Possessed by An Immortal

by Sharon Ashwood

  “Good.” He bent and kissed her, a mix of gentleness and desire. “Knife-wielding lunatics are so last year.”

  Her lips throbbed with the pressure of his touch, but being at her old home stirred up too much doubt to relax into the kiss. The princess and, in his own way, Larson had been right. Family did in part define who she was, and she had to rewrite that definition.

  She needed to be Mark’s equal, not his rescue mission. Not the party girl or the celebutante or a faceless woman on the run. She was Bree. This was her chance to change the programming her childhood had given her as surely as her parents had bequeathed their DNA. And, most important, she had to get what she needed to save Jonathan’s life.

  Bree dreaded letting her past into the present. She would do what she had to, but there was no way she would enjoy it.

  She put her hand on the door handle, grateful for its coolness. “Wish me luck.”

  Chapter 29

  Growing up, Bree had always gone in the side door by the kitchen, but today that felt too casual. She had slammed the big oak door that opened onto the flagstone courtyard when she left. It only felt right to go back in the same way and ask for peace.

  Like the gate, it was unlocked. Bree opened it slowly, catching the familiar scents of home: flowers, furniture polish, but most of all, an indefinable something that said it was a large place, full of rooms the maids kept clean but few people actually lived in. As a teenager, Bree had called it a vibe. Maybe that was still the best word.

  She stepped into the cavernous front hall and listened. The silence was eerie. If her dad had been home, there would have been the constant chatter of his people—some staff, some just hangers-on. Her mom didn’t have a retinue, but usually more of the household staff were around when she showed up. Today, the house was utterly silent. Shadows flittered against the white walls. A fountain on the porch trickled water. There were no sounds of human habitation—and yet the gate and door had both been unlocked. Uneasiness eddied through her.

  “Hello?” she called.

  Silence.

  Bree ventured in a little farther, leaving the door open behind her just in case she needed to make a quick retreat. She’d refined her paranoia since she’d stood there last.

  “Hello?” She turned left and went swiftly through the front room—nobody ever used it—and into the smaller sitting room beyond. This was as close to a family gathering place as they’d had, with soft, squishy furniture and a long oak coffee table strewn with movie magazines. There was a dirty wineglass on the coffee table, another on the mantelpiece. That in itself was unusual. Their housekeeper ruled with an iron hand.

  Her gaze fell on the glass-fronted liquor cabinet, her new best friend in those first few years after she’d come home from school. She felt a sudden urge to smash it in, to tell it once and for all who was boss. She hadn’t tasted alcohol since Adam had forced her into rehab, and since leaving for New York, she’d had to be 100 percent focused, too focused to mess around. Her life had changed utterly, and she’d had to get stronger.

  She stalked past the cabinet, giving it a smack as she passed. The bottles inside rattled like loose teeth.

  The strange silence persisted. Bree thought about calling Mark, but summoning a trained vampire assassin because she’d found dirty wineglasses and a lack of noise sounded—well, kind of airheaded. Not the sort of thing that commanded respect.

  Instead, she decided to try upstairs, mounting the curved white staircase. Sunlight fell through a row of tiny arched windows, dappling the carpet. The layout upstairs was simple, just a series of doors leading to bedrooms and bathrooms, the occasional closet full of linens. Bree shivered, memories flooding back. Sometimes bedrooms weren’t just bedrooms. Sometimes they were where she’d hidden to stay ahead of visiting men and their grasping hands. Once, that was where she’d been caught.

  Bree forced herself to turn the knob and open the door. She forced herself to look long and hard at the furniture in the room, especially the bed. Could she call what had happened a crime? Yes. She was too young, only fourteen. She’d been drinking. She’d said no.

  But she’d spent years too ashamed to say a word about it. That took trust in someone with enough power to make things right. Her parents had power, but...well, the trust part said everything, didn’t it?

