Victoria's Destiny

by L. J. Garland

“Afraid I can’t.”

  “Why not? Scared I’ll be too much for you to handle?”

  “No.” Kent reached to his waist to retrieve his knife. The blade glinted in the candlelight. “Ritual.”

  Oh God. She forced down the terror squirming in her belly. “Ritual my ass.”

  When his hand slid beneath her sweater, she jumped. His damp palm pressed against her skin, icy fingers splayed over her ribs. He inhaled, and the candles flickered, shadows dancing across the walls. Eyes closed, he spoke, the foreign words slipping between his lips, streaming out in a hypnotic cadence.

  Vicki shifted her focus to the ceiling, her mind scouring for a solution, a way out of the nightmare in which she’d been caught. River lay unconscious in the next room. The police weren’t coming to her rescue. There’s no one else. I have to save myself…or die trying.

  The candles guttered, and the room dimmed. Undistracted, Kent continued to chant in a low, gravelly tone. The knife in hand, he raised his arm toward the ceiling, and the candles brightened, their flames lengthening by three, heating the room. Above her, the metal light fixture blazed a reflection of the flickering light.

  Her breath caught. Oh, crap. A glowing circle of gold.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  River lay beneath a pile of books and broken knickknacks. Damn his arm hurt like a son of a bitch. Had the impact broken it? God, he hoped not.

  When Kent had checked out the reason for the crash, River had laid still, played dead. And the bastard had bought it. Then Vicki’s bold attempt to piss off her captor had come, to challenge him, trick him into loosening her bonds. She wouldn’t go down without a fight. River grinned. God, I love that woman.

  Kent still droned a succession of foreign words. Candlelight flickered. Died. Brightened.

  River moved his leg, discovering the bookcase he’d brought down atop himself had broken the chair he’d been tied to. He shifted. Books slid off his body, bumped into others on the floor. Bits of glass and ceramic crunched and popped. He glanced toward the doorway, and when he realized his movements hadn’t caused alarm, he tugged his arm free.

  The chanting ceased, and River froze. Is he coming back?

  “Don’t stop now, you psychotic prick,” Vicki taunted. “Your constant babble almost put me to sleep.”

  Damn, he needed to hurry. The undertone of fear lacing her words told him her brave front was faltering. Soon she would panic, and Kent would have exactly what he wanted. A terrified woman, her heart pounding—the ideal sacrifice.

  With a sharp twist, he freed one hand then untied the other. Rolling, he pushed the bookcase up enough to scoot from beneath it, broken chair and all. Damn heavy piece of furniture. He let it fall onto the scattered books with a muffled thump.

  Kent’s voice wafted through the air, his chants resuming.

  River scrambled to his feet, and his thigh screamed with a sharp pain. Half a dozen paces away, his gun lay on the counter. He could get it, end the madness in the next room. Focusing, he forced himself to straighten and ignore the injury.

  Vicki whimpered, her resolve clearly crumbling. The sound of her terror ripped at his soul. The gibberish Kent spoke intensified, each syllable a spike shooting through the air.

  River stumbled to the counter. The cool grip of the .40 cal beneath his hand speared optimism in his heart. The tight knot twisting his gut loosened. He could save her. Salvation was at hand.

  “You bastard! No!” Vicki’s screams slashed the air. “Oh God!”

  Air jammed in his throat, and he took a step toward her. Stopped. The urge to dive headlong to her rescue all but overwhelmed him. He sucked in a breath, let his training take lead.

  With a quick jerk of the Glock’s slide, he chambered a round. Pain seared his biceps, but he ignored it. He bent his arms, positioned the gun near his cheek, the end of the barrel pointed at the ceiling.

  “River!”

  Her cries clawed at him. Then she went quiet.

  Controlled bursts of air rushed in and out his mouth. Half a dozen long strides and he stood at the doorway. He shut his eyes tight. Dear God, what if I’m already too late?

  “River, help me!”

  He opened his eyes, sucked in a breath, and stepped into the dining room. Vicki lay on the table, her face contorted with fear, every inch of her tense with terror. Her sweater had been ripped open, exposing her creamy skin and lacy bra.

