2 Blood Trail

by Tanya Huff

  Rose’s eyes widened. “If he was talking to Peter this afternoon . . .” She whirled, her sundress hit the floor, and Cloud streaked out of the kitchen and into the night.

  “Rose, no!” Unencumbered by the need to change, Henry raced after her before Stuart, still caught in challenge with Celluci, began to react.

  Jesus Christ! Nobody moves that fast! Celluci grabbed Stuart’s arm as Henry disappeared into the night. “Wait!” he barked. “I need you to show me the way to Carl Biehn’s farm.”

  “Let me go, human!”

  “Damn it, Stuart, the man’s got guns. He’s taken Henry out once already! Charging in will only get everyone shot. We can get there before them in my car.”

  “Don’t count on it.” Stuart laughed but the sound held no humor. “And this is our hunt. You have no right to be there.”

  “Take him, Stuart!” Nadine’s tone left no room for her mate to argue. “Think of after.”

  The male wer snarled but after an instant he yanked his arm free of Celluci’s hold and started for the door. “Come on, then.”

  After? Celluci wondered as the two of them charged across the lawn. Mary, Mother of God, they want me there to explain the body. . . .

  “What is taking him so long!” Vicki shoved at her glasses and turned away from the living room window. With the sun down she could see nothing past her reflection on the glass but that didn’t stop her from pacing the length of the room and back then peering out into the darkness again.

  “He has to come all the way from Adelaide and Dundas,” Bertie pointed out. “It’s going to take him a few minutes.”

  “I know that!” She sighed and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I had no right to snap at you. It’s just that . . . well, if it wasn’t for my damned eyes, I’d be driving myself. I’d be halfway there by now!”

  Bertie pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. “You don’t trust your partner to deal with it?”

  “Celluci’s not a partner, he’s a friend. I don’t have a partner. Exactly.” And although Henry could be counted on to keep Celluci from doing anything stupid, who would save Peter, or watch the wer, or grab the murdering bastard—Vicki always saw him with Mark Williams’ face, convinced that he had been the reason for the deaths even if he hadn’t pulled the trigger—and . . . and then what? “I have to be there! How can I know it’s justice if I’m not there?”

  Realizing that some questions weren’t meant to be answered, Bertie wisely kept silent. Questions of her own would have to wait.

  “Damn it, I told him it was an emergency!” Vicki whirled back to the window and squinted into the night. “Where is he?” With an hour left in the shift, and Colin already back in the station, it hadn’t been hard for Vicki to convince the duty sergeant to release him for a family emergency. “Why the. . . There!” Headlights turned up the driveway.

  Vicki snatched up her bag and ran for the door, shouting back over her shoulder, “Don’t talk about this to anyone. I’ll be in touch.”

  Outside, and effectively blind, she aimed for the headlights and narrowly missed being run down by one of London’s old blue and white police cars. She grabbed for the rear door as it screeched to a stop and threw herself into the back seat.

  Barry slammed the car into reverse and laid rubber back down the length of the driveway while Colin twisted around and snarled, “What the hell is going on?”

  Vicki pushed her glasses back into place and clutched at the seat as the car took a corner on two wheels.

  “Carl Biehn was an Olympic marksman by way of Korea and the marines.”

  “That grasseater?”

  “He may be,” Vicki snapped, “but his nephew. . .”

  “Was charged with fraud in ‘86, possession of stolen goods in ’88, and accessory to murder nine months ago,” Barry broke in. “No convictions. Got off on a technicality all three times. I ran him this afternoon.”

  “And the emergency,” Colin growled, teeth bared.

  “Peter’s missing.”

  Grasses and weeds whipped at his legs; trees flickered past in the periphery of his sight, unreal shadow images barely seen before they were gone; the barrier of a fence became no barrier at all as he vaulted the wire net and landed still running. Henry had always known that the wer were capable of incredible bursts of speed but he never knew how fast until that night. Making no effort to elude him, Cloud merely raced toward her twin, not far ahead but far enough that he feared he could never catch her.