  The man had been some talent scout in his late twenties, handsome enough but reeking the desperate stink that comes from living on the edge. Bree wasn’t even sure she knew his name, or maybe she’d blocked it out. But he’d done what he’d done, and she’d blamed herself for it. She’d made bad choices for years afterward and still felt the echo of that emptiness he’d left behind like a stain.

  She looked at the bed, and thought of herself back then. Thought of herself now, with a sick child, a vampire lover and Nicholas Ferrel to worry about. She’d faced it all and hadn’t crumbled. I’ve survived an awful lot. I’m anything but weak, and I’m not invisible. In fact, I’m bloody impressive.

  Then she thought about what’s-his-name who got his rocks off raping little girls. Screw you. She shut the door. If I ever find out who the hell you are, you’re going to pay.

  There was nobody upstairs. She took the servants’ stairs back down to the main floor. There was one place in this house she’d ever been happy, and that was the kitchen. The women who worked there had been the ones who’d bandaged her knees and baked her cookies.

  She wanted to get there so badly, to replace the bad memories with something pleasant, that she forgot to be careful. Bree pushed open the door and burst into the room, at first blinded by the bright sun glinting off the pots that hung from the ceiling rack. It was just the same as she remembered it, with a red tile floor, herbs on the wide windowsill and a huge farm table surrounded by chairs—and there were people in those chairs. Her mom and her dad—she hadn’t expected to see him.

  Her first thought was: here’s where everyone is!

  The second was: my parents are tied up and everyone else has guns.

  * * *

  Mark had gotten out of the car and now stood in a shady spot between a boulder and a tangle of thirsty-looking juniper bushes. The rocky hill rose steeply to the right of the house, climbing up another thirty feet before it hit the scrub-covered peak. High above, an eagle wheeled against the blank blue sky.

  From here he could see the side of the house as well as the front. Most important, he could hear. There was the hum of traffic—that never really went away anywhere near the city—and the occasional chirp of birds, but they weren’t loud enough to block sounds coming from the house.

  Sun blared down with an almost audible splash. Even in the shade, he felt as if he was slowly grilling. He looked at his watch. Bree’s twenty minutes were up. He’d expected something by now—cries of joy or at least shouting, but he’d heard nothing. From what she’d said about her folks, maybe they’d made her wait for an appointment. Maybe he should go in and make them pay attention to their beautiful, amazing daughter.

  He slipped from the shade and sprinted across the blazing courtyard to the shadows beside the porch. Listened. Still heard nothing. Something was definitely strange.

  He began gliding along the side of the house, staying close to the wall so no one glancing out a window would spot him. He was close to the back of the building when he finally heard something. Heartbeats. Too many to easily count. The air here smelled like food, so they were near the kitchen. Isn’t that where all the good parties end up?

  There were heartbeats, some speeding, but no words. Frightened people, all gathered together.

  Hostages.

  A trap.

  Mark’s stomach dropped when he heard footsteps. Bree! His hand went to his gun, but his sixth sense made him wheel at the last moment. He caught the briefest glimpse of a shape on the hill. Sniper!

  A bullet slammed int
o his side, throwing him against the house.

  * * *

  Bree looked from one face to the next, her mind skidding as if it had hit a patch of ice. Random details stuck: her mother’s wide eyes above a strip of duct tape, the sugar bowl still on the table, her father suddenly struggling and one of the armed men slapping him so hard he nearly fell from the chair. There were five bad guys.

  She recognized one of the faux vampires from the fairground. The others might have been human, but she wasn’t sure. I can’t take any chances. The only plus was that Nicholas Ferrel wasn’t there.

  The villains were staring at her like so many cats around the last mouse in the world. And their weapons weren’t the discreet handguns she’d seen up until now. They were automatic rifles, sleek and black and deadly. She took a step back. Not out of fear—she had gone far beyond that to some other place where colors were far too sharp and her blood sounded loud in her ears. She needed to think, and movement bought her time.

  But her brain wasn’t working properly. Thank God Jonathan isn’t here. He’s safe for once, with Kenyon and Sam and the rest. But he wouldn’t be safe long if she couldn’t rescue her parents.

