“But you are a vampire,” Purcell said. “You have senses we mere mortals don’t possess, not to mention centuries of experience we, as individuals, will never achieve, and you can’t even give me an educated guess?”
Merri stiffened in her chair. “Of course I can,” she said, each word clipped and tight. “But you just want me to tell you what you already suspect.”
Purcell’s smile deepened. “And that would be?”
“That witnessing the events at the Wells compound fried Sheridan’s sanity.”
Purcell nodded. “A possibility, yes. It’s also possible Prejean got to him, fucked with his mind.”
“Judging by what I’ve seen of Prejean’s handiwork, I think he would’ve just killed Sheridan,” Emmett said, placing his cup on the edge of Purcell’s polished rosewood desk.
Purcell’s expression frosted over and he fixed his attention on Emmett. “Never presume to know what Prejean would or wouldn’t do. I’ve seen that little psycho in action. I’ve seen him tear people apart just for the pleasure of it—including a little girl. I’ve watched him for years, Thibodaux, so I know more about that bloodsucker and what makes him tick than you ever will.”
Emmett lifted his hands, palms out. “Just offering an opinion, Purcell, that’s all.”
“Fine. Just so we’re clear.” Brushing a hand through his gray-flecked sandy hair, Purcell pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “SOD Underwood plans an additional debriefing for both of you tomorrow.” His gaze flicked to Merri. “Tomorrow evening, that is.”
“Lovely,” Emmett said. “Can you recommend a good hotel?”
“I could,” Purcell replied, “but the SOD wants you to remain on premises until after your meeting with her.” He tapped a button set into the surface of his desk. “We have rooms here for agents working long shifts. You’ll be comfortable. There’s a cafeteria if you’re hungry, Thibodaux.”
Emmett glanced at Merri as they both stood. He arched an eyebrow and she answered with a quick, one-shouldered shrug. No understanding the upper echelons.
“Sounds good,” Emmett said.
The door clicked open and a young agent with short auburn hair, a pin-striped skirt suit, and a bright smile gestured for them to follow her.
“At least we’ll save money,” Merri murmured as she passed him.
“Roger that,” Emmett murmured. But his muscles remained wound-up and his inner alarm system seemed stuck on Imminent Disaster.
Purcell’s comment about having watched Prejean for years troubled Emmett. Not tried to apprehend, not tried to stop, but watched. The wrong word choice, maybe? Had to be. Who the hell would just watch a killer work his slaughtering mojo—for years—and do nothing about it?
Emmett scrubbed his face with one hand, felt the rasp of whiskers against his palm. He needed a shower and a shave, some hot chow, and a few hours of sleep. Then maybe things might make a little more sense.
I’ve watched him for years, Thibodaux.
More sense later, yeah. Maybe. But a chill slid down Emmett’s spine.
PURCELL WATCHED THIBODAUX AND Goodnight follow FA Cooper out of his office and into the corridor. Purcell listened as the tap-tappity-tap of Cooper’s heels against the linoleum gradually faded. When the sound vanished completely, he slipped his iPhone from his pocket, thumbed in a brief text message, touched SEND, then returned it to his pocket.
While waiting for a reply, he picked up the Styrofoam cups of coffee that the pair of field agents had so fucking thoughtfully left on his desk. A drowned clove cigarette floated in one. A trace of its perfumed, smoky stink still lingered in the air.
Damned Goodnight. She knew better, but like most vampires couldn’t give a rat’s ass. It wasn’t like they needed to worry about the health effects of first or secondhand smoke.
Dumping the coffee down the sink in his attached bathroom, Purcell tossed the cups and the wet cigarette into the trash can. He paused in front of the mirror above the sink and finger-combed his hair. Straightened his gold-checked blue tie. A beep from his iPhone alerted him to an incoming message.
Pulling the iPhone free again, he glanced at the screen—on my way—before slipping it back into its silk-lined home again. Purcell returned to his desk, his gaze drawn once more to his monitor and the picture it displayed of the Stonehenge of angels guarding the mysterious cave in Damascus, Oregon.
Such a intriguing puzzle. And unsettling.
The statues would soon be on their way to Alexandria. And the cave? To be explored once the site was secured.
