Chapter 5
The gypsy convoy consisted of about twenty vehicles including a rusted old Chevy truck that had once been a vivid red, but was now a dull monochrome. Balthazar Blackman took a large slug of his bottled water, wiping the sweat from his brow. The truck had no airconditioning and the hot wind blowing in through his open window brought no reprieve. They had only travelled about thirty miles but the heat beating off the glass windshield was fierce and the level of discomfort rose with every passing mile.
Like his parents before him and their parents before that, Balthazar had been searching his whole life for the city, travelling without maps, relying on instinct as they moved from town to town, city to city, crossing continents in their ceaseless search. The Blackmans' history dated back to the very beginning of the gypsies’ heritage, over a thousand years of endless seeking. Balthazar’s sixteen-year old son, Jonas, shifted beside him. He had been napping on and off since they set out this morning, but the dry, breathless heat was rousing him.
“Here,” Balthazar nudged Jonas with the water bottle and the younger man jerked awake, glaring at the bottle with bleary eyes. Yawning widely, showing exceptionally good teeth for someone who had never once visited a dentist, Jonas took the bottle and swigged.
“Where are we?” he asked, rubbing his nose, with a hand so big it covered almost his entire face. He was a tall, lanky boy, strong as an ox, with dark messy hair and heavy-lidded eyes.
“In the middle of nowhere,” Balthazar laughed at the rhetorical question. It didn’t matter where they were; the only thing that mattered was their ultimate destination.
“Same place as yesterday, then,” Jonas grumbled. Balthazar tried to recall his own teen years and how he had questioned the nomadic lifestyle and the seemingly impossible task of finding the City. Jonas had reached an age where he no longer simply accepted his father’s beliefs, and had begun to challenge their way of life. Balthazar understood his son’s frustration and his selfish longing for a more stable upbringing, but Jonas did not yet comprehend the importance of their mission. He would understand in time, Balthazar tried to convince himself.
Jonas said nothing more, settling into a sullen silence that stretched across a few more miles, while Balthazar focused on the barren landscape ahead. Their pace was agonisingly slow; the old converted delivery truck that belonged to Rowena, in particular, could not travel above fifty miles per hour and Rowena threw a fit if they pulled too far ahead of her. Despite their ten-year relationship, Rowena insisted on her independence and would not relinquish her clapped-out old truck, no matter how much it slowed them down. Most of the women travelled in the back of Rowena’s truck. Rowena was a strong, fiery woman, whose family had contributed just as much to the search for the City as Balthazar’s own. When Jonas’ mother had passed away shortly after his birth, Balthazar had been certain he would never love again. He had known Rowena all his life but she had always been one of those women who showed no interest in men – channelling all of her passion and energy into finding the City instead.
When Balthazar’s wife had died, Rowena had been surprisingly supportive, stepping in to help him with baby Jonas. It had been years before he had finally summoned the courage to act on his blooming affection for her, and, to his utmost astonishment, she had reacted with far more passion than he had ever expected. Jonas adored her too, since she was the only mother figure he had ever known and Balthazar had spent the better part of a decade trying to convince her to marry him, to no avail. ‘Why fix what isn’t broken?’ was her standard response to his frequent proposals. Their relationship, however, kept Rowena safe from the ardent demands of the other men in their camp. Single women were fair game, expected to answer the sexual demands of the men. It was an accepted part of their culture, but Balthazar knew Rowena didn’t like it one bit. She couldn’t change it, but she did her best to ensure that the women were treated well. On more than one occasion, Rowena had intervened when things had gotten out of hand after a drunken night. Balthazar had often noticed men in camp becoming violently ill after mistreating one of Rowena’s girls. Nobody would admit that Rowena’s herbs might have been the cause, but Balthazar knew better. Her potions were another reason Rowena was left alone. The gypsies relied on her cures and antidotes, not to mention that selling her wares at local markets brought in most of their pitiful income. Rowena’s distant ancestor, Jasmine, had been the gypsies’ first alchemist, over five hundred years ago, and her knowledge had been passed down through generations of Rowena’s family.
