidic bath. Totally submerged, she went into a convulsion, and the water went red around her until she could no longer see the faces beyond the surface.
“Jesus, Lord,” Marlene croaked. “I can feel her skin coming off in my hands, Father! Drive the Isis in her heart, man! This is no way to kill her!”
“Stay steady, Mar,” Shabazz ordered. “Let the man work. She’s not struggling in our hold. Bring her up slow.”
A collective gasp passed through the Guardian team as they brought Damali’s limp form up from beneath the water’s edge. Her once beautiful bronze skin was festered and split; huge boils and blisters covered it. Where she’d been touched by religious symbols, the blacked images were branded.
“Mike, take her out and put her on her bed in the center of the garlic ring,” Marlene whispered.
Big Mike dabbed the corners of his eyes on his wet T-shirt with a shrug, and followed Marlene’s command. Marlene stooped beneath Damali’s form as Big Mike stood with care, checking the Sankofa tattoo.
“It’s burned off,” Marlene said, tears dropping off her nose as her voice broke.
“Put her down slow, Mike,” Shabazz said, while he, Rider, and Jose flanked him with weapons.
“We did the best we could,” Father Patrick murmured. “Bring the lights, J.L..”
“No, guys. Enough,” Rider said, choked. “Enough.”
“But, we can’t give up on her,” Jose said, panicked, “We have to keep trying!”
“Bring the lights, J.L.,” Marlene repeated in a far-off tone. “If that doesn’t work, then I’ll plant the Isis in my baby girl.”
Carlos watched with disinterest as the two hounds snapped at each other, snarling over the two limp vamp bodies at his feet. Yonnie had routed out two territory sniffers and delivered them, just as Carlos had requested. But they held no information; therefore, they were as useless as dog food.
One creature had one leg of a body, the other had an arm, and they were ripping it apart, pulling in opposite directions, each trying to get more than their fair share of the gruesome remains.
Suddenly he looked down at his arms and saw how the skin went raw, then immediately healed. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath as the slurping, cracking sound of the dogs eating became a faraway echo in his mind. The foul stench of garlic and incense attacked the back of his throat, and Carlos hawked and spit. The dogs stopped feeding for a moment, monitoring the new scent and growled, dragging the carcasses away from the offending smell. Carlos couldn’t hear Damali screaming anymore.
His line-knowledge was enough to tell him what they’d done to her. But he’d gambled that they’d never go that far. This was the old way, followed up with a medieval, Vatican-style cleansing. All he could do was send healing thoughts to her and hope. If he’d known they were going to go the Full Monte and not just dust her quick . . . or even just accept her back with a few modern tests . . . But, then, hindsight was always twenty-twenty.
The pain was so intense that she slipped in and out of consciousness, feeling hot, then cold, now warm again. A brightness just beyond her lids made her try to cover her eyes to block it at first, but then the warm sensation against the back of her hand made her reach for it. An eerie peace covered her, and she felt like she was floating away. She reached harder toward the source of comfort, anything to stop the pain.
She tasted tears and could feel them slide from beneath her shut lids, down the sides of her face. Light, blessed light, her mind seized upon it, remembering, holding the image of the light in the long tunnel . . . yearning for it, seeing bright forms in it that she couldn’t quite make out—but that she knew meant her no harm—were calling to her, beckoning, reaching for her to touch her hands and pull her . . . then she saw a pair of deep-set, concerned eyes, and a strong hand extended toward her. She grasped it, heaved, and sucked in a shuddering breath, then opened her eyes to Shabazz.
“Come back to us, baby,” Shabazz whispered. “Please, darlin’, just come back.”
The images around her were blurry. The point of the Isis blade was centered over her chest, held by an old man in a blue robe. The glint of silver made her squint.
“Wait, Father Pat,” Marlene said loudly. “Look at her skin! The wounds are healing.”
