Copyright 2013 Mark D. Evans
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Cover Design by Greg Simanson
Edited by Steven Luna
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-139-6
EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-113-6
For further information regarding permissions, please contact
[email protected].
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013940452
For Mum.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It's taken roughly fourteen years, give or take a day or two, for this book to be actualized. Unsurprisingly, then, a fair few people have been involved in one way or another during its manifestation. From opinions and feedback to simple yet powerful words of encouragement, I value it all. I thank every one of you so very much, and I truly appreciate all that you have done.
In particular …
At Booktrope Editions I'd like to thank cool kids Katherine Sears for saying “yes”, Greg Simanson for the cover and badass Jesse James Freeman for pulling it all together. I was blown away with the efficiency of my book manager, Wendy Logsdon. With you in the gang I really feel I have the best team I could ask for. And that team would not be complete without Steven Luna. I consider myself very fortunate to have you as my editor; your approach, style and decisions were exactly what I had hoped for, but more than that, you're still speaking to me after all the silly questions.
Special thanks goes to Tracey Frazier, who got my foot in the door with the cool kids in the first place. Without you I wouldn't be writing these acknowledgements.
From along the way, a few mentions are deserved …
Kelli Coxhead was the first person subjected to my idea, encouraging me to talk about it and organically develop it (and all it took was meeting you on the other side of the world and supplying you with wine). Andy Cavill was the first person ever to read anything of the book and give me the confidence I needed to carry on (especially after I dramatically threw the manuscript out the window, literally). Lyndsey McAdam and Fraser Knight both helped, probably without even knowing it. Sofia Hericson and Nuno Rocha went above and beyond, treating me like family when I had nowhere else to go.
Assa Nguyen was there when it mattered most. You supported me and encouraged me with your love and enthusiasm and I'll never forget it.
And finally, an extra special thank-you goes to my beta reader, Shelly Squire. You are of course so much more than a beta reader. You read my raw prose and kept a subjective head on, giving me the honest feedback I needed, and you helped me out with ideas and problem areas. You helped me get the book into its best shape before I could even think about submitting it to the publishing world. It has changed so much since that third draft you read, and a lot of those changes—especially the major ones—are thanks to you. With that and all the other help you've given me since, you've made the book better, and in turn you've made the writer better.
Thank you, Sis.
PROLOGUE
AS IF IN SLOW MOTION, the large hand of the station clock swept to its next interval. Dr. Jorge Ortega was sure his imagination was to blame for its mechanical clunk, which nevertheless made the movement sound arduous. It also made the speed with which the sun sank into the horizon seem blistering in contrast, taking its leave earlier every day as the winter approached its darkest depth.
But the rapidly dying light was only one of the doctor's worries. His eyes darted from one face to another, the busying station making the job of spotting a stranger almost impossible. His coat blocked most of the chill and his body heat had warmed the wooden slats of the bench on which he sat, and yet his shivers persisted. He looked to his left, toward the entrance, and then to his right, down the platform filling with eager travelers. The wall behind him negated his need to check in that direction, yet the desire to do so never waned. There was no gap between the wall and the bench, no one could squeeze in and sneak up, but Jorge had never been as on-edge as he was now.
It had been almost a week since he'd received the telegram from his old friend and colleague, Nurse Dominquez. He had lived through her harrowing ordeal in the two minutes it had taken him to read it. His first instinct was to visit her, but his training had kicked in, and he knew there was only one right thing to do: flee. After blowing the dust from his leather satchel that squeaked from underuse, he'd caught the first train out of Madrid. Traveling at night when timetables allowed, catching forty winks here and there during the day, he'd zigzagged down the country. At every stop he hunted down a public phone, and when the operator informed him his call couldn't be connected, he had no choice but to catch the next train and try again.
He'd made it all the way to Valencia.
The boarding time of the evening train he was booked on still seemed so distant. Jorge stared into the space between passengers for someone—or something—to stand out. The vapor of his breath reminded him to rub his hands together, before his eyes returned to the clock like a nervous tic. He figured there'd be no harm in trying that call once more. Picking up the satchel from between his feet, he went over to the row of phones at the side of the concourse, lifted a receiver and gave the number to the operator. Waiting with what had become a nervous and futile hope, but a hope all the same, he jumped and fumbled in his pockets for pesetas when he was put through.