  With her moonlight-silvered shape remaining so horribly just out of reach, Henry would have traded his immortal life for the ability to shapechange given to his kind by tradition. All else being equal, four legs were faster and more sure than two.

  All else, therefore, could not be equal.

  He hadn’t run like this in many years, and he threw all he was into the effort to close the gap. This was a race he had to win, for if one couldn’t be saved, the other had to be.

  Spraying dirt and gravel in a great fan-shaped tail, Celluci fought the car through the turn at the end of the lane without losing speed. The suspension bottomed out as they drove into and out of a massive pothole and the oil pan shrieked a protest as it dragged across a protruding rock. The constant machine gun staccato of stones thrown up against the undercarriage of the car made conversation impossible.

  Stuart kept up a continuous deep-throated growl.

  Over it all, Celluci kept hearing the voice of memory.

  “You’re willing to be judge and jury—who’s to be the executioner? Or are you going to do that, too?”

  He very much feared he was about to get his answer and he prayed Vicki would arrive too late to be a part of it.

  By the time Cloud reached the open door of the barn, Henry ran right at her tail. Another step, maybe two and he could stop her, just barely in time.

  Then Cloud caught the scent of her twin and, snarling, sprang forward.

  As her feet left the packed dirt, Henry saw with horror where she’d land. Saw the false floor. Saw the steel jaws beneath. With all he had left, he threw himself at her in a desperate flying tackle.

  He knew as he grabbed her that it wasn’t going to be quite enough so he twisted and shielded the struggling wer with his body as they hit the floor and rolled.

  Two traps sprang shut, one closing impotently on a few silver-white hairs, the other cheated entirely of a prize.

  From the floor, Henry took in a kaleidoscope of images—the russet body lying motionless on the table, the mortal standing over it, covered neck to knees with a canvas apron, the slender knife gleaming dully in the lamplight—and by the time he rose to a crouch, one arm still holding the panting Cloud, he knew. Anger, red and hot, surged through him.

  Then Cloud squirmed free and attacked.

  For the second time that night Mark Williams looked death in the face; only this time, he knew it wouldn’t pause. He screamed and fell back against the table, felt hot breath against his throat and the kiss of one ivory fang then suddenly, nothing. Self preservation took over and without stopping to think, he grabbed for the shotgun.

  Henry fought with Cloud, fought with his own blood lust. She’s a seventeen-year-old girl, barely more than a child. She must not be allowed to kill. The wer no longer lived apart from humans and their values. What point victory now if she spent the rest of her life with that kind of a stain on her soul? Over and over, as she tried to tear herself out of his grip, he said the only words he knew would get through to her.

  “He’s still alive, Cloud. Storm is still alive.”

  Finally she stilled, whimpered once, then turned toward the table, muzzle raised to catch her brother’s scent. A second whimper turned to a howl.

  With her attention now fixed on Storm rather than death, Henry stood. “Stay where you are,” he commanded and Cloud dropped to the floor, trembling with the need to get to her twin but unable to disobey. As he lifted his head, he came face-to-face with both barrels of the shotgun.

  “So,
he’s still alive, is he?” Both the gun and the laugh were shaky. “I couldn’t feel a heartbeat. You sure?”

  Henry could hear the slow and labored beating of Storm’s heart, could feel the blood struggling to keep moving through passages constricted by poison. He allowed his own blood lust to rise. “I know life,” he said, stepping forward. “And I know death.”

  “Yeah?” Mark wet his lips. “And I know Bo Jackson. Hold it right there.”

  Henry smiled. “No.” Vampire. Prince of Darkness. Child of the Night. It all showed in Henry’s smile.

  The table against his back made retreat impossible; Mark had no choice but to stand fast. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dribbled down the side of his nose. This was the demon he’d shot in the forest. Manshaped but nothing manlike in its expression. “I—I don’t know what you are,” he stammered, forcing his trembling fingers to maintain their grip on the gun, “but I know you can be hurt.”

  One more step would move the barrel of the weapon around enough so that Cloud would be out of the line of fire. One more step, Henry told himself fueling the hunger with rage, and this thing is mine. He raised his foot.