  No blood. A trickle of relief coursed through him, threatened to weaken his knees.

  He aimed his pistol at Kent, who loomed over her. The bastard gripped the hunting knife he’d dubbed his new athame in both hands, held it high in the air. His ritual interrupted, Kent looked up, and surprise jolted River.

  Dear God in Heaven. Those eyes. Candle flames reflected in the man’s depthless, demonic black orbs.

  River squeezed the trigger.

  Kent jerked, and the picture window at the rear of the house exploded.

  Stepping toward him, River fired again. A second deafening shot roared through the close quarters.

  Kent moved back, a grin twisting his mouth.

  River fired again, and his target twitched. The doorjamb at the other end of the room splintered, the window beyond shattered onto the deck. How the hell is the bastard still standing? Through narrowed eyes, he scrutinized Kent’s torso but found no evidence of blood. By God, I’m six feet from him. No way in hell I missed three times.

  Kent held his arms out to the sides, tilted his head. “Polo.”

  River took aim for a fourth shot, but the killer danced through the far doorway with shocking speed, his form a blur of motion. River’s mind worked overtime to comprehend what he’d just seen. Fuck me.

  Lenny’s references of enhanced speed and strength resounded in his mind. The thought that everything the UFO reporter had told him might be true shook the very foundation of his belief system. Hell, there were so many cracks already—like when the psychotic bastard had lifted Vicki off the floor with a single hand—his ideas about the world he lived in were pretty much shattered.

  “River!”

  He turned, found her sweet, loving face staring up at him. “Are you all right?” He loosened the rope on her wrist, and she pulled her hand free.

  “I’m fine.” She turned to work on the other hand. “Go get him, River. Stop him before he gets away.”

  He didn’t argue. He moved to the doorway Kent had exited. With quick, practiced movements, he tracked the killer into the living room. The rear doors remained closed and locked, which meant the bastard was still in the house somewhere.

  He rounded the couch, checked behind the kitchen bar. All clear. Broken glass and chips of ceramic crunched beneath his shoes. He paused to listen, but the dog barking upstairs made it impossible to hear anything.

  Movement to his right brought him careening around to find Vicki standing in the dining room doorway. She’d wrapped her sweater around her torso and hugged herself to hold the material in place. She tilted her head toward the front of the house.

  “Front door.”

  He eased forward. Cold air drifted through the open doorway, twined around his ankles. He moved down the hallway and out onto the porch. The dog’s barking receded, replaced by thousands of crickets merrily rubbing their legs together.

  River scanned the yard. Clear. “Let’s get you to the car. Call for backup.”

  “I tried.” She followed him down the steps. “But there was no reception.”

  He nodded. That explained why no one had shown up. He popped the trunk, grabbed a spare windbreaker, and handed it to her.

  Gratitude beamed in her eyes as she slipped it on. The jacket swallowed her. She pulled the zipper, concealing her torn sweater and exposed torso. Her gaze darted around. “Where do you think he went?”

  “Back to Hell, I wish.”

  A salt-filled breeze rolled from the ocean, caressed the stand of thin pines across the street. Their needles brushed against one another, creating a muffled hiss as the wind r
ushed through. Above the copse hung the moon, luminous and full.

  The sight rocked him to his core. Well, hell. A bright gray circle. The last symbol before the pointed capital D.

  He turned to ask Vicki what it might mean, but a branch cracked somewhere in those pines. His senses snapped on high alert. Was that Kent? He scanned the trees and spotty underbrush, but even with the brilliant moonlight, the dense shadows allowed him to see only so far.

  “Polo.”

  The whispered word floated along the breeze and raised the hairs on his neck. It was an invitation to play the game, to seek the murderer and avenge all the lives the Valentine Killer had taken. To mete out justice. To have revenge against a partner who’d betrayed him in the worst possible way.

  “Marco, you asshole.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  River jerked his Glock up, aimed it at the trees across the road. His heart thumped hard, the knot in his gut tightening.

  “You heard it?” Vicki moved to his side.