At the sound of the voice on the other end of the line, Jorge sighed and his tense shoulders relaxed. He had yet to deliver the important news, but already a great weight had been lifted as he offered pleasantries. But his sense of urgency hadn't completely disappeared. Moving the conversation on, he
relayed to his friend the highlights of the nurse's telegram; how a mysterious young woman had aggressively interrogated two other nurses and a priest before getting to her. It was a line of witnesses, and Jorge was determined that the line would end with him.
Standing on the concourse of Estacio del Nord with the earpiece to the side of his head, Jorge casually turned on the spot. His scheduled train was preparing to leave from the platform running parallel to the concourse, across two sets of unused rail tracks. He watched, as what would be his fellow passengers hugged loved ones and boarded carriages. Replying to a question his friend on the phone had asked, he instantly stopped mid-sentence, and his body stiffened.
Amongst the bustling passengers over on his platform was a breathing statue—a young woman with olive skin and black hair, standing motionless. Her exotic beauty was undeniable, even from this distance. And although she was too far away for Jorge to discern the color of her eyes, he knew they were staring straight at him. For a moment, the whole station seemed silent while people blurred between them. He felt the prickling of a cold sweat breaking out over his brow and down his back.
“She's here,” he said coolly. He waited. “She's as the nurse described. Young, dark and beautiful. She's staring right at me.” He paused for the response. “I'm thinking me staring back isn't helping my situation …
“Like her I imagine …
“Yes.” He turned back into the booth and switched to his accented English. “Take care of yourself, old friend. And take care of the girl.”
Jorge replaced the earpiece and spun around but knew before his gaze had settled that the woman would be gone. She lurked somewhere among those people, and Jorge knew she was coming for him. The outcome may have been inevitable, but he wasn't about to make it easy for her. Picking up his leather satchel, he began to walk down the concourse and away from the entrance, onto the nearest platform. The imminent departure of his train was no longer of concern. What was of concern were the hundreds of people in this very public place. He had to get away from them; he had to get her away from them.
Hurriedly weaving in between people going about their own business, Jorge kept glancing over his shoulder but never caught sight of the exotic woman he knew was following. Then, from somewhere behind him, he heard a commotion. Men and women were gasping at something, and when he looked back through the sparse crowd, he saw the stranger cross the tracks and leap up to the platform. She was no more than fifty yards behind him.
Jorge ran. The further down the platform he got, the fewer people there were to dodge. He knew the stranger would be faster than him, but he was hoping his head start would afford him enough time to get away from these civilians and find some kind of defensive position. It was clear now, all the way to the end of the platform, and he broke into a sprint. Glancing back, he saw the woman clear the last of the stragglers before breaking into a sprint of her own. She was less than forty yards back, with black hair and furls of dress flowing in her wake.
Ahead of Jorge, the platform ended in bricks and mortar. There were no doors in the outer wall of the station to his right and the locked door at the end looked sturdy. With no other option, he jumped down onto the track on his left. The bright lanterns of a steaming locomotive were heading straight for him. He fought the urge to freeze and ran onward. Above the mechanical noises of the metal giant, the brakes started squealing to slow its arrival into the station. Past the wall and clear of the platform, Jorge leapt to the right and off the tracks. He continued running alongside the black juggernaut in its opposite direction, merely feet away from the blur of hot metal that made his long coat flap violently.
He slowed and looked back, hoping there had been enough distance between him and the woman to trap her on the platform—or better yet, for her to try and follow and be pulverized by the train. His pluming breath stopped when she landed on the track, lit up by the thundering train. But she didn't flinch. With a furious flurry of fabric she leapt and landed with her left foot on the large, round front bumper before then launching off it to the side. Astoundingly, the black boot of her right foot landed on the side of the station wall. She pushed off, doing the same thing again with her left foot on the steam engine's water tank and then dropped to the ground in a controlled tumble. On foot and bare knee she slid to a stop in the shale, her arm out to the side for balance while her breath bellowed in the cold air of dusk. Jorge was almost at a standstill, in awe of the acrobatics. The woman glanced up through her black hair. In the electric light coming from above, her pupils flashed a luminous pale-green.
Sweating and out of breath, Jorge nevertheless turned back around and kicked up shale as he broke into another sprint. He squinted at the trackside buildings to his right, and despite the dark blue of the evening sky he made out a track-worker's shed. He veered toward it and slung himself through the open door, skidding along the floor on his shoulder to the back wall. He wasted no time opening his leather satchel, taking out his crossbow revolver. He pulled down the lever underneath and flipped out the two halves of the prod from the side. By the time he pushed the lever back up, the silhouette of the woman had appeared in the doorway. Jorge raised the bow and squeezed the trigger.