Lost in thought, Balthazar drove on, his gaze lingering on the arid earth beside the road until a tiny splash of colour drew his attention. Cursing, he swung the wheel, the smooth tyres spitting up a cloud of sand as he pulled over to the shoulder of the dusty road. He emerged from the pick-up, his eyes searching the barren area until he spotted it. The heavy door creaked as it swung shut, and Jonas groaned, but Balthazar was already striding across the dirt, fixated on the splash of blue standing out against a sea of dry, cracked earth. He reached the spot and gazed down at the single cornflower, beautiful in its solitude. Bending his knees, he touched an intense blue petal, his excitement mounting.
“What is it?” Rowena called from behind him and he moved aside so that she could see it. Her astonished intake of breath confirmed that she felt it too, that she sensed the significance. Cornflowers needed water daily to grow and it had not rained for weeks. This was no ordinary bloom – it was a sign - intended for Balthazar to find.
“Oh, Balthazar,” her hand flew to her chest as she walked slowly forward. Crouching beside him, she gazed at the simple flower as though it was the most magnificent thing she had ever seen and then she reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly.
“We found it,” she murmured, tears welling in her eyes, “you were right.”
“It’s just a flower,” Melchior announced when he joined them. Balthazar sensed Rowena’s hostility as her body went rigid beside him. Melchior was his friend, but he could be cruel, particularly to the gypsy women. He drank too much and alcohol fuelled his nastiness. Melchior had been on the receiving end of Rowena’s herbs more times than Balthazar could count, but he just never learned.
“It’s a sign,” Balthazar corrected, still gazing at the cornflower in reverent wonder.
“Does this mean we’re staying?” Jonas held his own excitement in check, not wanting to develop false hope. He tended to agree with Melchior on this one. He didn’t much like his father’s oldest friend, but it was, after all, just a flower - nothing to get so excited about. More importantly, if Balthazar believed that they had finally found the general location of the City he might be inclined to stay. Jonas was tired of driving aimlessly across country, never settling down in any one place, never meeting anyone his own age. The few friends he had made had been older than he was and they had all left the convoy as soon as they had come of age. Jonas was biding his time. In five years he’d be twenty-one and he would leave too. The thought of abandoning his father cut him deeply, but Jonas needed his own life.
“We’re staying,” Balthazar confirmed. Rowena, who missed nothing, observed Jonas’s ill-disguised look of glee and her heart sank. Balthazar was living in denial. They were losing their son and he was too blinded by his passion to see it. She had tried to address it countless times, but Balthazar simply brushed her off, insisting that Jonas would come around. Balthazar was a good man, but he had become obsessive. He didn’t see what was happening around him. A part of her was grateful for that fact because it allowed her to do what she needed to do without his ever finding out, but Rowena only hoped that he would see the truth before it was too late; that he would finally put his family first, before his quest.
Chapter 6
It took two days for Quinn to realise she wasn’t getting anywhere. She needed to visit Cliffdale. Despite what her father had said about the twins not being there, it was the only place she might find answers. At the very least she hoped that Piper might have information.
Piper was a good friend and, if there was even the slightest chance that she knew where Daniel had sent Jack and Ava, Quinn had to try and get it out of her. She couldn’t phone Piper, it would make it all too easy for them to trace her, and besides, she doubted that Piper could be convinced over the phone. Sadly, the Guardians would be expecting her to come searching, so she would have to give it time – wait until they decided she wasn’t going anywhere near the Cathedral. In the meantime, she realised, she would go crazy if she didn’t have something else to occupy her time. She needed to keep her mind off Jack and Ava until she could actually do something about them. And so, despite her reservations, she started to integrate herself into the Brookfield community.
She visited Sarah, taking a box of doughnuts she had bought at the store, and this time she made polite conversation. Sarah was sincerely delighted with the abrupt turn of events and, soon enough, a friendship began forming. Sarah introduced Quinn to Todd Cooper, who was as nice a person as Sarah herself, and Quinn spent a few evenings a week with the two of them. She found her heart hurt just a little bit less when she was around other people. For those few hours she could forget her loneliness, her guilt and her concern for the children.
Alice, the char, continued to come every week. Her initial reaction to Quinn’s unexpected arrival was a simple, “Do you still need me to come in?” Alice was a lady in her late fifties and it seemed that nothing could ruffle her. Steadfast and dependable, she arrived every Tuesday at eight o’clock precisely – cleaned routinely and diligently and then left via the back door. Quinn was amused by this – she simply walked around the front of the house and then trundled up the street. Quinn could not see the reason for her leaving through the back. She assumed it was simply a habit that Alice had formed in the year that Quinn had not been around.