  “We knew you’d come sooner or later.” It was the faux vamp who spoke. He was wearing shades. Maybe he had those creepy lizard eyes, too. “You’d have to in order to save your brat.”

  “So? You want a gold star for guessing the obvious?” Apparently terror made her snarky.

  “Where is the book? And the boy?”

  “At vampire central,” Bree shot back. She took another step toward the door. “Only the cool monsters get to go there.”

  “And you. You’re going to call someone and convince them to bring what we want, or you and your parents are going to die.”

  “My dad’s worst hacks write better dialogue.”

  He pulled the trigger, shooting out the globe in the overhead light. Rat-tat-tat! A series of flashes blossomed, and the glass exploded, shards spewing over the whole kitchen.

  Shock blazed through her. Bree wheeled and bolted back up the stairs, instincts reverting to old patterns. She knew where in the house to hide. She’d done it dozens of times before.

  The stairs looked endless, as though they’d multiplied by three when she’d turned her back. Chairs scraped and pottery shattered behind her. The men were shoving through the kitchen to catch up. Adrenaline pumped through Bree so fast and hard her limbs felt weak, as if she were trying to speed faster than her muscles could respond. Go, go, go!

  And then she was in the hall, her feet muffled on the thick carpet. She had to get to the door she wanted before the first pursuer hit the top of the stairs and saw where she went. Her hand hit the glass knob, turned it and skidded inside the last bedroom in the row.

  “Where’d she go?”

  The shout came in the midst of a lot of loud footfalls. She pushed the door shut soundlessly, knowing just how to press right there so it wouldn’t click. Then she went for the closet. It looked like the usual type with mirrored bifold doors. Bree pulled one open and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was still stuffed with her mother’s off-season clothes. She pushed past them, wriggling through to find the best secret any closet ever had. There was a jog in the design, a hidden alcove right at the back. Someone searching the place could shove the clothes around looking for fugitives and miss it entirely.

  Bree had spent whole nights in that tiny refuge. Of course, she’d been smaller back then. Wedging herself into it was not as easy as she remembered, but she did it. She even remembered to take her cell phone out of her pocket before she was too cramped to move.

  With the closet door closed, the cell was the only light. Its bright, neon colors had never looked so beautiful. Not a full set of bars, but enough that the call should go through. She pushed Mark’s speed dial. What I would have given for someone like him all those years ago.

  The place smelled just as she remembered it, ripe with the stink of her own fear and the scent of her mother’s perfumed garments, gone stale from being shut up in an airless closet.

  The phone purred in her ear, ringing somewhere outside. Indoors, she could hear the clump and bang of the men searching through the bedrooms. Looking for her.

  Ring. Ring.

  Her stomach was turning cold. Sure, Mark would come, but if they found her, would he be quick enough? Were there too many for him to fight?

  Ring. Ring.

  They were in the next bedroom now. She was invisible, but could one of those pseudo vampires smell her? She hadn’t thought about that. What if they could hear her breathing? “Help! Help!” she whispered into the phone, even though Mark still hadn’t picked up.

  The bedroom door opened. Please answer. I need help now. I need to know you’re going to come for me now.

  It went to voice mail.

  Chapter 30

  Mark opened his eyes, realizing that he’d lost consciousness. He sat up too quickly, forgetting the wound in his first confusion. He thought he’d heard a phone, but maybe that was just the ringing in his head. Pain speared through his side, making him cry out, as much with surprise as hurt. That was followed by a surge of dizziness. A poisoned bullet? There were very few substances that could kill a vampire, but more that could make him useless for a few hours.

  The agony resolved itself into two separate pains, one in his back. Through and through. That was lucky. The Knights used silver. At least it wasn’t stuck in his system.

  Rage mixed with fear for Bree, and the emotion seemed to make the dizziness worse. Mark bent his head between his knees, sucking in air and trying to calm himself. He was too angry. He’d underestimated Ferrel, and now Bree was paying the price.

