To her astonishment, Ferrel’s henchmen had stopped cold, hunching over with a look of physical pain on their faces. They were holding their hands over their ears, too. They can’t take the volume. Like so much, it made no sense, but she wasn’t going to complain. She saw them take off again, running in a different direction. They’d probably circle around the blast zone from the amps and try to cut her off at the other side. She had to take this opportunity to drop out of sight.
Bree bolted forward, out from under the stage and back into the press of booths and tents. This part of the fairgrounds seemed pure carnival, with old-fashioned signs and barkers in top hats. She could smell animals and heard what she thought was the trumpet of an elephant. About halfway down the row of tents, she heard a cry of protest behind her. Her stomach jumped in fright. They’re catching up! She swerved left and dove into the first tent she came to, letting the flap fall shut as she stepped over the threshold. Gloom descended as the triangle of sunlight disappeared.
Only a candle lantern hung from the pole above. Otherwise, the tent was dark, draped in red silks and scented with heavy incense. A table sat in the center of the space, covered with a fringed cloth that reached the Turkish carpet. Bree caught a glimpse of a woman sitting there, cards spread on the table before her. Fortune-teller.
“Help!” Bree said, her voice faint and hoarse.
The woman looked up, large dark eyes wide with astonishment. Her ruby-red lips parted as if to answer.
That was all Bree had time to see before a furious shout sounded just outside the tent. With a jolt of terror, Bree scrambled under the long, fringed tablecloth. There was barely enough room to hide, but she squashed herself into the tightest ball she could manage, pulling her backpack close and wrapping her arms around her knees. For a long moment all she was aware of was the cramped space, her fear and the sequined toes of the fortune-teller’s slippers.
Then a swath of sunlight leaked under the fringe of the tablecloth. Bree sucked in a shaking breath and held it.
“We are looking for a woman with long, fair hair.”
The voice was deep, more bass than baritone. The timbre was curious, less human than elemental, like the sound of rocks grinding as a tomb door slammed shut. Trapped, unable to move, Bree started to tremble.
“Do you see any fair-haired women? Get out.” The fortune-teller stood, wooden chair scraping back against the carpet. Her voice was low and clear, as carefully modulated as any actor’s. “I charge thee by the Seven Wards of the Summer Isles to leave this place.”
A soft laugh rippled, picked up by more deep voices. “Your curses do not work on us, witch.”
“Do not try me.” The reply was thick with warning. “I have curses enough for the living as well as the awakened dead. You of anyone know better than to count my threats as mere superstition.”
“We are servants of the Holy Knights of Vidon.”
“You are abominations. Get out of my tent.”
A long pause followed. Bree squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her face into her knees. She was trying to breathe silently, but it was all she could do not to pant with terror. Please, please, please go away!
They finally did. The daylight vanished, leaving the tent once more in gloom. The corner of the tablecloth lifted, the fortune-teller’s face appearing sideways in the gap. She was in her forties, with waving dark hair silvered at the temples. A tiny ruby glittered in the side of her nose.
“Hello?” the woman asked.
Cautiously, Bree crawled out from under the table. Apprehension crept down her spine. “Are they really gone?”
“For now. They do not have the power to defy me here, but they will keep looking for you.”
Her words filled Bree with dread. She sank onto her heels, her limbs too rubbery with spent adrenaline to stand. She would have liked nothing better than to lie down. “Thank you for saving me. For now, anyway.”
“My name is Mirella.” The woman cupped Bree’s chin in one ringed hand. She turned Bree’s face toward the light as Mark had done. “It was my duty. You have been blessed.”
“Blessed?”
“I see you are under the protection of the fair ones. Someone in your past, someone who gave you a task to perform, was fey.”
“As in fairy?” Bree raised her eyebrows. A task? Does she mean the book? “Who are you talking about?”
“I don’t know whose paths you’ve crossed. But if you think hard, you will know.”
