Amelia shrieked again as she found herself in the line of combat and hurriedly tried to crawl away. In the enclosed space of the van, it wasn't an easy task. She found herself still in the way as the goon tripped over her and hit the door, Jason still attached to him.
She ducked down, hearing the sound of blows being exchanged. She didn't look up until she heard the door unlock and open. She glanced up just in time to hear a shout as the second goon hit the pavement.
She looked at her son, watching him where he sat crouched at the back of the van, looking out at the road. He turned to her.
"We have to jump,” Amelia called to him over the rush of wind. “It's the only way!"
"No,” Jason shouted back. “There's another."
Amelia didn't know what he meant, but she didn't get a chance to ask. An enraged growl came from behind and they both turned to see Quenten with his face red and his eyes bulging.
"I gave you twice the dosage. You should be out for hours. You should be comatose!” The syringe was still in his hand and it trembled in his grip. He hunched over as he tried to stand, but the van shook from side to side.
"Boss,” the driver called. His small eyes alternated between looking in the mirror and looking at the road. It was clear he was debating whether or not to pull over and rush back there.
"Not now,” Quenten snapped, keeping his eyes locked on Jason. “I've got it under control. Just keep driving.” Amelia felt the familiar push from Quenten's mind. It was like a blast and she gasped as the wind was knocked out of her. She doubled over as pain ripped not only through her head, but her entire body.
"Leave her alone,” Jason shouted
Amelia looked up as the pain dissipated. Jason, though hunched over, looked intimidating with his yellow eyes and tightened fists. Quenten stood only a mere foot or two away, syringe clutched in his hand. The tray with all the blood vials lay on the bench seat next to him. His stare broke away from Jason and dropped down to it.
"I heard every word you said,” Jason began in a low tone. “I heard about all your fucking experiments, what you are trying to do. It's not going to work. You're done."
"I doubt that,” Quenten answered in an equally low voice. He moved fast, faster than Amelia or Jason had anticipated. He grabbed up a handful of the vials and wrenched the tops off them all simultaneously. Blood spilled on his coat as he poured parts of each into an empty vial, mixing the blood.
"I wanted to wait to do this. I wanted to see what it would do to you, to him, but I have no choice,” Quenten muttered. He dropped the now empty vials and they smashed on the floor of the vehicle, sending bloody shards everywhere. “It's now or never."
They could only watch in confusion and horror, as if in a trance, as he lifted the syringe to the vial of mixed blood. Amelia had a flash of an old vision and she gasped. She knew what he was going to do.
"No,” she shouted and tried to climb to her feet. Jason broke out of his trance and moved to grab him but it was too late.
Quenten peeled back the sleeve of his coat and without hesitating, stabbed the needle into his flesh. He pressed the plunger, tilting back his head in a sick show of pleasure as he did. When he was done, he pulled the needle out and lowered his head, his eyes meeting hers.
For a split second, time stood still. Amelia couldn't even breathe. He had injected himself with the blood. It flowed in his veins and soon he would change ... but into what horrible creature Amelia could only imagine.
Suddenly, Quenten lunged, grabbing for more vials, for more blood.
"No,” Jason yelled this time. He grabbed Quenten as the other man grabbed another handful of vials. They smashed as he slammed Quenten's arm into the wall. Blood dripped down the wall, splattering on their clothes. Amelia wasn't sensitive to the smell of it, but the scent was everywhere.
"Don't try to stop me!” Quenten screamed. He broke Jason's grip and placed both hands firmly on his chest. With a sudden burst of amazing strength, he shoved Jason back.
Jason tripped over Amelia on the floor and caught himself on the bench. He turned and they both watched, horrified, as Quenten dropped to his knees.
He was covered in blood now. Amelia stared as her vision came true. Quenten threw his head back and laughed, filling the van with the sound of it. It made her want to cover her ears, but she couldn't move.