The blue image moved away with the silver. Faces slowly came into focus. The burns on her body began to abate, and a shiver ran through her, then became a sudden seizure. A white blanket immediately covered her, and through her eyelids she could almost see shadows of Marlene’s frantic motions passing over her.
“She’s going into shock,” Marlene yelled. “Bring her out, turn off the lights. Circle of three! Healing touch. Bring her out!”
He sat on the front balcony railing of the mansion for a long time, his head back, his eyes closed, his thoughts centralized . . . stroking her hair with his mind, his fingers gently caressing every blistered, scarred surface on her battered body. His will for her to live transferring through the night air; his hope an airborne message, her torture—his torture.
“I would give my life . . . let the pain come to me,” he whispered to the nothingness. “Bring her out,” he murmured. “Just bring her out.” They were supposed to be professionals at this; he’d trusted them, and had banked on their knowledge. But something was going very wrong.
Patience began sliding down a very slippery slope within his mind. Damali was still screaming. This was her trial, and she had to ride it out—take it like a woman, that had been her choice. But they were botching the job, and she had no concept of what level of torture a bite purge could inflict. Panic had been his enemy, now it was his best friend. They were botching the fucking job . . . hell no. Amateurs!
His hand reached toward her, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, love of his life, spirit inside his spirit. Angry, thunderous storm clouds split the blackening sky and gathered above his head as his thoughts concentrated. Every power that he’d come into, every lifetime that had been held within the dark throne, ran down his arm, burned his fingertips black as the energy exited his body, lit the night, and resounded with a sonic boom.
A shock wave rocked the compound. All lights went out and not even the generators booted up.
“Heads up, people,” Shabazz said fast. “The brother obviously ain’t having this shit.”
“Stay with her,” Marlene said, as Damali convulsed and stopped breathing. “Keep the circle unbroken around her.”
“Are you people fucking nuts?” a voice said, ricocheting off the walls in a low, even baritone. “You should have brought her out slower!”
On the last part of his statement, the back bedroom wall blew out as Carlos’s form materialized. Mike leveled, aimed, and fired his cannon, discharging a hallowed-earth grenade that knocked his shoulder back.
The team watched as the shell spiraled, slowed, and stopped, hovering inches from the target. Jose stepped forward, but hesitated, weapon drawn.
“Do not make me take a body up in this joint,” Carlos warned. “I didn’t come here for that. I came for my woman.”
As other weapons discharged, he stepped aside and let the cannon shell whiz by him to explode in a dirt hill beyond the ridge—sending every bullet behind it like heat-seeking missiles with a wave of his hand.
“I told you I was not in the frame of mind!” Carlos snarled between his teeth and walked calmly toward the bed.
Ignoring the stricken faces around him, Carlos stooped and picked Damali’s limp form up in his arms, the white blanket billowing in the wind.
“You do not think we’re just going to stand here and let you walk out of here with our baby girl” Shabazz said, catching the Isis from Father Patrick’s toss.
Jose was holding his empty gun with two hands. “
Word. You ain’t taking D nowhere, man!”
Rider was on his flank, crossbow raised. “Not.”
Carlos reached out his hand, breaking Shabazz’s hold on the Isis, drawing it toward him. The sword spiraled and lodged into a cinder block behind Carlos. “I’ll bring her back when she’s better,” he said, retracting his fangs.
He turned and stepped over the wall line with Damali in his arms. He grabbed her sword from the wall, resealed the compound, rebooted the lights, and was gone.
When he landed on the mansion porch, his Hell-dogs immediately lunged at him. He drove the Isis blade into the dirt, slowing their now-stalking advance. The garlic and incense and prayers Damali trailed had obviously confused their senses, bristled the hair on their backs, and formed acid foam at their jaws.
“No!” he ordered, making them completely stop, sniff around confused, and retch up half digested body parts. “Not this scent, either,” he said, his voice dropping to a threatening low that cowed their aggression. “Never.