Doing nothing was silent torture for Quinn, as her desperate longing for Jack and Ava grew, but she consoled herself with the small victory of having eluded the Guardians. They had not discovered her hiding place and for now, that would have to be enough.
About three weeks after her arrival Quinn ordered a couple of pizzas from the local pub to take over to Sarah’s. It turned out that Phil’s Place was the only pizzeria in Brookfield after all, but fortunately their food was superb. Quinn wasn’t partial to cooking and had ordered more meals from Phil’s than she had made in her own fully-functional kitchen. It wasn’t far from the house and she decided to walk rather than take her car. Her black leather boots made little sound on the deserted street and ten minutes later she entered the small tavern. A few tables were occupied and Quinn waved at a couple of familiar faces she recognised from her trips to the shops, calling out a greeting to a teacher who helped Sarah at the kindergarten. Country music played softly in the background.
“Hi Quinn!” Phil, the friendly owner greeted her from behind the bar. “Sorry, it’s been a bit busy tonight but your order won’t be long.”
“Thanks,” Quinn smiled, taking a seat at the bar while she waited.
She sensed him before she actually saw him, but not quickly enough. This tall, dark-haired stranger, with pale, flawless skin, who came to stand beside her at the bar counter, had approached almost undetected.
“Drake!” Phil greeted him as warmly as he had Quinn, “you want the usual?” The stranger inclined his head and dropped down onto the seat beside her. “Where’s Genevieve?” Phil called as he poured two fingers of bourbon into a brandy snifter. “You want anything while you wait, Quinn?” he added, before the stranger could answer.
“I’ll have a beer,” Quinn replied, keeping her voice light. The vampire, Drake, stiffened beside her, but he didn’t turn his head.
“Genevieve’s at home,” he remarked drily, still focusing on Phil and answering his initial question.
“I don’t think you’ve met Quinn,” Phil placed the drinks on the counter in front of them, and Quinn immediately took a hearty slug of her beer. Drake turned his head slowly towards her as Phil continued, “Quinn is staying in the old Monroe house on Ridge Road.”
“Is that so?” Drake asked, his cruel green eyes boring into Quinn’s face.
“Yes,” she replied brightly, taking another swig of beer and wishing the bartender hadn’t been so free with giving out her address. “Where do you stay?”
“Oh Drake and Genevieve are just around the corner from you,” Phil interjected pleasantly, “in Abbey Place.” Phil didn’t notice, but Drake’s eyes narrowed briefly – he was not thrilled either with Phil’s light bandying around of information.
“How long have you been in town?” he asked, his voice low and melodious.
“Three weeks. I’m still getting to know everyone.”
“Drake knows everybody, of course,” Phil could not seem to let it go. “He and his wife, Genevieve...”
“Girlfriend,” Drake corrected.
“More's the pity,” Phil jested, “yes, well, he and his girlfriend have been here nearly... five years is it, Drake?”
“Six.” Drake didn’t take his eyes off Quinn’s face. Feeling the thin stake in her boot pressing against her leg calmed her and she met his gaze levelly.
“Ah, your pizzas are ready,” Phil reached behind him to pull the boxes from the serving window and Quinn, grateful for the distraction, looked away as she got to her feet and paid for the pizzas and her beer. Drake drained his glass and stood up, towering over her.
“I’m also heading home,” he announced and a feeling of dread came over Quinn, “I’ll walk you.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Quinn muttered as they made their way down the street. She would probably feel safer if her arms weren’t laden with pizza boxes, limiting her ability to reach for her stake.
“It’s not exactly out of my way.”
Quinn’s mind whirled. What would a vampire be doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Granted, there were thousands of vampires in the realm of man – denied access to Summerfeld – and they could turn as many humans as they wanted. The sheer number of their population, despite the Hunters' best efforts to reduce them, was why Quinn’s faith in the prophecy was so shrouded with doubt. There were only a few hundred inhabitants of Summerfeld – it seemed unlikely that they would ever achieve a balance. No matter how many vampires they killed, it seemed twice as many were created. Vampires had enhanced speed, strength and heightened senses – their sight and hearing was incomparable. They also had unnatural healing powers which, like their other abilities, amplified with age. Idly Quinn wondered just how long Drake had been a vampire. He was attractive, in a hard, unyielding way; tall and pale, with short cropped hair, so dark it looked black in the moonlight.