Quenten stopped laughing and he lowered his head. He stared directly at Jason, his eyes turning yellow. Amelia blinked. In her vision, he had looked at her. As his lips curled into a fanged grin, she knew it hadn't been her vision at all. All those years ago, it had been her unborn son's vision. It had been Jason.
In that moment, she knew it was up to Jason to stop him.
"You have to stop him,” she whispered, breathlessly.
"How—"
"I don't know,” Amelia whispered back, frantically. “But I know it's up to you. You have to do this."
"Right.” He climbed to his feet again and faced off with Quenten. Quenten also rose, wiping his blood red hands uselessly on his lab coat.
"Let's do this,” Jason growled.
Quenten continued to grin, balling his hands into fists as he stepped forward. Suddenly, he cried out and doubled over as if in pain. Amelia stared at him. Now she was the one confused.
"What's happening?"
"I think he's having a reaction to the blood,” Jason answered, stepping forward to grab him then stopped. “Unless...” A look of realization dawned on his face.
"Unless what?” Amelia asked, but Jason was no longer listening to her. Shoving past Quenten, who was on his knees once again, gripping his stomach, Jason made a dive for the driver.
"Hold on,” he cried out a second before he grabbed hold of the driver and forced his head into the door's window. The goon lost control of the wheel, but Jason grabbed it quickly and yanked the wheel back. The van swerved and Amelia screamed as she slid across the floor and into the other bench.
Quenten slid with her, slamming into the same bench. She stared at him, realizing she wasn't looking at Samuel Quenten the human any longer, but Samuel Quenten the—something.
She didn't know how else to describe it. His face had erupted in tiny black hairs and his eyes were completely golden. Long teeth jutted from his upper and lower canines and his hands ... they weren't even hands any more.
"Oh God, he's changing,” she whispered. Now she knew why Jason had intercepted the driver. Quenten was in a vulnerable state, judging from the cries of pain and the sickening snaps and pops of something breaking. It was a terrible sound.
She wasn't sure just what Jason's plan was, but she hoped it involved stopping the van and ditching Quenten and his goon on the side of some godforsaken road. It seemed Jason was going to do exactly that as the van began to slow from its breakneck speed.
Amelia backed away from Quenten as far as she could and was just regaining her seat on the bench when the van swerved again. She heard Jason cry out and looked to the front just long enough to see the driver had hurled himself at Jason and the two were fighting in the driver's seat for possession of the steering wheel.
The next thing she saw in the van's windshield was a line of trees they were heading directly for. When the impact came, she braced herself, but it wasn't enough.
The crash was deafening. She didn't even hear herself scream, though she knew she had opened her mouth to do so. The vehicle jostled and she tried to hold on, but it was useless. They were going into a roll.
Her body left the floor. For one split second, she was suspended in air, touching nothing. The next, her head collided with the wall of the van. She touched the side of her head, feeling it sticky with blood.
That was the last thing she remembered before the van rolled again and her head hit the wall once more.
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Chapter Nineteen
When Rose woke up later that morning, every muscle and bone in her body hurt. Her head pounded. Groggily she sat up, feeling the familiar and unc
omfortable pressure on her bladder.
Gingerly, she climbed out of bed and ran a hand through her hair. Every step pained her, but somehow she made it to the bathroom and relieved herself.
She washed her hands and combed her hair, staring at her reflection for the longest time. The week's events all came swirling back in a sudden rush and she felt dizzy. She grabbed hold of the sink to keep from falling. When her lightheadedness subsided and she felt brave enough to let go of the sink, she did.
She looked up at her reflection once more. She looked pale and sick again, like she had a few days ago. The healing she had experienced just yesterday was apparently short-lived. She sniffed, finding her sinus infection returning.
Definitely short-lived.
She sighed and turned away from the mirror. If only she knew what was going on with her and what was going on with all these “accidents-that-weren't-really-accidents".
