Flame's Dawn

by Jillian David

  Her vision and brain fog cleared further. Stark reality of the situation filtered in, with all the ramifications of what they were doing. Tremors racked her body.

  Still wrapped in the sheet, she was lifted into his arms. With a massive kick, he sent the bed flying to the opposite side of the garage where it crashed into a vehicle at the end of the ramp.

  “Shite,” he mumbled as they ducked between two cars. He cradled her on his lap as he crouched in front of a rusted truck grill.

  A few moments later, footsteps flew by them.

  Voices turned to shouts. The searchers had found the bed.

  Twilight backlit Barnaby’s face into a hard, grim profile.

  The muscles in his arms and thighs bunched as he balanced her weight. With a slow, grinding twist, he removed a headlight from a vehicle.

  Pounding steps and Thompson’s loud voice reverberated through the garage. She pressed her lips tightly together to keep from letting out a terrified cry.

  If Thompson got his hands on her again—man, she couldn’t even imagine. She’d never walk away from a second meeting.

  She shivered. If she could stand on her own two feet, Jane would run from this place and never stop. But little in her weakened body worked right now, and that ticked her off almost as much as the awful situation.

  Dependent on someone for help, all she could do was pray that Barnaby knew what he was doing.

  His voice blew over her brow like hope and promises.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he whispered.

  Her shiver had nothing to do with the cool evening temperature and everything to do with the vibrations of his voice rolling over her.

  She’d placed her life in his hands once before, and he hadn’t failed.

  All those muscles bunched, like a tiger about to pounce. Instead of crouching to spring, he curled himself around her body, holding her so tightly it hurt.

  Damned if she’d complain.

  Footsteps came closer and stopped two cars away.

  Sweat rolled down her neck.

  “Someone back here?” a disembodied voice said.

  With a burst of movement, Barnaby flung the headlight into the far recesses of the garage, where it shattered, drawing the searcher away.

  Shouts echoed off the concrete as many sets of feet faded toward the location of the noise.

  Barnaby ran, staying in front of cars, until they reached the end of the garage. Were they at ground level?

  He stood up, and she peeked over the wall down a good fifty feet. Her stomach churned. Not ground level.

  “Jane,” a nasty voice grated.

  Barnaby froze.

  Thompson’s boots thunked concrete as he walked out of the shadows. “Come back with me, baby. You’re sick. I can take care of you, like always. We’ll make more babies. Strong ones. Babies to carry on important work.”

  Hot stomach acid burned its way up her throat.

  Barnaby frowned and glanced down at her, a silent question written on his face.

  “Please, no, Barnaby. He’s lying.”

  His curt nod gave her hope. When he studied Thompson for several seconds, Barnaby’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Minion? God’s teeth, no,” he whispered.

  “What?” Jane didn’t like how Barnaby had gone deathly still. Something had happened between the two men, but darned if she knew what.

  Thompson grinned.

  Barnaby tensed.

  How would they get out of this mess?

  “Let go of my wife, asshole, or I’ll have you thrown in jail.”

  “Throw yourself in jail, Thompson,” she spat. “How many crimes are enough? How much pain and suffering do you have to inflict?”

  His eyes darted over his shoulder up the parking ramp. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, sugar. It’s the drugs, of course. Look, pal, she’s sick. Let me take her back for more treatment.” His nice-guy act rang like a note out of tune.

  A muscle jumped in Barnaby’s jaw as his eyes blackened. “You will not touch her, spawn of Satan.”

  Thompson’s expression shifted, like a curtain drawn back from his angry face to reveal pure evil beneath. By some trick of the dim light, he looked much bigger. More menacing. “You have no say in this, slave.” He barked out what passed for a laugh. “You just signed her death warrant.”

  “Barnaby? What’s he talking about?” she asked.

  Barnaby glanced at the edge of the wall and then back to Jane. “He’s a very bad creature. And he’s lying about you being his wife.”

