"Him too," Allen moaned as their bodies danced. "We will kill them both. Oh God..."
Elisabeth bounced up and down on him until a crippling orgasm seized them both, seemingly at once. They quaked and rocked as he erupted inside of her. Satisfied, eyes stared at eyes for what could've been hours. Nothing but silence, but a world of understanding passed between them during that time.
Allen was a stubborn one, but it had been easy to get him back on track. All she needed now was for his mind to click into place once the pendulum swung toward her. There was plenty of unfinished business in Greifsfield to make that happen.
They lay together for the rest of the night in silence, bathed in moonglow.
***
One word: shitkicker.
Jack thought it described Amanda Church quite well as she strode into the Berlin Post Office. She hid behind a pair of aviators, keeping her bruised and, likely memorable, eyes out of sight. An oversized coat masked the flak jacket she habitually wore beneath, and thick black Doc Marten boots not only added another inch to her length, but prompted the word to spring to mind as well.
Amanda had mocked him but she was nothing if not a badass.
He sat in the cab of her battered truck, picking pieces of pastrami out of his teeth that had been wedged in there since breakfast.
Amanda hadn't been too eager to continue on task. Her eyes were distant behind those face-filling sunglasses, and she was more than a little verbose about her fatigue. They'd stopped at an all-night gas station and convenience store where he'd helped clean buckshot out of her ankle wound with a water bottle and some hydrogen peroxide.
The register jockey had been sure they were screwing behind the locked door, banging on it to tell them he was calling the police as Amanda grunted, ordering Jack to "get it." He'd rescinded his threat when Amanda hobbled out and bought a box of ACE bandages. Two of them were wrapped over the fresh cleaned wound.
She said there was pain, but nothing that restricted her movements.
Across the way, Jack watched her through the large glass window. She spoke with the employee behind the counter, her hands alive with more expression than he'd ever seen her use. It couldn't be great news.
He fiddled with his toothpick; his gums were almost free of errant meat, although one last piece proved elusive.
"Hi, Jack."
He turned to see Lucy step up against the window and smile.
"Luce?"
It was her, though not as he remembered. That vibrant aura, so characteristic of her, was all but extinguished. A lifeless and despondent demeanor lingered in its place. Her skin was pale, as usual, but without the usual color hints. Her long, red hair was pulled tight against her scalp and tied into a fiery ponytail that hung through the strap of the baseball cap that was tugged over her head.
It hadn't been a week, but somehow Lucy looked years older.
"I've been trying to find you," he said. "Calling and calling...you fell off the face of the earth once you told me you were going to nail your father to the wall."
"I never got out of there." Her voice was dead, as if she'd been up all night smoking cigarettes. "My father finally got to have me."
"Luce..."
"Don't worry, Jack. There's nothing you can say so don't try. Know what you need to do? Listen." She motioned to the far side of the post office, out of the main road's view, away from customer rotation.
Jack jumped from the cab without hesitation. Better that Amanda didn't find her here. She'd have too many questions and Jack knew what would happen if she got answers that she didn't like.
They walked around the side of the post office and Lucy led the way into the parking lot. They settled in behind a chain-linked fence that led to a row of dumpsters.
"If you're in trouble, Luce, I will help you."
"Jack, you're the one in trouble."
"Come on..."
"I found you by following your scent. I picked it up a few nights ago at my place and tracked you to that motel. Know what that means about me?"
Oh no...
Jack's grimace spread from one side of his face to the other, judging from Lucy's slow and steady nod.
"I'm a fucking monster," she said. "Like the rest of Greifsfield. From what I saw last night, you already know what's going on."
Lucy was right, there were no words for this. It was hard enough to offer the right consolation when someone lost a loved one, or their job. But this—no cure, no upside, and no lying. It was bad. All he could do was warn her.
"I'm with someone that you don't want to meet."
"I know. I'm not sticking around, believe me. You're my last stop."
"What about your mother and brother?"
A sideways look toward the row of dumpsters, followed by a slight shaking of her head told him everything.
"My mother's dead...I killed her. My father and I did it together. I can't get the image out of my head any more than I can bring myself to be around Nick. I don't know what I'll do. God knows I couldn't control myself when it came to Mom...the hunger was so overpowering. Since everyone I know lives in Massachusetts, the best thing I can do is get the hell away from them."
She was right, that was the best thing for everyone. But he didn't like hearing it.
"If your friend really thinks she can do some good here you need to listen to me. Two nights from now, there's going to be a gathering up at that mansion on Adams Street. The Sarandon House. I've no idea what the purpose is, but it's going to be big. I know this because my father is involved with one of them...some guy called Anton Fane. Seems like he's got a lot of say in what happens here."
The weight of this unrelenting nightmare crushed Jack.
First Allen, now Lucy.
God knows what happened to Molly. He was the last man standing, because of Amanda, but how much longer could the two of them make it? An emotionally detached supernatural assassin and a twenty-seven year old English major embroiled in a lycanthropic conspiracy. This wasn't reality. How could it be?
He told Lucy about Allen and Elisabeth. She winced at the part where Amanda put a bullet in her skull.