Jessica? She was the only person who had ever trusted her enough to ask her to do anything. Fey? Jessica was special and wonderful, but even if Bree believed in miracles and unicorns—which she didn’t—weren’t fairies powerful beings? They wouldn’t be murdered by thugs.
“I imagine there is a great deal in your life that does not make sense.” Mirella’s red mouth turned down at the corners. “It is too bad that we do not have time for explanations. For now, accept this one fact—you are dealing with powers beyond ordinary experience. Assume nothing.”
Bree nodded. She hadn’t assumed anything in a long time. “Those men chasing me...”
“Are still just men. But barely, I think. The Knights of Vidon are playing with the same hellfire they swear to fight.”
Bree’s gut turned cold. “What do you mean? What sort of crazies are they? They have my little boy.”
Mirella’s hand touched hers. “I’m sorry.”
Bree slowly stood. “How do I fight them?”
She expected Mirella to say she couldn’t, or that it would take a knight in shining armor or maybe a giant. “I need practical advice. I need to walk out of here with a plan.”
“Then ask yourself why they want your son,” Mirella said in a reasonable tone.
“I don’t know. I don’t understand any of this. Do you?”
“I am no wolf or fey or demon. I am merely a human who can tell fortunes and spin a few spells.” Mirella gave a slight shrug. “Do you have help?”
“Mark. He was with me until they stole my son. I think he went after them.”
“Good. A strong man is good. You should not be alone in this.” Mirella took Bree’s hand, holding it between hers. She studied Bree’s face intently. “I see a crown in your past and a blade in your future. Death stands behind and before you.”
Bree’s mouth was dry as ashes. She wanted to dismiss what the woman was telling her, but at the same time Mirella’s soft voice held her spellbound. “How is that supposed to help me?”
“To save your boy, you must find what you have lost. Blood will be sacrificed before this is done.”
“Sacrifice. That can’t be good.”
“It can.” Mirella gave a sad smile. “But we seldom understand it at the time. Aren’t you going to ask about your lover?”
Despite herself, a flush crept up Bree’s cheeks. “I have to go.”
Bree hitched her backpack over her shoulder. My lover. She remembered her elation, and then her confusion the night before. “He does not love me, anyway.”
“Maybe he does not dare.”
“That’s crazy.”
Mirella’s smile turned sly. “Then you had best tell him there is room for hope. Even the bravest sometimes need an encouraging smile.”
Chapter 20
Mark liked dogs, as a rule. Some of his best friends were werewolves. However, Custard was pushing his doggy luck the moment he jumped out of Mark’s arms and scampered after Jonathan.
Custard had made a rush at the black ram, yapping with glee. Mark had a vision of squashed dog and howling child. Since Bree was closing in on her son, Mark tried to scoop up the pup. Vampires were fast, but puppies wiggled. When Mark had finally got hold of the little wretch, saving him from woolly death, everything had gone wrong.
Disaster had only taken seconds.
&nbs
p; Help!
He heard it as clear as a voice in his ear, but knew it wasn’t ordinary speech. Telepathy.
Mark looked up to see Ferrel’s henchman vanishing through the door, Jonathan in his arms. The kid spoke with his mind!
But that wasn’t nearly as immediate as the fact he was being kidnapped. Mark’s heart turned cold, his fangs descending, sharp and lethal. As if sensing the change in him, Custard went perfectly still.
The ticket-taker from the door chose that moment to start hassling Bree.
In a microsecond, Mark made the necessary decisions. Getting Jonathan back was the priority. Bree was there to run interference with the idiot.
Mark slipped out the back. Once he was on the path leading away from the barn, spotting his quarry was easy. The henchman, in his black suit and shades, was the one with the Vandyke beard and mustache. He’d wrapped Jonathan in a yellow windbreaker, pulling up the hood to hide the boy’s hair.
Fresh uneasiness clutched at Mark’s gut. Jonathan looked limp, as if he were asleep. He remembered Bree’s story about being drugged in an airport. Had they shot Jonathan with something to keep him quiet? The boy wasn’t strong enough to handle more than a tiny dose of sedatives.