  “Yeah. Bastard said Polo.” An invitation he couldn’t turn down.

  “Here.” She handed him a flashlight, and he switched it on.

  “You should stay here,” he murmured, his attention riveted on the pines. Kent was in there somewhere. He knew it.

  “Like hell.” She moved next to him. “Where you go, I go.”

  River wanted to protest, but what she said made sense. If he left her at the car, he’d worry whether Kent had doubled back—he was sneaky that way. “Fine. But stay close.”

  He led her across the street, moving his gaze systematically left to right in search of the killer. It was a game. One Kent believed he would win. But determination ran deep in River’s veins. This time, he would have vengeance.

  Even with the flashlight, shadows pooled thick along the ground. He stepped into the inordinately large stand of trees. If he continued straight ahead, he would lead them into the marsh. But how far off that lay, he hadn’t a clue.

  He paused, listened. The rustle of underbrush brought him spinning around, and he rushed off, Vicki on his heels. When a swish of air grazed his shoulder, he stumbled to a stop, swiped the flashlight’s beam through the trees. Nothing.

  A breeze moved through the trees, and the shadows shifted, quivered. How the hell was he supposed to find anyone in here? Of course, that was part of the game. The struggle. The competition to determine who was smarter, more devious.

  Vicki touched his arm, her fingers a light caress to let him know her location. He glanced down, found her searching the dappled copse in search of the monster who’d tortured her. He turned toward her, the bed of pine needles beneath his feet muffling his movements.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.

  She turned steel-gray eyes on him. “Like hell. The bastard tried to kill me.”

  “I know. But chasing after a murderer like this could get you killed.” He understood her desire for revenge, but he couldn’t risk it. He pivoted on his heel and headed back out to the road.

  “Wait.” Her whisper slipped through the night air.

  Rounding back, he realized she’d dropped to her hands and knees. He moved to her side while she clawed the carpet of needles aside, digging down to the rich black soil underneath. The moonlight beamed, the bright-gray circle spotlighting her efforts.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It worked in the house.” She peered up at him. Sweat beads dotted her forehead. “At least I think it did.” She continued clearing the ground, smoothed the dirt below.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The killer’s sign.” She brushed her hands on her jeans. “I drew the pointed capital D with my heel. Dragged it through that poor girl’s blood.”

  “Yeah. I remember.” He glanced around, ever watchful. “It didn’t magically set us free. He untied you, dragged you off. And I flipped my chair and broke it. In the end, he escaped, so I’m not ready to say we got the upper hand. Drawing the symbol didn’t really change a thing.”

  “Or did it?” She leaned over, snatched up a nearby stick, and drew a circle in the damp earth. “We’re still alive.”

  “Yeah, but I just saw my next to last symbol.” He jerked his thumb toward the sky. “My bright-gray circle happens to be the moon.”

  She glanced up then continued drawing. “Yes, but by drawing the last symbol, the killer’s symbol, earlier, we changed the order. I think…I hope it changed the outcome of my vision…or at least bought us some time to plan our next move. And since we’re still here, it seems like it did.”

  “I hope you’re right. If you were talking to Lenny, I’m sure he’d be onboard.” He gritted his teeth, searching their immediate area for any sign Kent waited nearby.

  “I saw my next to last symbol, too…the glowing circle of gold. I thought I was finished, that he would kill me.” She completed the pentagram and looked up at him. “But then you saved me.”

  He stared at what she’d created in the dirt. “So, you want to get us killed by drawing the final symbol yourself?”

  “Not really. Besides, I already drew it once.” A smile played on her lips, and vengeance lit her eyes. “No. This time, I want to bring him to us.”

  He raised a brow. “That’s a damn good plan.”

  “Okay.” She paused, the stick poised above the center of the pentagram. “Be ready. He’s fast and could come from anywhere.”

  “Damn straight.” River remembered the blur of movement when Kent had escaped from the dining room. He did a quick check of his pistol, gripped it tight, and prepared for anything. “Do it.”