One question burned in his mind, searing the edge of each thought: What did any of this have to do with Prejean—with S? And Purcell was sure the bloodsucker was, indeed, involved in some way, shape, or form. Had to be.
Look at what had happened at the Bush Center for Psychological Research in D.C. when S had dropped in for a visit earlier in the month. Purcell presumed that the Bureau’s missing ADIC—Dr. Johanna Moore—was actually dead.
He’d warned everyone in the know about S, warned them to put him down before he slipped free of their leash. Had warned Wells more than once.
He’s a little fucking psycho.
Say that again, Purcell, and I’ll give you to that little fucking psycho.
Purcell mulled over his conversation with Thibodaux and Goodnight and felt reasonably sure that neither agent knew much about Prejean beyond Rodriguez’s murder and what little info they’d been given. He also felt reasonably sure that both agents had answered his questions truthfully.
From what Purcell had observed, Thibodaux and Good-night seemed to work well together. But, to be honest, he couldn’t imagine how Thibodaux—or any mortal—could stomach working with a vampire.
In any case, their partnership would need to be dissolved, and each agent reassigned to different branches. In fact, all field agents and techs at the Wells compound would be subjected to the same process that Thibodaux and Goodnight would undergo during their debriefing tomorrow with SOD Underwood and Field Interrogator Teodoro Díon—memory wipe and reassignment.
They knew too much.
With one last glance at the photo, Purcell strode from his office to his appointment in the medical wing.
PURCELL STOOD BESIDE THE railed hospital bed and studied the man sleeping in it, one wrist handcuffed to the rail. Sheridan had come through surgery just fine, the bullet—a .40 caliber slug—removed from his thigh. It was a miracle he hadn’t bled to death.
Medical monitors on stands beside the bed tracked Sheridan’s vitals, green lights sketching his heartbeat and respiration, beeping at regular intervals. Clear plastic nozzles carried oxygen into his nostrils. The room smelled of pungent antiseptics and, laced underneath, a hint of vanilla spice and yellow dandelions—Díon’s cologne.
“Needs a shave,” Díon commented.
Purcell looked away from Sheridan and up—six three, shoulders as wide as a linebacker’s, hair the color of butter-scotch, late thirties or early forties—to meet the interrogator’s violet-eyed gaze. “So?”
“Just an observation.” Díon returned his attention to Sheridan. “What do you need from me?”
Purcell held up a finger, then bent over Sheridan, leaning down to whisper one word in his ear. “Prejean.”
Sheridan’s heart rate and respiration picked up speed on the monitors. His eyelids fluttered. Purcell felt a smile curve his lips. Goodnight was wrong. Sheridan hadn’t left the building, his body empty—he was still inside.
Terrified.
Lowering his finger, Purcell straightened and looked at Díon. “He’s intact enough to recognize a name and react to it,” he said. “Go in and find out why. Ferret out everything he knows, then report to me.”
The interrogator nodded, then pulled a blue molded-plastic chair up beside the bed. “Hard or easy?” he asked, settling himself into the chair.
“Whatever it takes.”
17
AND NEVER WOULD
OUTSIDE DAMASCUS, OR
/> THE HAPPY BEAVER MOTEL
March 25
PREJEAN AND WALLACE STOPPED. Their hands unlinked, but Wallace didn’t reach for the gun snugged into the back of her jeans. The man behind the wheel of the idling SUV twisted his head around and fixed his shaded gaze on Gillespie.
Gillespie flipped through a mental lineup of Prejean’s known associates and identified the driver: a vamp nomad known as Von McGuinn aka Von Two-Guns. Handy thing, nicknames.
“Gun on the pavement, Wallace!” Gillespie stepped out of his doorway, Glock in both hands and aimed at Prejean’s head.
The vampire swiveled around to face Gillespie, a smooth and simple action so fast, Gillespie never saw him move. Heart thundering in his chest, he kept his Glock aimed at the bloodsucker’s pale forehead.
Gillespie had seen plenty of photos of Prejean, knew the bloodsucker had shattered the vampire drop-dead-gorgeous meter. But neither the photos nor Gillespie’s dispassionate knowledge prepared him for the black-haired beauty now watching him with gleaming eyes; did nothing to prepare him for Prejean’s preternatural grace and deadly allure.