"I guess I shouldn't hang around any longer...or maybe I should, depending on how you look at it."
"Stop. There's gotta be some help for you, Luce. I can go with you. The two of us on the road to nowhere."
"Sure. A road trip to find the magical cure. Maybe there's a rare plant hanging atop a cliff somewhere that can reverse my curse and make me a nice, happy college gal again."
"Anything's possible."
"Know how I know you're right? 'cause I'm craving a raw, bloody piece of meat even as I'm talking to you. I've already done things that keep me up at night...and when I do sleep there's dreams. You and I aren’t going anywhere together. I don't know what would happen, but it wouldn't be good. I can't spend every second wondering when I'm going to snap and kill you."
"Then tell me where you're going so I can look in on you."
"No, I don't think I'm going to do that."
"C’mon Luce, you can't run off somewhere by yourself."
Wiping a hefty tear off her cheek, she cleared her throat.
"Remember that first class we had together?"
"Popular Theories of Science Fiction?"
"Yeah. I was a freshman and you, well, God knows what the hell you were back then. What are you, thirty now?"
"Your condition hasn't affected your sense of humor, jerk."
"The only thing it hasn't affected. Anyway, you had to sit next to me because you showed up late and that was the only seat left in the room. I think it took you three full classes before you even looked at me."
"Come on..."
"No, I'm serious. I would always watch you, wondering why you wouldn't turn and look at me."
"See, I knew I felt your eyes on me. It was completely uncomfortable."
Lucy raised her arms in defense. "Okay, okay. I made you uncomfortable. What's new there? But eventually we talked. I mean, I had t
o initiate it. Twice. Or maybe three times. Then we settled into a routine, remember? We got to liking each other. I'll go so far as to say that you tampered with my little freshman brain back then, making me realize how dense most of my peers were. I didn't go to college looking to load myself up on wine coolers while shitty guys begged me to kiss my roommates. And I definitely wasn't there to play beer pong in a fucking basement while assholes with baseball caps tried to compete for my affections. I wanted to get smarter. I hoped I would get the opportunity to surround myself with interesting and original people. When you finally started speaking up in that class, I knew you were one of those mythical beings: a college student interested in an exchange of ideas and information. I used to like listening to your insights on whatever book or movie we were studying. Most of those freaks were there for an easy A and certainly not because they wanted to read those books. The class has to be full of dead weight before Mr. Outcast, Jack Markle, is gonna start talking."
"Total dead weight."
She smiled. "Definitely. I never told you how much of an impression you made on me. And sometime during that class I realized I was in love with you. I still am. Not sure why I kept it from you, but I did. I figured we'd eventually have our chance. A cheesy moment where you'd profess your love for me. Something like that...corny, right?"
"No...not at all..."
"I know it's an awkward thing to drop in a person's lap. I'm sorry. But I had to tell you. Just once. It's not like we have a lot of time left."
"I'm not going to let you run off by yourself."
"You don't have a choice. I'm a werewolf now. And I'll eat you."
Jack needed the levity, and was happy to laugh at her joke.
That Lucy clung to her oft-kilter sense of humor proved he'd been an asshole to keep her at an arm's length because of his failure to commit.
It was no real surprise to hear that Lucy wanted him—her crush was an adrenaline boost to his confidence. The fact that he'd taken her emotions for granted had him feeling lower than low. He kept his mouth shut. Not to save face but to save Lucy's.
Her admission couldn't have been easy: telling someone how you felt. She'd just done it. She'd always been the gutsier of them.
"I should go," she said.
And then kissed him. More than a kiss, though. Her lips opened slow against his, allowing their tongues to press. Her mouth was hot, prompting his imagination to wander through sweaty and inappropriate corners of his mind.
Her tanned and freckled skin was an impossible combination of smooth and soft. Her hands touched either side of his face as their tongues worked out three years of repression and angst.
She broke it off all too quickly. Just as his cheeks felt flushed.
"One for the road, ya know?" Her voice was unstable. "Take care of yourself, nerd."
"Lucy..."
"I have to go. And you have to let me go. If I had any guts at all, I'd march over to your friend and tell her what I am so she could put me out of my misery. But for some reason I can't do that. I thought I might've been able to, but dying scares me more than whatever I've become. Please, Jack. Just let me leave."
Jack nodded. There was nothing left to say and even less to do. He wouldn't tell Amanda a thing until Lucy was long gone. It wasn't worth risking her life or another beating.
He wondered how many death warrants he'd just signed by allowing one of them to go free. The possible victims were faceless and he would most likely never find out about the lives Lucy would take.
He was a little horrified by how quickly he could come to terms with this, but it was Lucy he cared about. Her that he loved. Faceless victims were just that. Faceless.
Lucy stepped back with reluctance. She held his eyes for a long moment and turned away before they erupted into emotion. Nothing more was said as she walked hurriedly around the building, disappearing from his sight and life.
The walk back down the crab-grassy embankment was quick. Amanda came back at the same time, a shoebox-sized package tucked under one arm.
"Where were you?"
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Taking a piss. Everything is in that one little box?"