  Mark had known it was possible the Knights might have watched Bree’s parents, but he’d not anticipated a direct assault on them. It made sense, in a twisted way. They knew all about the virus, and undoubtedly had their own experts on staff. They must have guessed Bree would come here looking for a cure. So what if Mark had beaten them on the road? All Ferrel had to do was sit back and wait.

  Mark swore violently, scrambling to get his feet under him. He rose slowly, using the wall as support. Ribs crunched as he moved. Some must have broken. That was going to hurt for a while. He leaned his back against the house, letting nausea wash past. Standing was better. He felt more in control.

  At least until he touched the sticky mass of blood on his shirt. His hand came away red. He swore again. No wonder he felt so weak. With enough blood loss, even a vampire went into hypovolemic shock.

  “Feeling woozy?” Ferrel’s voice sounded to Mark’s right.

  Mark turned only his head, letting his body rest a moment longer. The man was in the shade, hard to see at this angle, but there was no doubt it was him, and that he was holding a rifle with a scope. “You did this?”

  “Did I pull the trigger? That would be a yes, and before you ask, the bullet was coated in a poison. Did I set this trap? Yes again. Did I set this whole scheme in motion—well, I have to share the credit there. The Knights of Vidon is hardly a one-man organization.”

  Mark stalled, gathering his dwindling strength. “Did you kill Jessica Lark?”

  “Personally, and with pleasure. I strangled her with her own monogrammed scarf, and then I dropped a match on her studio.”

  The cold sneer in his voice brought an answering flood of hate in Mark. In that moment, all Ferrel needed were the boots and gloves, and Mark might have taken young Nicholas for his ancestor. “Why kill her?”

  “She wouldn’t tell us what she’d done with Thoristand’s book.”

  “What did it matter? He was a madman. His formulas are lethal.” Mark slipped his hand toward his gun, ignoring the spikes of pain from his side.

  “They need work, but someday they might make us equal to you.”

 
“You think we’re evil, so why do you want to be like us?” Ferrel was indeed like his forefather. They both had a disposition for gloating when they should be paying closer attention to their supposedly vanquished foe.

  “You’re stronger, faster and deadlier. We need to fight back.”

  Like this? Mark raised his Browning and shot. He’d moved vampire-quick, too fast for Ferrel to see, much less react. The man crumpled with a scream of pain, clutching his leg. Mark raised the weapon again. A bad leg didn’t mean Ferrel couldn’t shoot.

  Slowly, making sure he didn’t fall over his own numbed feet, Mark inched along the wall toward Ferrel. When he got close enough, he kicked the man’s rifle out of range. Ferrel stared up with fierce, angry eyes, his fingers running red as he clutched his wound.

  “So kill me.”

  “I tried,” Mark said with bitter amusement. “Whatever the blazes you shot me with skewed my aim.”

  Ferrel’s face remained a sneer. No fear or regret flickered in his eyes.

  Another wave of dizziness swirled through Mark as his anger surged. “But perhaps I should try again. You infected Bree and her son. You killed Jessica. Your people killed Jack Anderson, the best friend I had. When will you stop?”

  Ferrel’s eyes were growing glassy. Mark had missed any arteries, but the wound was still bleeding badly. “We will stop when every last vampire is dead. That has always been the mission. Tripping you up was just a personal pleasure.”

  It would have been so easy to shoot right then. Easier by far than tearing chains from a dungeon floor and shredding Ferrel’s forefather into gobbets of bleeding flesh. Just one quick bullet to the head, so clean it barely qualified as the act of a monster.

  But Ferrel was down and unarmed. Anything Mark did now would be self-indulgence. “If I kill you, there will be some brother or nephew or best friend who’ll pick up where you left off. I’m bored with it.”

  Ferrel showed his teeth in a snarl. “Kill me or don’t kill me. I’ve done my work. The Knights are already on the move. Your actions are too little and too late.”