“Stay. Guard. Watch,” he said, turning his back on them and taking Damali into the house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
NUMB, BERKFIELD punched the code into the garage-door opener that he’d been given by the scientist. He waited as the door slowly opened and stood, transfixed, in the same spot where he’d been when Carlos disappeared. Every belief he’d once held had been shattered. In a place beyond fear, he stood watching the horizon—traumatized.
He didn’t move as a black van without windows pulled into his driveway. He just stared at it. But when six burly guys climbed out of it bearing a strange crest on their black fatigues, the hair stood up on his arms.
“Where’s the old guy with the white hair?”
Berkfield began to back up as he spoke. The scream that was bubbling within his chest never reached his throat as two icy hands held the sides of his head from behind. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Paralysis swept through his body.
“Dr. Zeitloff was a problem,” a strangely accented voice murmured close to his ear. “He’s dead. Your protector is battling a Guardian team and coping with domestic problems with his wife. And you, my friend, are soon going to become my living key.”
“Did you see that shit?” Rider said quietly, sitting down slowly on the edge of the bed.
“He walked through every prayer line we’d laid down,” Father Patrick whispered, looking at the team members.
“He more like blew through them,” Shabazz muttered. “Even for a council master . . . shit.”
“How can a vampire, regardless of level, be immune to prayers, garlic, holy water . . .” Marlene’s question trailed off as her fingers touched the repaired wall.
“He’s hybridizing,” Father Patrick said, running his fingers through his shock of white hair. “She’s in him, as much as he’s in her,” the elder cleric said in a far-off tone. “They’ve soul-joined . . . that’s why he could speak the name of the Almighty, break the new line—but he didn’t attack.”
“What have we got here, Father?” Big Mike asked as he lowered his weapon. “He’s still all vamp and if the traditional methods don’t work . . .”
For a moment no one spoke as the impact of what they were now facing settled into their awareness.
“We need the team of seven around the table so I can try to locate them.” Marlene looked at Father Patrick. “Then you and I can link thoughts, and the three remaining members of the Covenant can find the lair.”
“Yeah, Mar, but that ritual needs a twelve-man team.” Shabazz looked at the clerics. “Carlos had always been your fifth man over with the Covenant, a dark Guardian—but a Guardian nonetheless. It’s a risk that his energy might get pulled into the mix.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Marlene said quietly, despair making her voice barely audible.
“We just saw how strong he’s gotten, Marlene,” Rider said, taking sides with Shabazz, and glancing around the team for agreement. “We can search for her by day. Forget the mind lock to her. If she’s still alive, Carlos is all inside her head.”
“I’ll take the weight,” Jose said fast. “I’ll go in with Marlene, if you all won’t.” His intense gaze swept the team. “She went to Hell for me to break Dee Dee’s bond, that’s the least I can do.”
Father Patrick nodded. “Marlene’s right. Time is of the essence, and the risk is of no consequence.” He gave Jose a nod of respect. “We’ll still have to do a daylight recovery . . . but we need not waste another moment in divining her location tonight. They’ll be on the move from this point forward as a mated vampire pair.”
Every place her skin touched his, sizzled. Carlos pulled in a deep breath and covered Damali’s mouth and nose with his lips, and pushed the breath of life into her lungs.
When she didn’t respond, he willed himself not to panic. He dropped to his knees on the foyer floor, laying her flat, as he massaged her heart, continued to breathe for her, with her, into her, spitting out the nasty taste of whatever they’d made her swallow in the process, until he was left with no option but to pound on her chest.
Her body convulsed, shivered, and her eyes opened, glassy and dead. The sight of it nearly stole his breath, and he scooped her up, taking the stairs two at a time, too rattled to even dematerialize. Dashing down the hall, he willed on the shower, thrust her into the cold spray and began gently washing the horrible oils and residues off her pretty brown skin.
Fury roiled within him. They should have brought her out of the turn slowly. But not this—a total flat-line.
“C’mon, baby. Come back to me. Fight it. I’ll take the pain—don’t run from it!”