Uneasiness turned to fury. Mark doubled his pace, holding Custard tight. Aside from a tiny whine, the puppy stayed utterly still and quiet. Mark projected his mental voice. If you can hear me, Jonathan, know that I am coming for you. I will be there to protect you. You are not alone.
Before Mark could catch up, Vandyke met two other men. Mark swore, slowing down while he adjusted his plans. Frustration clawed at his nerves. Taking three men down in a crowded fair was bad enough, but to do it without Jonathan getting hurt would take some thought.
They paused outside a pavilion set up for a country radio station. Despite the fact the volume wasn’t at full blast, Mark couldn’t hear their words. He hung back, pretending interest in a display of fly-fishing gear while he watched the three men closely.
There was something wrong about these guys. The way they stood—a little too aggressive, a little too fluid in their movements. The way they smelled. Not human, but not quite not human, either. Jessica Lark’s journal was all about genetic manipulation. Were these the faux vampires the author of that book meant to create?
A ripple of disgust passed through him. Being a vampire was bad enough. He couldn’t imagine walking the planet as someone’s science experiment.
Of more immediate relevance—there was no telling how good these Frankenvamps might be in a fight. There were three of them, one of him. Even if he was a cold-blooded assassin, centuries-old and as lethal as they came—he had a kid and a puppy to worry about. It was like fighting with both hands tied.
Mark fumed a moment, but there was nothing to do but suck it up. He crouched, taking advantage of the pause to tuck Custard into his backpack, on top of the nest of his clothes. Not the ideal arrangement, but it left him with two free hands. As he handled the soft, wriggling fur, his irritation congealed into worry.
You’re going soft. There was a reason he kept to his cabin in the woods. Mark didn’t do soft any more than he did kids or dogs or vulnerable women—but he was doing all that plus some. He’d made love to Bree. Stupid.
At least he’d managed to keep his vampire side in check. Only old vampires—older even than he was—ever had that much control, but he had done it. He’d wanted her that much—and she’d been worth every moment. But what a risk. If he’d slipped, he would have revealed himself. Forget that, he could have killed her. Even the memory of her scent made him weak with hunger and desire.
I took her. I wanted her. Marco Farnese was old, entitled, powerful and deadly. He scoffed at worldly convention.
Sadly, he was also Mark and had to look at himself in the mirror every morning. He might have had a brain capable of complex genetic research in addition to knowing fifty ways to kill with a common table napkin, but shreds of everyday human remained in his soul. When he met someone like Bree, they flared up like a rash. I cannot, must not be with her. There are rules. Vampires hide.
Not that he couldn’t love and be loved. He’d had a family once. But vampires mated forever. Was he getting a second chance?
No. The thought froze him, nearly made him dizzy. No. He was the one who lived alone in the woods. The family man in him had died, burned at the stake centuries ago. No.
He looked up, and the place where the men had been was empty. Frantic, Mark jumped to his feet, slipping his arms through the backpack. Two of the men were striding toward the barn where Mark had left Bree. The man with the Vandyke beard was going in the opposite direction, Jonathan still in his arms. He was already several dozen yards away.
Still reeling from his earlier thought, Mark felt an instant of confusion. Bree was alone. He wanted to go to her, but if anything happened to Jonathan, she would be crushed.
He hated having to choose, but went after Vandyke. Now Mark’s quarry seemed to be hurrying. That meant there was probably a rendezvous ahead. Reflexively, Mark touched the small of his back, where his gun was hidden beneath his coat. If they got out of the crowd, he would feel a lot better about drawing it.
Instead, he took out his cell phone and battery. Why not? Ferrel had found them anyway. He pushed the battery back in and speed-dialed Kenyon.
“Ah, there you are,” Kenyon said as he answered. “Back on the grid at last.”
Mark could barely hear him over the din of the rides and music. The midway was right behind them, the clang and rumble of the roller coaster only a stone’s throw away. He raised his voice as much as he dared. “We’re at a fairground. Forget discretion. We need help.”