  “Yes. Every last bit of it.”

  He kept one eye on Thompson. “Good enough for me.” Flicking a glance at Jane, he asked, “Do you trust me?”

  Did she trust him? It didn’t matter. Jane had just run out of choices.

  “I do right now.”

  Several other searchers pounded concrete as they sprinted up to Thompson. The cult leader glanced at them with an uneasy expression that clouded over into one of pure hatred. His imposing frame seemed to shrink back to a normal size.

  She shook her head. Must be the drugs.

  Barnaby’s arms tensed.

  With a spring too fast to register, Barnaby vaulted the wall, and her stomach left her as they fell through air. The impact with the ground jarred her as he grunted, rolled forward onto his knees, and absorbed most of the force of the fall.

  It took a minute to breathe again. “How did—?”

  A roar of male anger amplified by something else nameless and evil came from three stories up.

  “Shush,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  With her cradled in his arms, he ran, faster than anything she’d ever known was possible. He dodged cars, leapt benches, and ducked into an alley until they had traveled away from the garage and behind the hospital in mere seconds. They stopped near a black hearse.

  How fitting.

  “How—?” she asked when he stopped to study his surroundings.

  As he dropped a light kiss onto her cheek, his thick brown hair brushed over her forehead. “You have your secrets. I have mine.”

  “But—”

  “Did I fail you in Saigon?”

  “No.”

  “I won’t fail you now.”

  She swallowed. “Okay.”

  He flung open the passenger door and settled her on the seat, then ran around to the driver’s side. Keys dangled from the ignition.

  Because who would ever steal a hearse, right?

  Apparently, Barnaby.

  Jane couldn’t care less.

  Chapter 8

  Barnaby had experience driving all sorts of vehicles—everything from carriages to Model Ts to tanks. But nothing compared with his attempts to make the ridiculous hearse speed to Tenderloin while still remaining inconspicuous.

  He’d lost one cop car a few blocks ago, but no way would his luck hold. Likely an alert had gone out when he and Jane escaped the hospital.

  Shite. A minion. Frigging bat piss. Thompson reeked of minion—a creature made by Barnaby’s boss, Jerahmeel, and the worst being that could walk this earth. Minions existed to wreak havoc on the world and find new and creative ways to hurt the Indebted. Through the years, Jerahmeel somehow knew when an Indebted got too close to a human. Then boom, a minion would show up and destroy the human. Sometimes the Indebted, too, but minions typically stopped short of killing an Indebted.

  Barnaby’s kind could do their job without an arm or leg, but the injury would remind an Indebted to obey the boss in the future.

  Ice flooded his veins. Jane was in this situation because of Barnaby. The minion wouldn’t be attracted to her if she’d never come into contact with an Indebted.

  By his uncle’s crooked cock, when in the hell had Thompson become a minion?

  To make matters worse, this particular minion wanted to make babies with Jane. Shite. Barnaby couldn’t even imagine what the offspring of such evil could do. This rescue attempt had gone from chivalrous to critical in the space of a few seconds.<
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  Z’blood, the way her tiny frame slumped in the front seat shot chills down his spine. Every few minutes, a big shudder racked her, and his own heart quaked in response. What had that minion done to her?

  What hell had she suffered in that awful hospital ward?

  She was ill, and Barnaby wasn’t equipped to take care of someone this sick. Unexpected fear raked cold tines over his body. What if he couldn’t help her? His soul wouldn’t survive if he had to watch Jane die.

  Would she be better off in the hospital with the treatments but also with Thompson? Or would she survive with an inadequately trained Barnaby, fueled only by fear?

  His keen hearing picked up the whine of sirens. He gripped the steering wheel.

  Damned if he’d let her go now.

  Pushing the hearse past all factory tolerances, he clipped a curb edge and then yanked the wheel hard to avoid crashing into a parked car. The hearse floated for an unnatural second on two wheels before thudding back to full traction on the earth.