Amanda looked at the parcel. "Too risky to ship everything directly. This is silver food for the Glock...and directions to where we can make a pick-up."
They climbed into the cab. Amanda was saying something about a meeting tonight, but Jack wasn't listening. He thought about Lucy, about how his search had ended as abruptly as it began, and how he wasn't likely to ever see her again.
A terrible, sinking feeling made him feel as if one of Amanda's shitkickers pushed down on his windpipe.
There wasn't time to succumb to guilt. It wasn't his fault that Lucy's father had lusted for her. That's what started her on this whole vengeance quest. When she trekked off to New York City, Jack had assumed it was something that she needed to do as a way of working through whatever psychological trauma came from sexual molestation.
He couldn't have known that Rory was a werewolf. No one could've known that. There were many things that happened over the last few weeks that were unfortunate, but none of it could be hung on him.
So why do I feel like all of this is my fault?
***
"You're a tasty morsel," Julianna nipped his cheek and tugged his skin.
"Stop coddling me." Fane ignored her playfulness and tugged his tie, loosening the knot. "I don't need your positive reinforcement. I simply need to get this over with."
"Don't be a tosser, luv. It'll be over right quick. I can't wait to be curled up at the base of your throne."
"Indeed." Fane liked her pontifications, but shrugged them off as they crossed the Hudson River on the George Washington Bridge. Julianna was right to be enticed by daydreams of a better world. It was disgusting to consider their species' monotonous history; to think about how far they hadn't come in all the centuries they'd walked among man.
Their evolution had plateaued—the varcolac were content to blend into a shadow world. To be a myth among men. Alina didn't believe in dominating the docile genus that stretched from one corner of the globe to the next, and she would one day regret her spinelessness.
Fane resented his satanic majesty. She'd turned a repeated deaf ear to his pleas, content to ignore the changing world while favoring tradition. Time wasn't a luxury anymore, and tradition was hardly relevant. She couldn't even be reached by conventional means. Acquiring her audience meant a trip across the Atlantic, followed by an arduous journey by train and then foot.
In the oldest days, that was an advantage. Her continued insistence on remaining fabled did them a disservice, which was why he would delight in making Julianna his Queen.
Truthfully, he'd wanted Elisabeth. Her beauty and abject cruelty were second-to-none. There were none as worthy to rule beside him. The things they'd done together in centuries past dwarfed any modern headlines of publicized sadism.
He loved those memories so he was willing to overlook her insubordination. When history was as rich and textured as his own days serving as Alina's Harbinger of War, certain things had to slide. There were more important things to worry about in the immediate future, anyway. Tomorrow night's Turning, for example.
All that mattered was that there was a Huntress at his side. Julianna fit that bill as well as anyone had to know, even though she was hardly independent and did very little hunting on her own. She much preferred when their sentries dragged bodies kicking and screaming. Most were plebeians where she was concerned, and so it was fitting that she summoned them when the mood struck.
Her disposition was a contradiction—she was more materialistic than anyone he'd ever met, and wished to rule her own pack of brothers and sisters. Yet, she wasn't entirely without sympathy or agreement when it came to Alina's rule. He had eroded her past loyalties through a steady diet of wealth, and Fane was annoyed he hadn't been able to corrupt Elisabeth in a similar way.
Fane once heard a business partner refer to his own wif
e as 'high maintenance,' and if he were the laughing type, he would have done it, because that didn't begin to describe Julianna.
He admired her gluttony.
They were en route to his newly purchased waterfront property. Rory Eastman swore it was the perfect location for this venture. The guy might've been an insignificant blight, but his business prowess was finely honed. That made him an asset, since everything had to be legitimate.
Fane's capital, while ample, was anything but. Rory laundered it, his trust obtained through the gift of superiority—the ability to indulge in his most repressed, instinctual desires. In Eastman's case, that meant fucking his twenty-something daughter. He was glad the guy had such a specific vice, because it meant he'd stay loyal until he was no longer necessary.
A stagnating forty-minute stretch through the Bronx tried his patience. The driver took them down a series of narrow thru ways, slowing in front of a large stone gate headed off by two iron doors. They were cracked open, revealing sprawling harbor front property just beyond.
Two cars were parked near the entryway.
Rory and his realtor waited to greet him outside.
"Anton," Rory approached with an open palm.
Fane shook it and directed his focus to the man whose name he didn’t know. "You must be the realtor?"
"That's him," Rory said. "Jeremy Green."
Green provided a greeting that couldn't mask his disinterest, though he perked up when he caught a glimpse of Julianna's bouncing bodice as she slinked out of the limo.
"We just came from closing," Rory cleared his throat in an effort to redirect Green's attention.
"That's right," Green said. He gave Rory a colleague's pat on the shoulder. "We really lowballed them. The global economies nosedived so nobody wants to buy these old places. Pretty shortsighted, I’d say."
"I should agree," Fane said and had no reason to give Green another look. "Let's have a look inside, shall we?"
Rory followed alongside Fane. "Thank you Jeremy. You made this fast and easy for us."
"Be sure to use my number next time you're gonna scoop up some gorgeous NYC property."
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