Rose left the bathroom and waddled her way back to her room. Her duffel bag still rested on the floor, her clothes wadded into a pile inside of it. She hefted the bag onto the bed and rummaged through it. Most of her blouses were wrinkled, reminding her of all the laundry she needed to do eventually. She managed to find a shirt that wasn't too bad. She changed into it and slipped on a pair of her oversized maternity jeans. She left off her shoes. Her feet were too swollen.
Once she was dressed, she left the bedroom in search of Cheyenne. The house was dark, and cool from air conditioning. Slowly, Rose made her way down the hall and turned into the foyer. She paused by the living room and looked in.
The living room was a warmly decorated area, with a brown couch that looked old and used, but comfortable. A moderately sized television set in the center of an entertainment center served as the focal point for the room. There was a flowered love seat with matching chair strategically placed to offer enough space to walk through the room without tripping over the end tables.
The wallpaper was flowered and old, peeling in some corners. The room wasn't a home decorator's best work, but Rose had to admit it had a comfortable, lived-in feel to it.
And Cheyenne wasn't seated anywhere within it.
Rose turned away and looked toward the staircase. Just the thought of climbing those stairs made her body hurt even more. She made her way to the bottom step and looked up.
"Cheyenne?” she called. She waited a few moments but got no answer. Either Cheyenne was a really heavy and late sleeper, or she was already awake. Rose decided on the latter and made her way into the dining room.
She sniffed, clearing her nasal passage. She caught a whiff of Cheyenne's scent and followed it. The smell lingered in the dining room, but was stronger as she got to the kitchen.
But Cheyenne wasn't there either.
Sunlight streamed in through the window above the sink, casting beams of light across the cleared kitchen table. Rose walked a little way, seeing dishes in the sink. Cheyenne had been here, but she wasn't now.
She drew closer to the sink and glanced out the window, into the backyard. She spotted the changed-blood in what appeared to be a garden. Cheyenne had her long blonde hair braided down her back and sported a dingy looking cowboy hat to block out the sun, tied under her chin so it wouldn't fall off as she bent to do her work.
It had rained sometime in the night and little droplets of water sparkled on the window. The dirt on Cheyenne's overalls and boots could only be described as wet, clumpy mud. She was encrusted from the knees down and judging from the looks of it, she had been at her task for quite some time.
Rose leaned against the sink, taking some of her weight off her swollen feet and watched as Cheyenne plucked a ripe, red tomato from the wet plant. She placed it gently in a small pail and bent to grab another one. The plants were full of fruit, sure to yield a fairly large crop.
But Rose didn't know much about gardening, or farming, having grown up within the city limits most of her life. She continued to watch Cheyenne at work, curious about what she was doing. She seemed peaceful, Rose noticed. There was a tranquil expression on her face, as if her problems and those of the world around her did not matter.
She remembered when writing brought her that level of peace, but that had been forever ago, long before it became her every day job and it grew in monotony. She wished she could find that peace again.
Rose watched Cheyenne a while longer then pulled away from the sink. She had only been in Cheyenne's kitchen a few times before, so she was still unaccustomed to where things were, but after a little rummaging she was able to find a clean mug, a kettle and some Earl Grey tea.
She put the kettle on to boil and sat down at the table while she waited. The sunlight played on the colorful suncatcher hanging from the pane. The bright colors were so cheerful—definitely a contrast to how she felt.
She sighed and closed her eyes. She didn't like feeling like this. Panic, pain, depression. Add to that hormonal fluctuations due to pregnancy and it was overwhelming. It was too much for any woman to handle.
Everything she kept bottled up was about to explode and Rose was afraid that would be very soon.
Rose opened her eyes and glanced toward the window. Perhaps talking about things would help her. That's what she always did with Tiffany, a woman who had horribly died at the hands of Marcus. Tiffany had been her best friend, her confidant. They talked about everything and Rose always felt better for having done so.
But Tiffany had been dead for years now, and Rose had been without someone to talk to. For a short time, Claire had been a friend. Rose talked with her sometimes, getting things off her chest, but Claire was dead too.