A smile tilted Prejean’s lips for a moment, then vanished.
Captivating—this lean and, most likely, hungry predator.
An image of Rodriguez’s empty eyes and ravaged throat, blood glistening in light reflected from the hall, filled Gillespie’s mind, chilling him like a blast of ice water.
Dry-mouthed, palms sweaty, Gillespie locked his fingers even tighter around the Glock’s grip and kept his focus sharp. His finger flexed against the trigger.
Bloodsucker murdered a man in his own home—an FBI agent to boot.
“Gun on the pavement, Wallace,” Gillespie shouted. “Last warning!”
“Hold your fire,” she called. “I’m complying.” Wallace reached back for her gun, her other hand up and open. A breeze blew strands of red hair across her composed and lovely face.
“Slow and easy, Wallace. Prejean, stay right where you are. Don’t move,” Gillespie barked. “McGuinn, show me your hands!”
As soon as the commands left Gillespie’s lips, headlights lit up the parking lot as a car peeled in from the highway—Miklowitz’s rented Saturn—followed by another vehicle, a Crown Victoria.
Gillespie breathed a sigh of relief. At fucking last. And with that thought, everything went to hell in a handbasket.
The Saturn and Crown Victoria screeched to angled halts, blocking the idling SUV. Miklowitz, Holmes, Kaplan, and others slid low out of the vehicles, ducking behind the open doors, guns lifted. Tight-throated shouts peppered the air.
Prejean lifted a hand to shade his eyes. Winced.
Wallace brought her gun around, swiveling toward the parking lot, and locked both hands around the grip.
The nomad appeared like magic outside the SUV, its driver-side door wide open and ding-ding-dinging. Mustached face grim, he raised the pistol in his hand and fired at the agents taking cover behind the Saturn’s doors.
Muzzle flash, multiple gun cracks, dull thunks as bullets hit metal. Blood sprayed into air thick with the stink of cordite and hot rubber as bullets zipped into flesh. Holmes grunted and sprawled onto the pavement and the nomad staggered back a step.
Prejean lowered his hand and knotted both into fists. His gaze locked with Gillespie’s. The bloodsucker’s coiled muscles unwound. Gillespie pulled the trigger and kept pulling, but Prejean was gone.
A semi hauling steel and cruising at the speed of light slammed into Gillespie, bulldozed him down to the pavement. Blue light swallowed his vision as the back of his skull bounced against the blacktop. The air exploded from his lungs and his Glock flew from his grasp.
Pain and dizziness ricocheted from one side of his skull to the other, banging back and forth, back and forth, in an ever-diminishing cycle.
Weight pressed down on his abdomen, something—knees?—jabbed into his ribs on both sides. Gillespie gasped for air, sucking in the smells of burning leaves and early morning frost. Heat radiated against him, and his survival instincts jerked his arms up and over his throat as his stunned mind belatedly realized that a bloodsucker had flattened him, not a steel-hauling semi.
And not just any bloodsucker, but a designer monster called Dante Prejean.
Hot hands seized Gillespie’s forearms and wrenched them away from his throat. His vision cleared in time to look up into Prejean’s eyes—only a sliver of red-slashed dark brown circled the dilated pupils. Gold light flared in their hungry depths.
What the … ?
Gillespie squirmed and twitched, struggling to bring his knee up in the hope he could jerk free of the vamp’s iron grip and yank his backup weapon free from his ankle holster.
But a very quiet, calm, and resigned part of him knew it didn’t matter. It was too late. Had been too late from the moment he’d locked gazes with Prejean.
He was going to die and not in a good way.
“Hey, Papa, my turn, yeah?” Prejean said. Blood trickled from one nostril. “J’ai faim, motherfucker.” His pale, beautiful face dipped for Gillespie’s throat, lips parting and revealing his sharp, white fangs.
Papa? Was the bloodsucker confused or just toying with him?
Heated lips touched Gillespie’s throat. Twin stabs of pain followed. He renewed his struggle, but couldn’t yank his arms free of Prejean’s steel-fingered hold or roll free of his pinning knees. And his jackhammering, frantic heart would only feed his life away faster.
Gillespie went still.
PAIN JABBED DANTE’S temples, white-hot and ragged. His vision fractured. Pain chiseled away at the boundary between then and now. Wasps droned. Burrowed under his skin.