  He waited, his attention focused on their surroundings. Will it really work? Can drawing a picture in the dirt summon a murderer? Two weeks ago, he wouldn’t have believed it possible. Tonight, however, he hoped for exactly that.

  “Done.” She rose to her feet.

  River turned in a circle, struggled to see deeper into the darkness, strained to hear the slightest hint of movement. After several tense minutes, he let his shoulders drop. “I don’t think it worked.”

  “I don’t either.” She sighed. “Maybe he’s gone.”

  He lowered his gun, stared at the symbol. His skin crawled. The urge to kick his foot through the dirt and destroy the drawing jolted though him.

  His stomach clenched, twisted, and knotted. He brought the Glock up again, his heart banging against his sternum.

  “What?” Vicki moved closer.

  “He’s here.” Hot fear crept up his back, licked at the ice-cold sweat that trickled down. Damn if the drawing didn’t work. He spun, searched for any sign of activity.

  “Where?” she whispered.

  River froze, an electric tingle raising the hairs on his body. He tilted his head back, shone the flashlight into the treetops, the beam illuminating the demonic killer halfway up a needle-thin pine tree.

  “Polo.” Kent laughed.

  “Sonovabitch.” River squeezed the pistol’s trigger. Chunks of the bark sprayed the air.

  The bastard jumped, landed on a tree closer to River and Vicki. He leered down at them, his black eyes glittering in the moonlight.

  River fired three successive shots. Kent leaped from one tree to the next, the thin timber bowing under his weight and springboarding him to another. Pine needles rained down from above. The air reeked with the sharp scent of resin.

  Kent clung to the tree; one foot and one hand held him at an angle that defied gravity. His face radiated pleasure, and River growled. The bastard was enjoying their cat-and-mouse game. He’d baited River into almost emptying his magazine. One shot remained.

  He aimed, but before he could pull the trigger, the man jumped to the ground. The blur of motion left River’s Glock pointed at the branches high in the tree. He jerked the gun lower, aimed the muzzle at his opponent’s head.

  “River,” Kent crooned. “After all we’ve been through together, is this any way to treat your old partner?”

  River didn’t blink. He pulle
d the trigger. The bullet erupted from the gun, the recoil sending the end of the barrel popping up into the air.

  Kent twitched. The hollow point round shot past him and slammed into a tree where chunks of wood exploded out the opposite side. Impossible.

  “Damn, Riv.” Kent glanced over his shoulder at the devastation wrought on the thin pine. “That’s harsh.”

  Without hesitation, River released the gun’s magazine. It bounced on the thick needle bed and bumped against his shoe. He met the bastard’s arrogant gaze head-on. River could almost reach out and strangle him. Instead, he opted to reload his gun. As he’d done hundreds of times before at the police shooting range, he retrieved his second magazine, lined it up in the receiver, and rammed it home.

  Kent grimaced. “Seems you’re hell-bent on shooting me.”

  “Yep.” He jerked the slide, chambering a round.

  In a blink, Kent stood at River’s side. “Your girlfriend’s hot.”

  He jolted, rounded toward the murderer. But he was gone. Damn, the bastard’s fast. It’s like he’s not human.

  Warm breath wisped across the back of his neck. “See you later, Riv.”

  He pivoted, but instead of finding Kent’s arrogant face, he aimed his gun at Vicki’s cowering form. Breath jammed in his throat, and he shifted his weapon away from her. Damn it. He’d almost pulled the trigger.

  Rage consumed him, gnawed on tensed nerves. He spun around, his finger pressed against the trigger. “Where’d the bastard go?”

  “Lenny was right,” she said, a quaver in her voice. “Thurisaz has possessed the guy. No human can move like that.”

  “Just tell me where the hell he went,” River growled.

  Vicki raised her arm and, with a shaky hand, pointed in the direction of the marsh.

  He nodded. “Stay here.”

  “River.” She looked at him with wide eyes. “Be careful.”

  The sight of her along with her soft tone added a new level to his determination. He’d keep her safe and take the murdering bastard down. “I will.”

  Rapid gunfire filled the night air. Three consecutive shots followed by two more. Then silence.