  The barn door slammed back, crashing against the wall and breaking the tableau.

  “Drop it!” Celluci commanded from the doorway.

  Stuart snarled a counterpoint beside him, the effort of will it took to hold his attack while Cloud remained in danger sending tremors rippling across the muscles of his back. Her howl had yanked him from the car before it had quite stopped and pulled him unthinking into the barn in human form where the clothes he wore confined his shape.

  The shotgun barrel dipped then rose again. “I don’t think so.”

  “What the hell is going on out here?” Carl Biehn demanded, rifle covering the two men standing in the open doorway. He’d heard the car race down the driveway; heard it stop, spraying gravel; heard the howl and known that Satan’s creatures were involved. It had taken him only a moment to snatch up his rifle and he’d arrived at the barn just behind the men from the car. He still didn’t know what was going on, but his nephew needed his help, that much was obvious. “Put the safety on and toss your revolver to the ground.” He gestured with the rifle. “Over there, away from everyone.”

  Teeth gritted, Celluci did as he was told. He couldn’t see as he had an option. The snap of steel jaws closing as the gun hit the floor startled everyone about equally.

  “Traps,” Stuart said, pointing. “There and there.” The dirt floor just beyond his bare foot had been disturbed. “And here.”

  Mark smiled. “Pity you don’t take longer strides.”

  “Now move over there,” Carl commanded, “by the others so I can get a . . .” As they picked their way between the traps and into the lamplight, he recognized Stuart and his eyes narrowed. All day he had prayed for an answer to his doubts and now the Lord delivered the leader of the ungodly into his hands. Then he saw Cloud, still crouched behind Henry, ignoring everything but the body on the table.

  Then he saw Storm.

  He lowered the rifle from his shoulder to his hip, holding it balanced by the pistol grip, finger still resting on the trigger. Keeping the muzzle carefully pointed toward the group of intruders now clustered together at one side of the barn, he moved to stand beside the table. “What,” he repeated, “is going on here? How did this creature die?”

  “He’s not dead!” Rose threw herself into Stuart’s arms. “He’s not dead, Uncle Stuart! He’s not.”

  “I know, Rose. And we’ll save him.” He stroked her hair, glaring at the younger human who stared at her as though he’d never seen skin before. She needed comfort but, if they were to save themselves and Storm, too, better she have the use of tooth and claw. Silently he cursed the clothing that held him to human form. “Change now,” he told her. “Watch. Be ready.”

  “Stop that!” The rifle swung from Stuart to Cloud and back again. “You will do no more devil’s tricks!”

  Cloud whined but Stuart buried his hand in the thick fur behind her head and said quietly, “Wait.”

  Carl swallowed hard. The pain in the creature’s eyes as it, no, she, gazed up at him added itself to the cry of the creature he had wounded and the weight of doubt settled heavier around his heart. The work of the Lord should not bring pain. He turned and gazed down at Storm with horrified fascination. “I asked you a question, nephew.”

  Mark put a little more distance between himself and Henry before he answered—coincidentally moving himself closer to the door, just in case—fighting the silent command that called him to look at me. “I assume,” he said with a forced grin, “that as we’ve been assured my guest isn’t dead you want to know, how did you put it, ‘What the hell is going on here?’ It’s simple, really. I decided to combine your policy of holy extermination with a profit-making plan of my own.”

  “You do not find profit in doing the Lord’s work!” Suddenly unsure of so many other things, this belief, at least, Carl held to firmly.

  “Bullshit! You reap your rewards in heaven, I want mine. . . Hold it right there!” He gestured with the shotgun and Henry froze. “I don’t know what you are, but I’m pretty damned sure both barrels at this range will blow you to hell and gone and I’d be more than willing to prove it.” White showed all around his eyes and he was breathing heavily, sweat burning in the scratches on his back.

  Celluci glanced at Henry’s profile and wondered what the other man could see that had him so terrified. He wondered, but he really didn’t want to know. In his opinion their best chance lay with Carl Biehn, who looked confused and somehow, in spite of his unquestionable ability with the rifle, fragile and old. “This has gone too far,” he said calmly, making his voice the voice of reason, laying it over the tension like a balm. “Whatever you thought when you started this, things have changed. It’s up to you to end it.”