Don’t put nuthin’ in his mouth. Boy bites.
No escape for you, sweetie.
Prejean, stay right where you are. Don’t move.
The black detective or cop or secret fucking agent twisted underneath Dante, struggling to roll free, sweat beading his face. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes narrowed with effort. Probably the hardest workout the fucker’d had in years./Papa squirms under Dante like a huge fucking worm. The bastard’s heartbeat thunders in Dante’s ears, a primal and compelling sound, drumming up his hunger, his rage from deep within.
“Hey, Papa, my turn, yeah? J’ai faim, motherfucker.”
The cop kicked and pounded and panted./Papa’s heels drum against the dining room floor as blood spurts from his slashed throat. Disbelief widens his eyes.
Just as Dante’s lips touched Papa’s whiskery throat, his fangs piercing the skin, a woman’s scream—raw and anguished—scraped away all other sound. “My baby!”
Dante’s heart skipped a beat. He lifted his head from Papa’s bleeding throat, tore himself away from its hot, intoxicating smell—sweet berries spiced with the juniper-bitter taste of adrenaline—and twisted around.
An Asian woman knelt on the sidewalk in front of room 10’s open door, glass from a bullet-shattered window surrounding her. She clutched a little girl in jeans and a purple sweater against her chest. Rivulets of blood streamed from the back of the girl’s head, glistening in her long, black hair. Her mother wailed, blood smeared on her hands, and soaking into her khaki slacks.
Time paused, a caught breath, as the woman’s cry froze everyone in the parking lot in place. Gunfire stopped. Shouts and yelled orders ceased—except one, issued by an unfamiliar male voice: “Call 911!”
Dante jumped to his feet and moved across the parking lot, past the SUV, and the redhead crouched in front of it, gun in her hands. Dropping to his knees in front of the sobbing woman, he said, “Give her to me.”
“She’s not breathing,” the woman choked out. “Can you help her?”
No one is going to save you. Ever. You can only save yourself.
Liar, liar, goddamned fucking liar.
“Give her to me,” Dante repeated, voice soft. “I’ll do everything I can.” Pain pulsed at his temples. “Ain’t gonna let ’em have her.”
The thick smell of
blood filled his nostrils, hitting him like an open-handed slap to the face. Hunger scraped through him. Shivering, he denied it. Pushed it down into the wasp-crawling depths below.
The woman stared at him for a moment, desperation brimming in her tear-reddened eyes, then glanced down at her daughter. She whispered, “Dear God, if you can do anything, anything at all, help her, please.”
Dante scooped the girl’s limp body into his arms. Glass crunched underneath him as he sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, cradling the girl in his lap. Her almond-shaped jade-green eyes stared up at the stars, empty, unseeing. Blood trickled from a hole in her forehead.
She was silent, still. No heartbeat. No breath. All rhythm gone.
Chloe lies on the concrete floor, snow-angeled in a pool of blood.
It’s too late, Dante-angel.
“Nah, it ain’t. I won’t let it be,” Dante said, stroking a finger along one blood-soaked lock of hair. “J’su ici, shhh.” He caught a whiff of cinnamon, cloves, and freezer-frosted ice, a phantom scent.
You won’t save her, you know. You’ll fail.
Yeah, you know what? Fuck you.
Electricity prickled through Dante. Crackled along his fingers. His song swept up from his heart, a dark and intricate aria, dancing in time to the blue flames flickering around his hands—one of which he rested on the girl’s chest, above her ash-filled heart. Blue sparks skipped along her Hannah Montana Comeback Tour sweater.
Closing his eyes, he plucked at the dying DNA refrain within her; strummed the fretted fingerboard of her escaping essence, and reeled it back inside with a burning glissando—rearranging, shaping, composing.
Bowing his head, Dante touched his lips to the girl’s, breathed blue fire into her lungs. Molten music flowed into and illuminated the dark chambers of her heart and swirled among the ashes, a fiery and pulsating rhythm.
He imagined her eyes bright and warm, imagined her hair moonlit and clean, imagined her giggling, a plushie orca tucked under her arm.
Let me go, Dante-angel.
Maker's Song 3 Beneath the Skin Page 17