  Sirens grew louder.

  Barnaby had about ten blocks to get to his apartment. Could he go elsewhere? Possibly, but it would be much better to collect supplies, divest the apartment of any trace of his identity, and then clear out for good.

  This vehicle would never make it to his building undetected.

  His instinct for danger blazing, he whipped the hearse into an alley, careening against the two narrow brick walls until he stopped. Killing the lights, he ducked down; Jane’s ragged breathing filled the vehicle.

  He rested a hand on her bony shoulder, cursing when she flinched. It took every ounce of his Indebted strength to keep from bursting out of the vehicle, hunting down that wretched Thompson, and ripping the head from that minion’s disgusting body. But as a warm tear hit his wrist, his attention shifted, like binocular barrels twisted until what was important came into sharp focus.

  Jane.

  Cop cars flew by the alley entrance, briefly shooting light and sound down the narrow passageway.

  Sooner or later, someone would find the hearse. He glanced at the buildings on either side of the alley. What if someone were phoning it in to the police even now?

  Time had run out.

  There was not enough room to open the side doors, so he heaved his body through the back of the vehicle and stopped. No door handle. Of course not.

  With a grunt, he punched through the back window and groped for the exterior handle until the door opened. Blood dripped from his knuckles and arm. He’d be fine in a few minutes.

  Which was more than he could say for Jane. He clambered back to the front seat.

  “My dear, we need to leave.”

  Her head lolled back and up until glazed eyes locked onto his like the world’s strongest magnet. In the darkness of the alley, little light filtered into the vehicle, but he caught the hint of the sweaty sheen on her forehead. Was she in dire need of medical attention, or was this merely a temperature spike that would improve in a few minutes?

  Damn it, he didn’t know, and that scared him more than a hell-bent minion.

  “Do you trust me?” He had to hear her response.

  “I do right now.”

  Her whispered statement should have made him proud. Should have made him feel like more of a man.

  Instead, it terrified him. Made him take rapid stock in his Indebted existence.

  He came up woefully short.

  Someone depended on him. When last had that occurred?

  Fear wrapped its bony fingers around his spine.

  And squeezed.

  Damn it, it didn’t matter how he felt. All that counted was getting Jane to safety.

  “I’m going to lift you over the seats.”

  Her bit-off gasp when he slid his hands under her back and thin legs ruined him. Darkness shaded his vision, and at the sounds of more sirens, the instinct to protect her drove him as surely as a mad coachman with a whip.

  He tried to make Jane’s trip out the back of the hearse smooth, but he winced in sympathy at every jostle. In the trunk area of the vehicle, he tied the hospital sheet firmly around her waist. When she looped a thin arm around his neck, it trapped his ancient heart in his throat.

  Cradling her to his chest, he exited the vehicle and scanned the area. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. Flashing lights threw shadows.

  Blue and red licked at each end of the alley. Several blocks from his apartment, and they were trapped.

  Shite.

  It would take a winged creature like the angel Gabriel swooping down to save them now.

  Unless ... he could learn to fly.

  He kissed Jane’s clammy forehead, apologized, and draped her over his shoulder.

  He vaulted to the roof of the hearse and springboarded to the lowest rung of a fire escape.

  Hanging there, he adjusted her slight weight. The image of her falling onto the concrete below propelled him to heave himself up and grab one rung, then a second one. Each lurch shoved his stomach into his throat. One wrong move, and Jane would fall.

  Even his immortal strength had limits, and one-armed pull-ups with deadweight attached was right at that limit.

  Before he could lift a foot to the lowest rung, a police vehicle stopped at the end of the alley. The floodlight raked the darkness, casting deep, moving shadows. The jut of a building shadowed his position when the bright light swept past.

  For what seemed like an eternity, they hung, suspended by his one arm above the alley.

  A few minutes later, the lights blinked off, and the engine purred away.

  He didn’t have the luxury of a sigh of relief.