The wire twanged, and a thin spike whistled through the empty ten yards of air, thudding into his pursuer. She stumbled back a step or two with a pained yelp, but with so little light Jorge couldn't tell if he'd hit her where it counted. The silhouette straightened up and took a step forward. He'd missed.
He gripped the underside lever of his bow and pulled it down. The wire became taught, the ends of the prod bending back. Jorge already knew he wouldn't be fast enough, but he had to try. He yanked the lever back up, spinning the three-spike cylinder around to effectively load the next round. He lifted the bow and squeezed the trigger again, but she was already upon him and grabbed it, stopping the spike before it left the groove of the shaft. She threw it aside at the wall, the elegant weapon clanging into tools and knocking things over before clattering to the stone floor, somewhere in the darkness. Out of reach.
The woman stooped down, and Jorge felt the lapels of his coat being grabbed, pulled, and he was hoisted up to his feet and smashed against the wall. Winded, he huffed but punched out with his fists, left and then right, striking his attacker in the gut. She released him and staggered back.
“That was lucky,” she said breathlessly.
Jorge didn't waste a second. He launched himself at her with a right hook. For the briefest moment he thought he'd made contact, but instead his fist had been stopped. Caught. It was yanked down and twisted sharply. Joints and bones cracked and he yelled out in pain while trying to twist his body to lessen the strain, but it was too late. His right hand was crippled. The woman clutched his throat and pushed him back against the wall. She grabbed his left wrist and pinned that, too. Jorge could then see the rear of the spike buried in her shoulder, for all the good it had done.
“I should've known the Ministry was involved,” said the woman. “Where is she?”
Jorge noticed the South American inflections in her Spanish, but had no time to wonder about it. “Who?” he asked. The hand around his neck tightened as he struggled to say, “I'm not telling you anything.”
“I promise I'll kill you quickly if you tell me where she is.”
“You'll never find her.”
“I think you know I will.”
“You don't even know what country she's in.”
“Well, now I know she's not in this one.” The shadows of the woman's face changed as she smiled.
“The world's a big place. You may as well give up now. Even if you find her, it'll do you no good. She's nothing like you.” Jorge couldn't see much, but looking down at the edges of the woman's face he could tell that her smugness was faltering. “Whatever you monsters did, it didn't work. She'll renounce you.” The woman's grip tightened, her hand pressed up under his jaw. Jorge had to step up onto tiptoes.
“You know nothing about her,” the woman raile
d.
“Don't be so sure,” Jorge gurgled through her grip. “We've kept a very close eye on her.” His voice was getting quieter from the pressure on his throat, and he felt like he was shouting just to manage a whisper. “She has a life, and it's nothing like yours.” His coat caught on the jagged brickwork, the tips of his shoes scraping the floor. “That girl will never have anything to do with you,” he strained to say while his vision began sparkling from the lack of oxygen. “She … hates you!”
The woman snarled and dropped Jorge to the ground, yanking his wrist and spinning around before throwing him to the floor. He landed on his back and slid headfirst halfway out of the door. Gasping for air as his vision cleared, he lifted his head in time to see the woman pounce on him. She grabbed either side of his head and pushed it back down into the jagged shale outside the door. “I'll find her,” said the woman. “You'll see.” She glanced up, hummed to herself and looked back down at Jorge. “Actually … no you won't.” She smiled sadistically.
In the dim light, Jorge watched her, wide-eyed as her four canine teeth slowly slid out from their sheaths. They appeared to have grown an extra half-inch in only a few seconds.
From the station a steam engine's whistle sliced the cold night air. The woman moved her thumbs over his eyes, making them flitter closed. Her filed nails delicately lifted his eyelids before she placed the point of each in the centre of his corneas. Jorge whined and wriggled, but his head felt like it was held in a vice. She applied the slightest pressure, and his already obscured vision refracted around the edges. The sharp nails scratched the surface as he struggled and took in short fearful breaths. His left hand had remained uninjured, and he blindly jerked it up. But before he could make contact with her head, her sharp fangs dug into his wrist, slicing the tendons and turning his hand limp. He yelled and struggled worthlessly. She was in complete control.
Above him, Jorge's train began to noisily chuff past with screeching metal and rattling iron. The ground trembled, and with Jorge's screams drowned out the woman leaned forward and forced her thumbs down and into his eyes, forcing the squelching tissue up and out until her nails scratched the bone at the back of his sockets.
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