And although Glen was her cousin and they had shared many things during their childhood and beyond, he was a male. He wouldn't know about the female perspective on things and for that, she needed a woman. Aurora was too young and Dr. Nesbitt too old. Rose needed to talk to someone closer to her age.
That left Cheyenne.
Cheyenne was trustworthy and Rose most of the time liked her straight forward attitude. She was calm and kept her cool pretty well. If there was anyone who would listen and not judge or blow up, it was her. And Cheyenne seemed willing to talk—she was actually pretty insistent on it.
The idea of opening up to Cheyenne was beginning to sound more and more like a good idea. Rose didn't need to debate on it any longer. She had made up her mind. She would talk with Cheyenne.
The only question was when.
The kettle whistled and Rose jumped. Her eyes flew to the steaming kettle and she climbed to her feet and made her way to the stove. She grabbed the nearest potholder and took it off the heat. She was just turning the burner off when the backdoor opened.
Cheyenne stood there, mud falling in clumps from her boots onto the floor. Her eyes were wide and she looked alarmed, on guard. When she saw Rose, she let out a breath and put a hand to her chest.
"Oh, it's you. I heard that damn thing scream and thought—well, doesn't matter what I thought.” She shook her head, looking Rose over. “You feeling okay this morning?"
Rose nodded as she got the tea ready and let it seep in the hot water. “Yeah, fine. Just a little pain, but I think it's from yesterday and all the excitement."
"Yeah. I was just in the garden, picking some tomatoes. I didn't expect them to ripen in the few days I was gone."
"Yeah, I saw you out there. They look good."
"I was thinking of using them to make spaghetti sauce and salsa."
Rose grabbed her mug from the kitchen table as Cheyenne shimmied out of her muddy coveralls and boots. She wore a clean pair of blue jeans and a green t-shirt under it all. She left the ugly mess out on the back porch and stepped inside. She took off her hat and set it on the counter as she walked in her sock-clad feet to the stove where Rose stood.
"Hey, don't mess with that. I'll get it."
Rose didn't argue. She returned to the table and sat, watching as Cheyenne grabbed another mug and poured them each a cup.
"You make your own sauce a
nd salsa?” Rose asked. The small talk was nice, but stilted. She didn't really know what else to say without blurting out what she had been thinking of telling her only moments before. Somehow, letting all her inner emotions out this early in the day didn't seem like a good thing to do. This wasn't the time, or the place.
"Yeah,” Cheyenne answered with a nod. She grabbed a jar of honey from the cabinet above the stove and spooned a generous helping into her mug. “Want some?"
"No, thanks. So, is it hard making your own stuff like that?"
"Not really. My mother used to can every summer. I helped her out a lot, washing jars and tomatoes and simmering things in big pots on the back porch.” Cheyenne set the mugs on the table, grinning at her. “I can tell by the look on your face you think I'm crazy."
"No. I don't think you're crazy. Just sounds like a lot of work. It doesn't sound like fun."
"Well, I never said it was very fun. It was practical. I guess you can say I kinda do it now to keep her memory alive.” She shrugged, lifting her mug to her lips. She blew on it to cool it. “That and I love salsa."
Rose chuckled as she sipped her own hot tea. “I used to like salsa. That was before I had a baby growing in me. I don't think this kid likes anything spicy."
"I bet you can't wait to get that kid out of you,” Cheyenne said, “so you can get back to doing all the stuff you love."
"Yeah, like shifting and being able to smell things.” Rose sniffed. “Yeah, that would be great."
"Sinus problems are back?” Cheyenne asked, furrowing her brow.
"You could say that."
"Guess Dr. Nesbitt's healing wasn't that great."
"I guess not,” Rose agreed, though deep down inside she had a suspicion it wasn't entirely Dr. Nesbitt. She couldn't quite put her finger on it and it was yet another mystery waiting to be solved.
"She's a good doctor."
"Yeah...” Rose trailed off, returning to her former thoughts. She stirred her tea absently as she thought. Her anxiety was starting to come back.
Dark Moon Magick [The Moon Series: Book 4] Page 24