  “Shut up!” Mark snapped. “We don’t need your two cents worth.”

  Carl lifted his hand from where it lay almost in benediction on Storm’s head and took a firmer grip on the rifle. “And what do you plan to do now?” he asked pointedly, desperation tinting his voice, the question echoing prayers that had remained unanswered.

  “You said yourself the devil’s creatures must die. That one,” Mark nodded at Storm, “has been taken care of. This one,” Cloud whined again and pressed close to Stuart’s legs, “I could use as well. Pity we can’t get the big one to change before he dies.”

  Stuart snarled and tensed to spring.

  “No!” Henry’s command snapped Stuart back on his heels, furious and impotent. With both weapons pointing at them from different angles, an attack, whether it succeeded or not, would be fatal to at least one of their company. There had to be another way and they had to find it quickly for although Storm’s heart still fought to survive, Henry could hear how much it had weakened, how tenuously it clung to life.

  “You keep your goddamned mouth shut,” Mark suggested. His hands were sweating around the shotgun but even with his uncle covering their “guests” he dared not wipe his palms. He was well aware that the moment the shooting started and it no longer had anything to lose that creature would charge. This had to be carefully choreographed so that he and his pelts came out in one piece. And if he couldn’t bring Uncle Carl around . . . Poor old man, he wasn’t entirely sane, you know. “All right, the lot of you, turn around and line up facing that wall.”

  “Why, Mark?”

  “So that I can cover them and you can send them back to hell where they belong.” With a sudden flash of inspiration, he added, “God’s will be done.”

  Carl’s head came up. “God’s will be done.” It was not for him to question the will of God.

  “Mr. Biehn.” Celluci wet his lips. Time to lay all the cards on the table. “I’m a Detective-Sergeant with the Metropolitan Toronto Police Department. My badge is in the front left-hand pocket of my pants.”

  “You’re with the police?” The rifle barrel dipped toward the floo
r.

  “He’s consorting with Satan’s creatures!” Mark snapped. The cop would die by a rifle bullet. Poor Uncle Carl. . .

  The rifle barrel came up. “The police are not immune to the temptations of the devil.” He peered at Celluci. “Have you been saved?”

  “Mr. Biehn, I’m a practicing Catholic, and I will recite for you the ‘Lord’s Prayer,’ the ‘Apostles’ Creed,’ and three ‘Hail Marys,’ if you like.” Celluci’s voice grew gentle, the voice of a man who could be trusted. “I understand why you’ve been shooting these people. I really do. But hasn’t it occurred to you that God has plans you’re not aware of and maybe, just maybe, you’re wrong?” As they were still alive, it had obviously occurred to him; Celluci attempted to make the most of it. “Why don’t you put down that gun, and we’ll talk, you and I, see if we can’t find a way out of this mess.” And then, up out of the depths of childhood when his tiny, black-clad grandmother had made him learn a Bible verse every Sunday, he added, “ ‘For there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known.’ ”

  “St. Luke, chapter twelve, verse two.” Carl shuddered and Mark saw that he was losing him.

  “Even the devil quotes scripture, Uncle.”

  “And if he is not the devil, what then?” A muscle jumped in the old man’s cheek. “Would you murder an officer of the law?”

  “Man’s law, Uncle, not God’s law!”

  “Answer my question!”

  “Yes, answer him, Mark. Would you commit murder? Break a commandment?” Now, Celluci used his voice like a chisel, hoping to expose the rotten core. “Thou shalt not kill. What about that?”

  Mark had escaped death twice already this night. From the moment he’d recognized the creature that had attacked him in the woods, he’d known that escaping death a third time would take more than luck. In order for him to live, everyone in the barn would have to die. And he was going to live. This goddamned bastard of a fucking cop was manipulating the one thing he needed to pull his ass out of the fire and still be able to make a profit. The old man as a live stooge was preferable to the old man as a dead excuse.