  Swinging a foot up to the lowest rung, he missed, scraping against the rusted metal and then thin air.

  With another ripe curse, he tried again, straining to make contact with the rung. Grunting, he leveraged himself out and up until he stood up on the bottom rung of the ladder.

  Then he flew up the fire escape into the night.

  Leaping from roof to roof, he worked his way back to the block where he lived.

  “Lived.” Bollocks. A sick jest for what he’d been doing these past years. Nay, these past centuries.

  He tugged Jane from his shoulder to settle in his arms. He chafed her cold arms and legs until her eyes opened. Thank God, she was still conscious.

  Lights blinked over the streets up the hill, west of the Tenderloin district. Police still swarmed the block where he’d parked the vehicle. They’d probably found the hearse by now.

  Time, damn it. How had he gone from far too much time to not enough?

  Since he met Jane.

  He leaned over the edge of the roof, trying to judge an escape to the street level. Forty stories up. Too far for him to safely jump with Jane.

  Jane’s strangled cry made him scramble backward.

  She clutched at his neck. “Don’t do that!”

  Right. Because she was mortal. In case he’d forgotten. “My apologies,” he mumbled. Her tremors sent his guilt into overdrive. With all her hallucinations, she probably thought he’d drop her over the edge. He checked his watch.

  Nine p.m.

  Stay here and wait for the later hours of night, with fewer people out on the street?

  Or go now and try to get her into his apartment unnoticed?

  He glanced to the street he’d have to cross.

  Too many lights, too many people. Too many prying eyes from hundreds of windows.

  He wedged himself into the corner of the roof and drew Jane into his embrace, tucking the sheet as tightly around her as possible. They’d stay here until the chances of detection dropped.

  He hoped.

  Chapter 9

  How they’d managed to get into the building, Jane had no idea.

  Several sickening drops from that last building should have killed Barnaby and her, but somewhere from the wild ride through the city streets to hanging out on a rooftop, she ended up here.

  Where was “here”?


  The off-white walls and beige furniture blended into a sameness that encouraged the eye to overlook all of it. No pictures, no personal memorabilia. No magazines. Nothing to indicate that this apartment belonged to anyone in particular.

  At a rustling sound, she searched for the source. On the counter lay a file, and Barnaby was thumbing through it with a deepening frown. Although she hadn’t moved, he cocked his head and glanced up at her. He’d changed from his white hospital uniform into a knit shirt and jeans.

  “Hi.” Barnaby’s rich voice took away her anxiety like a match going out. After closing the folder, he flipped on the nearby radio. The funky beat of “Jungle Boogie” seemed way too peppy, but the noise provided a welcome distraction.

  “How long have we been here?”

  “Half hour or so. I wanted to leave, but you needed to rest and warm up first.”

  She shrugged. “We can go if you think it’s best.”

  “We’re okay for now. Police are searching for us, but they’re not looking in this area yet.”

  She grimaced. Thompson and his psychotic behavior.

  Barnaby approached her. “Why did Thompson want you so much, Jane?”

  Could she tell him about the assignment?

  Why not? Her cover was blown.

  In fact, her career in intelligence had gone kaput the minute she’d dropped acid to weasel into the People’s Palace. And freelancing to complete the mission? DEA would’ve loved that slick move. They had no idea what she’d told Thompson.

  Jane didn’t know what she’d said either, and that scared the hell out of her. Not to mention this assignment had nearly killed her.

  So much for her having a purpose in this world.

  What could she tell Barnaby?

  For his heroics this evening, she’d tell him anything he wanted to know. Like it even mattered anymore.

  She took a sip from the water glass Barnaby had proffered before he perched on the edge of the plain coffee table.

  She handed him back the glass. “So. A lot has changed since Vietnam.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “You remember that last night?”

  The light in his blue eyes took her breath away, but she truly shivered when those eyes turned an odd black color. She could barely hear his low response.