Vengeance (A Samantha Tyler Thriller Book 1)

by Rachael Rawlings

  Ordinarily, I would have pursued my line of questioning, trying to pry out of the older woman where she came from, but I knew time was limited. I wanted to get back to the car and then to Alex’s house. I needed the guns, but I needed my katana more. I also would have to take care of the dogs, and I was at a loss as to how I would be doing that.

  “I’ve got to go, Sister,” I replied promptly. “I need you to take care of Alex.”

  “We will have a blessing first.”

  I smothered an exasperated sigh, knowing well this would be an obligatory event. Even if I thought God was on the missing person’s list, never to be seen again, Sister Eva and the rest of her companions believed absolutely in God’s presence and movements in the world. I once before attempted an argument with her, and I never would again.

  “Samantha, it is time to rise,” Sister Margarite said as she summoned me from the doorway, her robe blending into the dark and her white face seeming to float in mid-air like an apparition.

  I jolted from a dreamless sleep, feeling prickles of unease skitter over my skin. No one should have been able to open the door without my knowing, yet here I was in an old fashioned nightgown shift, bare feet and legs, vulnerable. I rubbed my eyes and struggled to gain control of my voice.

  “What time is it?” I croaked.

  “Three in the morning, dear, and time for Lauds.”

  “Lauds,” I repeated, still seeking to clear my head.

  “Morning prayer,” Sister Margarite repeated. “We’ve been letting you rest up, but it’s time for you to begin participating in our routines.”

  “Oh,” I answered. I thought about the other time, the time when I woke in the middle of the night a week before, pain pulling me to consciousness, to see the faintly glowing lights moving behind my shuttered window. I clambered out of bed on shaky limbs. In the moonlight, I could see a line of black clad figures moving like specters through the courtyard, lit candles cupped in their hands.

  I didn’t trust them, these nuns clad in antiquated habits, a seeming anachronism in my world. I saw nuns around my neighborhood, women who worked either in the local Catholic School or in the hospital, conservatively attired in skirts and blouses or neat pantsuits, a cross around their neck the only hint at their devotions.

  Habits died out in the last generation, gone along with panty hose and poodle skirts, and the women I saw now gliding around the halls were alien to me. Watching them converging in the middle of the night was the last straw in my building concern about their activities.

  I pulled on the thin canvas shoes they provided which I normally wore during my physical therapy sessions and slipped out the door. I moved quickly in the halls, not nearly as fast as I did before the shooting, but my recovery was still in progress, and I intended to retain full mobility.

  I followed the corridor to the staircase, wide pale stone that merged seamlessly into the walls and flooring. I never visited a place constructed of all the same material, but the abbey was just that, one stone butted or integrated with another.

  I didn’t trip on any furniture. There was an inordinate amount of space which was merely heightened by the scarcity of furnishings. I wondered why the place looked so vacant, but then I supposed it might have something to do with the theological views of the sisters. Perhaps they took a vow of poverty as I knew priests did? Maybe it meant they lived without excess?

  I slipped out the door and into the courtyard, momentarily concerned I might not be able to track the nuns’ whereabouts. As I heard the lilting music, I noticed a yellow glow emanating from within one of the older, and more ornate structures I hadn’t yet visited. I followed the light and sound to the back door of the building and eased the wooden door open.

  It was a chapel, erected from the same stone and furnished with wooden carved pews which marched in long rows up to the altar. There, the wooden ornamentation continued with a carved altar piece hung over the alter like a canopy, engraved figures telling biblical narratives of saints and men.

  The music was the voices of the nuns, their song in a mellow harmony, the words not in French or English, but Latin. It was beautiful and moving, frightening to me as someone who ran far and fast from religion for so many years.

  It was Lauds, one of eight times of worship during the day when the nuns ceased whatever their task and stopped to pray.

  When Sister Margarite woke me at three in the morning the first time, I sat back on the bed and stared at her.

  “Lauds? You want me to come and pray with you?”

  “I do not want. I demand. It is part of our practice, and now you are ready, you will join us.”

  And I did join them, but not because I was going to convert to Catholicism and not because I believed in the whispered prayers of the nuns or the God they prayed to. I stood silently as they performed centuries old rituals, not trusting in their God any more than I trusted in my father’s deity, the one who told him to send a demon for me. I listened to their prayers, a mixture of Latin and English I later realized they were translated for my own benefit. When my injuries were healed, I bowed and kneeled, following the movements of the nuns, at Lauds in early morning, Prime at six AM, Terce at nine AM, Sext at noon, None at three PM, Vespers at six PM, Compline at nine PM, and Matins, when the moon was fully risen, and night was upon us. I remained silently by with the women I grew to trust, listening calmly to their pleas, but not participating. The reasons were my own.

  “Tell me what happened,” Sister Evangeline said in her no-nonsense voice, breaking me out of my memories.

  I glanced toward the closed door, fully aware none of my information could travel any further than the bounds of the room. I quickly outlined the events as they unfolded since my arrival to Florida, the unnamed female monster, who wasn’t an Infernal Lord, but something else altogether.