He lathered her hair and skin and hands, gradually warming the water by will, hoping that would help her to slowly come around, stepping into the shower with her to keep her lifeless body pressed to his, sending her his life force, breathing into her, cleaning her, begging her with his mind to come back.
A sob of total defeat claimed him as he rocked her and just held her head against his shoulder, petting her drenched locks, finally abandoning his attempts to revive her.
How many lifetimes would he have to live through to purge this pain? “Oh, God . . . I’m so sorry . . . for everything,” he whispered, his head back, eyes closed against the splash of the spray in his face. “Don’t do this. Don’t take her away from me like this.”
The water beating against the tiles droned out his quiet sobs. He stood there, just rocking her, nuzzling her cold body, trying to build enough acceptance to will his legs to move her out of the shower. There was no way to make this right, no game to play, no option to explore. There was only one ultimate power that held sway now. He believed now. The dark side didn’t have nothin’ on this.
Carlos drew a ragged breath and let it out slowly. He’d take her back home so they could give her a proper burial on hallowed ground . . . Then he’d take the Isis, allow them to plant it hard in the center of his chest—with honor. That was the only way to go out. His baby was right. Always had been.
A sudden gasp passed through her body, into his chest, and into his splayed palms upon her back. It forced him to jerk his head down, to roughly take her jaw into his hand. He shook her hard, grabbed the hair at her skull when a flicker of life stirred within her. He frantically tilted her head, and covered her mouth again, forcing another breath into her, then slapped her face hard.
She opened her eyes, stunned, disoriented, weakened, her irises glittering gold then normalizing to deep brown. He breathed into her again, until she gasped on her own, and began coughing and sputtering, while she clung to him. As he held her head hard against his shoulder, he felt her jaw fill, and instinctively knew that she needed to feed.
He tilted her head back, lifting her mouth to his throat. At first, her strike was weak, clumsy, but he held her to him, letting her renew herself, siphon slowly. Then the siphon changed, becoming more aggressive as she filled herself, fought to live, battled to survive at any cost.
He staggered agai
nst the tiles as she began to bleed him out, but he held her close, letting her take what she needed. Even if she flatlined him, it was all right, just as long as she survived.
When she finally lifted her head, he was semiconscious. Her beautiful mouth was dripping red water, the shower washing the blood away. Her skin was no longer cool and pallid, but flushed and warm. All he could do was reach out and trace her jaw with trembling fingers and brush the stray locks away from her face. She nuzzled the inside of his hand and brought her mouth to his to exchange a kiss, which he returned so tenderly that she deepened it immediately.
Relief buckled his knees as his arms enfolded her tightly and they fell against the tile wall. His fingers wound through her hair, caressed her back, pulled her so hard against him that he was afraid he might hurt her. He kissed her face, her neck, her shoulders, her throat. Then he hugged and rocked her. A dead man’s prayers had been answered.
Through her shudder he felt it, but hesitated to act on it. She’d seen this before—this had happened in the compound . . . the shower. Yeah, he remembered her premonition, too.
She looked at him, their minds locking with the shared gaze. She nodded and smiled. The offending scent now washed away, the raw essence of Neteru ran all through him. He shook his head no. He didn’t want to tempt fate.
“The purge shocked your system,” he said, panicked, trying to extract himself from her embrace. “You’ve ripened early.” He closed his eyes, tilted his head, drew in a deep breath and shuddered. Then he spoke to her through suddenly lowered incisors. “I’ve gotta get you home.”
“They’ll torture me again,” she said quietly, standing an inch away from him, water cascading down her naked form, her eyes glittering. “You were the one who understood . . . brought me back.”
“But I’m the one thing right now that might kill you,” he said, her fragrance destroying his resolve. But neither of them moved. He couldn’t even look at her. Not standing there naked, dripping, with a plea for sanctuary in her eyes, a half inch of fang showing and Neteru scenting the air.