Quinn took comfort in the fact that Drake could not sense that she was a Guardian - Guardians were indiscernible from humans to a vampire – but the silver watch she had taken to wearing on her left wrist to cover her tattoo suddenly felt like a hopelessly inadequate cover. Her instinct spurred her to destroy him – a natural threat to the supernatural beings she was sworn to protect – but Quinn had long learned to control these impulses. Only the Hunters flamed this primary instinct, honing it; their sole purpose to destroy. Guardians like Quinn were simply protectors, and they killed only when their lives, or the lives of their wards, were threatened.
“So... your girlfriend, Genevieve...” she began, but she had not realised how long they had walked in silence.
“We’re here,” he interrupted, coming to a sudden stop.
“Oh, right...” Quinn trailed off, “I’m actually going over to my neighbours' – not even I can polish off two large pizzas on my own.” She shook the boxes in her hands. Drake didn’t smile and she cast around for something else to say.
“Goodnight Quinn,” he beat her to it, and, before she could recover, he had been swallowed up by the darkness.
Chapter 7
Drake rounded the corner into Abbey Place, his eyes sweeping the empty street, seeing everything.
“You’re late,” Genevieve reproached h
im the second he shut the door. Drake turned to see a pretty brunette bound and gagged on the sofa. He didn’t recognise her face, unsurprisingly since they did not hunt within a hundred miles of Brookfield. Her eyes were closed and her mascara had smudged beneath her eyes, no doubt from crying. A trickle of blood ran down her chest from two puncture marks in her neck. Drake’s nostrils flared as the sickly-sweet smell reached him.
“You could have waited,” he remarked, striding across the room and taking the young girl's hand. Feeling her wrist he detected a faint pulse.
“I was irritated. Sebastian called again today. The Guardians have still not found the twelfth.” Sebastian, Genevieve’s brother, was a vampire elder. He served on the council; an active participant in the vampire’s Quest for Summerfeld.
“Genevieve,” Drake warned, his fangs extending – a combination of his rising anger and his thirst.
“Summerfeld has never been so vulnerable,” she continued, her own fangs bared. “We might never have another chance like this!”
“Eleven Guardians are as good as a thousand, Genevieve,” Drake tried to keep his temper in check.
“The balance has been compromised. This is just the beginning, I am sure of it. We need to strike now!”
“Oh yes,” Drake roared, his control slipping, “and what if you come across a Slayer Genevieve?” She stiffened involuntarily at the mention of the word. “Will you still be so confident then?”
“There has not been any whisper of a Slayer in over five hundred years,” she hissed, her fangs fully extended. “And should one emerge, we will deal with it.”
“Deal with it?” Drake barked in harsh, mirthless laughter. “You have never seen a Slayer and I pray to God you never have to.”
Unbidden, Drake’s own memories washed over him. The burning village, the vampiric screaming - so blood-curdling it sounded almost human. It had been over five hundred years and he could still smell the burning flesh of his fellows as one by one they were struck down. And then there were the memories of Charlotte - as crystal clear as if it was yesterday. Charlotte. Seventeen years old, beautiful and gloriously human. He had met her through a chance encounter at a market fair and her blood had called to him. She had been surveying the wares of a gypsy stall, fascinated by the trinkets and potions. Following her when she left, he had lured her into a pebbled alleyway, his hunger for her blood assaulting his senses. He had pushed her roughly against the cold stone of an ironmongery, his fangs extending painfully in his jaws. However, when he met her gaze and the liquid cocoa of her warm brown eyes - he was lost. He couldn’t do it. Not a single bone in his entire body would allow him to hurt her. All he could see were those eyes, exquisitely set in a heart-shaped face and the full curve of her lips, which trembled in fear. The dizzying scent of the posies braided into her hair overwhelmed him and he stumbled back, releasing her abruptly and shaking his head as though in pain.
Guardians of Summerfeld: Full Series: Books 1-4 Page 4