“I’ll get a lock on your phone. We’ll get there as soon as we can.”
“Speed would be good.” Mark hung up.
They were running out of time. The gate to the second parking lot was straight ahead. Vandyke had his cell phone out, too, probably alerting whoever was going to pick him up. Trying to keep the knapsack—and puppy—as steady as possible, Mark broke into a smooth lope, closing the distance to his foe. There were fewer people here, and only one opponent. He would have to make his move now.
He shouted for the man to stop, but his words were lost in the sounds of the midway.
Vandyke was almost at the gate, Jonathan hoisted in one arm like a sack of groceries. It was then that Bree rose up from behind a bin of plastic umbrellas—the ones fairgoers could rent for fifty cents on a rainy day—and used one as a spear, shoving its long metal tip into his ribs. It would have barely tickled such a big man, except Bree made it count, snarling as she put her weight behind it.
“Get your hands off my boy!” she roared.
Mark decided he was officially in awe—but all her bravery was for nothing. Vandyke turned, almost in slow motion. The movement pulled the umbrella from Bree’s hands, letting it fall to the ground with a bounce. Clearly, the point hadn’t stuck, though it had broken the skin. He could see a patch of blood glistening on the dark fabric of the man’s jacket.
It all happened in a matter of seconds, barely enough for Mark’s brain to catch up with the icy panic inside. He put on speed, ignoring the fact he was supposed to be human. He was needed there, at Bree’s side. Her opponent still had Jonathan, and the man was swinging his free arm around to take Bree down.
Mark caught Vandyke’s wrist with all his fury, prepared to crush bone and flesh to a pulp. It didn’t work—the man had a vampire’s strength. Mark slammed his other fist into Vandyke’s jaw, but his aim was off. Jonathan was in the way.
Still, Vandyke’s center of balance faltered when Bree slammed a foot into his back. Mark grabbed the boy at the same time their opponent went to his knees, then finished Vandyke with a boot to the head. As Jonathan’s warm weight sagged against Mark’s chest, a powerful wave of protectiveness surged through him.
But the fight wasn’t done. When Bree reached for her son, Mark passed him over as quickly as he could, then shrugged out of the backpack and handed that over. Her eyes widened as she saw Custard’s black nose peeking out the gap Mark had left in the zipper. Nevertheless, she slung the strap over her shoulder without comment, adding it to the weight of her own pack, and backed out of the way.
His hands finally free, Mark drew his weapon, keeping it close to his body. There weren’t many people in this part of the fairground, but waving a gun around would still attract attention. The fight with Vandyke had been so fast, no one seemed to have seen it, but he couldn’t count on luck anymore.
In fact, it seemed to have run out. The silver Escalade pulled into view just outside the exit, kicking up dust from the gravel road. The doors opened to let Ferrel and two others jump out. Mark’s stomach tensed as he put himself between the oncoming men and Bree. Even if the nearest chopper was close, it would take time to arrive—ten, twenty minutes maybe. This battle was up to him.
“Stay behind me,” he said to Bree, keeping the gun close to his side. “We’re working our way slowly toward the gate.”
“Got it.”
There was no ticket-seller in the booth, just a sign that read Back in Fifteen. The Knights of Vidon strolled in without interference. The only thing that lifted Mark’s spirits was the sight of Ferrel’s face, swollen and bruised. Bree’s work? It was a good start that he meant to improve on.
The henchman with the Vandyke beard was back on his feet. His sunglasses were broken, revealing odd, yellow eyes like those of a lizard. Revulsion prickled Mark’s skin, and he heard Bree’s gasp.
Then the man rushed, his mouth dropping open as long, ivory fangs descended from his upper jaw. They were grotesquely huge, twice as big as any vampire’s. Mark experienced a moment of fascinated horror, and then he aimed and pulled the trigger. The noise of the shot barely registered against the fairground din, but he saw Vandyke flinch.
Possessed by An Immortal Page 17