  “I don’t know what she was. I could feel her. I know she was an undead, but she said herself she wasn’t an Infernal Lord. More like an understudy.”

  Sister Evangeline frowned. “This is quite disturbing. We have not observed any of these for a particularly long time,” she replied, almost to herself. “We hoped the means of creation was lost to the evil ones.” She twisted her hands around the rosary beads. “They must have discovered the key.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Soulless. They were aggressive during the Crusades. They relish the battle. They were pawns of the Infernal Lords, slaves to them. They strive to reach a higher cast, to gain more power, much like the fallen Angel of Light. But the means to produce them was seized and concealed so no more could be spawned.” She peered at me. “Something has changed.”

  I crossed my arms tightly over my chest. Great. We needed other evil minions like we need the plague.

  “What else has taken place since I last saw you?” Sister Eva asked.

  I concluded my story by telling about the hellhound, Ozzy Wheadon’s sudden death, followed by our questioning of Hemlock. I informed her about the encounter at the warehouse and my newest enemy, Paul Roberts, a creature I suspected might be yet another of the Soulless. She asked no questions, nodding as I spoke, my words trailing in a low voice, my eyes flitting from the nun to my friend still laying so still in the hospital bed.

  “I will remain here then,” Sister Eva said decisively, “and you go do what you must.” She reached under her voluminous robes and drew out a tiny cell phone. I peered in mute shock as she punched in some letters. First the internet, now texting? Was the world still revolving on the same axis?

  Chapter Seven

  I left the hospital and took a taxi to the warehouse after I retrieved our weapons, with Alex’s gun hidden in the waistband of my trousers, my .22 tucked in a pocket and bulging uncomfortably. I was correct in concluding the hiding place would be a safe one. No one discovered them. I felt oddly naked without my knife or katana and would have to make do.

  If the taxi driver saw either gun, he might have gone running for the hills. I kept them concealed
until he pulled away from the curb and out of sight. It was late evening now, and the sun sinking behind the other buildings gave me the cover of shadows at least. If there were only a few cars before, now the lots were bare, my rental the only one left. I decided to move it closer to my destination to allow a quick getaway. I unlocked the sedan, slid into the seat, and drove right up to the door of the warehouse. I parked the car and switched off the engine, pocketing the keys. I got my katana out of the trunk and took both guns with me.

  The rear door was open, leaving no doubt I was expected, and I wondered if this was it, if Roberts chose to linger here to greet me on my return visit. Could he heal that rapidly? I didn’t know. My limited knowledge of the undead or Soulless hindered me here, but then again, how many people possessed encyclopedic knowledge about subjects that weren’t supposed to be real, anyway?

  I remained in the doorway until my eyes adapted to the comparative dimness. There was a choice of course. I could take the car and return to Alex’s house, gather my belongings, and return to the hospital to relieve Sister Eva of her charge. It would be a three-hour round trip, but it could be accomplished. But I wouldn’t. I needed to go ahead with my intentions. I needed to follow my lead. There were supplies in those warehouses which were removed in a hurry. I needed to discover who was behind the cleanup, and if it was associated with the Church. After all, my troubles began and ended with the Church of the Light Reclaimed. It was time to even up the score a little. And if Roberts was still here, I'd start with him.

  With guns tucked into the waist of my jeans I stepped inside, gripping the katana in both hands. I stood still, feeling the faint humid breeze from the open doorway, the movement of the air and the stillness inside. There weren’t many creaks and groans of the building shifting and settling. There was no feeling of habitation. I was willing to bet the place was uninhabited. Time to stop waiting and find out.

  I strode along the wall’s perimeter, scanning down aisles of shelving, noting there were still scraps of paper and fragments of garbage. I trailed along until I got to the short hallway that led to the office and the bathroom. I paused, once again, standing still, listening hard. If the Soulless one was there, it seemed like he might want a replay of today’s confrontation, but this time with a different ending. He would need to get used to disappointment. I heard nothing, even when I held my breath.

  Roberts was gone, no real surprise, as were the bodies of the two men I shot. Even the blood on the floor was gone.

  Finally, I reached the office door which hung slightly open. A fragment of fading sunlight seeped through the grimy window and gave the room a bloody glow and goosebumps popped up all over my body. With my katana ready I preferred to be the instigator. I didn’t like being on defense. It made me crabby. I reached out with my mind and my senses for anything sour, anything off. No, I didn’t feel it. I couldn’t detect them.

  It took merely a cursory scan of the room to realize I was alone. The sole piece of furniture was a decrepit wooden desk, heavy and listing slightly to the right, the top cleared of everything but a single sheet of paper speared through by my knife.

  I walked deliberately, my footsteps making shuffling noises against the scattering of separate pieces of stationery on the floor. I stooped and snatched the knife and paper, scanning it and letting out a gasp at the audacity of the man. He left it here, an explicit challenge for me to join him. And if that wasn’t enough, he wrote a note on the paper, smudged with a fingertip in some dark substance which smelled foul and old.

  “Come along and meet me, child,” the note stated. I realized with my stomach turning it was written with his blood.

  Don’t worry asshole. I’m coming.

  I took the note, a handful of loose papers, the dagger, and slipped out of the office. I traced back down the aisles, plucking up fragments of receipts and loose tags which I added to my collection. I bent down looking under each row of shelving and under one near the office I saw the corner of a manila folder. I used the tip of the katana to slide it out and picked it up. When the guy dropped his stack to go for his gun, this one slid further than the rest and they missed it when they cleaned up after the fight.

  I quickly flipped through it and found it full of drawings of antique styled items. I closed the folder and added it to the other things I found, though most of it was probably trash, and carried it all to the car. I could have tried to bag the knife and attempt to obtain fingerprints, though I doubted it would do me any good. The other vampire, or Infernal Lord sent after me when I first snatched the money, Eamon, was over a century old. I would bet my new friend Paul Roberts was at least as ancient, according to his own words, and maybe more. Eamon was a scrounging blood thirsty ruffian with the goal of destruction and chaos in as many lives as possible. I didn’t think Roberts’ motivation was quite so straight forward. His gesture of leaving my knife made it apparent he looked forward to facing me again and I returned the sentiment. Either way, neither of these ancient beings would have their prints on record. They were born and died the first time long before the technology was in common use. And I doubted he’d ever done hard time. These weren’t the kind of monsters the police locked up and kept away from the public. The police certainly couldn’t help me.

  I drove the rental back toward the interstate and was startled when my cell phone chirped next to me. Few people knew my number, and the numbers on my screen weren’t familiar. I pulled over into a gas station parking lot and hit the call button.

  “Hello?”

  “Samantha,” the accented tones of Sister Eva came through distinctly, and a flash of alarm ran through me, wondering if something happened to Alex.

  “Everything is fine here,” she said, almost as though reading my mind. “I was going to tell you that your friend woke up and spoke to me briefly. She requested for me to tell you that you have a great deal of explaining to do.” There was amusement in her tone. “I am guessing she was uninformed of some of your recent endeavors.”

  “That’s accurate,” I admitted.

  “She has demanded I convey one other message,” Sister said serenely.

  “What?” My mind was whirling.

  “She inquired about the dogs.”

  I drove at an acceptable speed, not wanting to get caught loaded down with two guns, a knife, a katana and a bloody hand-written note. It was a lengthy drive with plenty of time to page through my regrets. I got lost once, distracted by my mind spinning, plotting my vengeance.

  When I approached Alex’s little cottage, I slowed and passed the driveway, recognizing that something seemed off. I went down another block and parked, feeling a strange déjà vu. I armed myself with both guns and tucked the dagger into the ankle sheath. I moved to the back of the car and popped the trunk lid, drawing the katana out of the case. This time I would take it, and I inwardly promised myself I would never leave it behind again.

  I approached the house from the rear. I wasn’t exactly sure what set off my warning signals, but I wasn’t going to overlook my instinct. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know what disturbed me; it only mattered something did.

  In the back yard, I glanced over the fence. The dogs enjoyed romps on the grass out there, basking in the warm sunshine or curling up in the shade. An ideal little lawn, bordered by flowers, charming in its own way, it made me all the angrier someone had invaded the space. It was then I realized what bothered me. Alex’s yard featured outdoor lighting, both by the front garden beds and the rear door. The ones in the back sprang to life with any motion detected, but the ones in the front automatically switched on as darkness fell. Neither were lit even though the sun long ago slipped below the horizon. The gate hung open and there were scuffs of mud on the concrete slab by the side entrance.

  I slipped up to the side door and grasped the old-fashioned knob. Before I turned the knob, in the faint moonlight, I could see that the door was slightly open, the jam destroyed where someone had broken into Alex’s house. I listened at the cracked door, he
aring nothing. I held my breath and pressed the door wider.

  The moment I did, a man burst out, swinging a crowbar directly at my head, I spun in a low, tight circle, allowing the crude weapon to pass over me. I pivoted and kicked the back of one knee, causing him to buckle towards me. When he did, I drove the katana into the man’s back and straight through his heart, the sharp blade exiting the front side of his body.

  I slid the blade out and he dropped to his knees, a low moan escaping his throat. A moment later, he fell face first into the grass, unmoving.

  Without another thought, I stepped into the kitchen, moving low to my right, my katana held before me.

  I hesitated there. The intruder followed the same path I did. In the moonlight spilling through the open back door, I noticed the cabinet doors in the kitchen were flung wide, many of which were torn off the hinges, the contents shattered and scattered all over the floor.

  Food, wet and dry, mixed with shards of glass and porcelain, spattered on the tile, the walls smeared with the same.

  I froze when I saw some dark red mixed with the other food mess. Blood. The animals counted on me. I delivered them here. Did I get them killed?

  I tiptoed gingerly and quietly through the destruction. There was a stout wooden door closing off the kitchen from the living room. It was different from the modern style of residences which allowed everyone to migrate from one room to the next without meeting a single barrier. This home was built back when a discrete door would separate the formal living room from the mess of an active family.