by Anne Frasier
Why in the hell had he given her the journal? Why hadn’t he kept it to himself?
Selfish bastard. Not that anything he did lately had much logic to it, but he did have moments of clarity. He’d convinced himself he was telling her because she would want to know, when deep down he’d hoped it would restore the bond between them. Now she was more like him than they’d ever known. No wonder they both felt such a strong attraction to each other. It went beyond a simple crush or lust or love. They both had strange blood in their veins.
She tried to get up. He gently forced her back down. “The baby’s coming.”
“I can’t have it here.”
“It’s too late.” He reached under the quilt to ease the elastic waistband over her belly; then he tugged off her panties and jeans in one movement. “Where it happens won’t change anything. Maybe this is where you were meant to give birth.”
Why had he said that? It was a thought he didn’t want to solidify with words.
“I tried to leave,” she said. “I tried to return to California. But all roads lead back to Tuonela.” Another contraction was building. “All roads lead back to you.”
I’d been turning the car on and off every twenty minutes or so, trying to conserve gas.
Maybe I should have gone with Graham. Where was he? Why wasn’t he back? Should I go after him?
No, that would be stupid. That was the worst thing I could possibly do. But maybe he was right. Maybe nobody would find us until tomorrow— or later.
The car was covered in snow—a dark cocoon. The wind was blowing hard enough to send an occasional shudder through the vehicle, rocking it.
I started the engine again, then flipped on the wipers to clear a small patch. Turned on the headlights.
And saw someone.
Thank God!
I leaned forward, watched, and waited.
Hey!
Where was he going?
He was moving away.
I honked the horn. When he didn’t respond, I honked again. “Over here, dumb-ass!”
He paused, so I knew he heard me. He tilted his head in what seemed like contemplation. Then he turned and headed in my direction.
The wind had died down some, but it was snowing harder, and the visibility was worse. I craned my neck. Was it Graham? Who else would be out wandering around in a blizzard?
Snow accumulated on the windshield. I hit the wiper button again, clearing a spot.
First he was far away; then he was close, just a few yards from the car.
He was coated in a heavy layer of snow that fissured and cracked where his arms bent.
Not Graham.
I hit the wipers again—one swipe, then tapped the brights.
His eyes.
Two dark, empty pits looked in at me.
Christ.
I couldn’t breathe.
He reached for the door.
Without taking my eyes from him, I fumbled for the lock button, found it, hit it. Both doors clicked.
Evan once knew a woman who’d given birth to her first baby thirty minutes after thinking she was just having a bout of flu, but he was still surprised when Rachel’s labor went so quickly.
The child didn’t look that small, and it made a few gusty cries that promised all was well. He wrapped the newborn in one of his black T-shirts, followed by a small quilt.
A wave of tenderness washed over him. “A boy.” His voice snagged, and he hoped Rachel wouldn’t notice. He placed the bundle in her arms.
She was different.
Her hair was wet and her eyes were dark with exhaustion, but that wasn’t it. Motherhood had already changed her. He sensed a gentle strength that hadn’t been there before.
He was trying to hold himself together, but a flood of emotions tightened his throat and made him feel close to tears. Rachel, the woman he loved, and their baby.
Here. With him. In his house.
For the first time in years he felt joy sneaking into his heart, and he found himself contemplating the possibility of a future. Maybe they would have that garden. Maybe she would bring sunshine into his life.
He studied the unfamiliar feelings moving through him, finally recognizing hope.
It frightened him.
“I’m going to take the cell phone and walk to the main road. I should be able to get a signal from there. Will you be okay? Alone here for half an hour?”
She nodded, not taking her eyes from the infant, bemused serenity on her face.
Downstairs, a door slammed.
Rachel glanced up, a question in her eyes.
Footsteps. Moving through the kitchen, down the hall, to reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Must be Graham. A snowplow must have come through.” Rachel and the baby would be able to get to a hospital.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Words of love were close to the surface, and Evan struggled to keep them from slipping out. Not now. Now was not a good time. It would be unfair to reveal his feelings at such a vulnerable moment.
Hope. He would savor it.
The door creaked.
All color drained from Rachel’s face. Evan swung around.
Standing in the opening was Richard Manchester, the Pale Immortal.
Chapter Fifty
Rachel stared in horror at the apparition in the doorway. Without taking her eyes off it, she whispered, “Do you see that?”
“Manchester.”
The dead had appeared to her at various times in her life, but this one was different. This one had a presence the others hadn’t possessed. This one could have been mistaken for human except for his eyes. Or lack of eyes.
He came for the baby. He wants the baby.
“Oh, God.”
We told you to stay away. We told you not to come.
And then it spoke. Jesus, it spoke. Directly to her, with a smile on its lips.
“Florence.”
With a voice that sounded hollow. A voice with no depth, being pushed from a shell.
She worked with the dead and knew this was impossible.
She glanced down at the baby in her arms, its little forehead streaked with blood. She wanted to clean the poor thing, wash the poor thing.
But there was a vampire in the room.
Evan hadn’t moved, and now she became aware of his stillness. Hardly breathing, arms at his sides, staring at the door. At the thing in the doorway.
Without looking, Evan put out his hand as if to stop her from getting up or moving. “He’s real. You have to play this like you see it.”
“It will go away,” she said, even though she wasn’t sure this time. “They always go away.”
“He’s not going anywhere, Rachel. He’s where he wants to be. He’s home.”
Her fear evaporated and suddenly she was angry.
If she hadn’t had a baby in her arms, if she hadn’t just been through labor, she would have rushed him. She would have pushed the silly hollow man down the stairs and watched him crumble to dust.
The baby made a strange noise. A nasal inhalation. Then he began to cry, his toothless mouth open wide, face red. Rachel jiggled him and made distracted sounds of comfort.
Manchester had been focused before, but now every cell zeroed in on the child. From a position of wild-animal awareness, he launched himself across the room. Rachel let out a scream, and Evan jumped in front of Manchester, blocking him.
The men grappled, locked together in a struggle. At first neither seemed to have the advantage.
But then Manchester picked up Evan and threw him. Evan slammed into the wall and crashed to the floor.
Rachel put the baby down on the bed and inched her way to the side of the mattress. She grabbed the nearest weapon—a lamp—and tugged the plug from the receptacle. Manchester reached for Evan.
She charged with the lamp.
Manchester swiveled. His hand shot up and he deflected the blow. He ripped the weapon from her and swung it—hitting her in the side of the he
ad. She staggered and dropped to her knees, dazed.
“Go.” Evan gasped. “Get out of here.”
She pushed herself to her feet. Evan did the same so that now Manchester stood between them.
“He wants you,” Evan said. “He wants the baby.”
And still she hesitated.
“He has the strength of ten men,” Evan said.
Manchester smiled, and the pit of his mouth was as dark and as black as his eyes. “You speak as if I’m not even here.” In one swift movement, he grasped Rachel from behind, one of her arms twisted so high she feared it would break. He wrapped his other arm around her waist and pulled her close, whispering in her ear, “I want the infant.”
His breath was as cold and damp as a bog. “I will take what matters most to you. That’s what you did to me.”
“What will you do with the baby?” Rachel asked.
He pressed his lips to her ear and whispered, “What do you think?”
She had the sensation of tumbling headlong into a pit of decay and depravity. Of evil unimaginable.
He broke his hold, grabbed her anew, and tossed her against the wall. Pain receptors fired red. She was aware of a struggle; then darkness came and she slid to the floor.
When she regained consciousness, she was lying on her back. Evan stood against the wall, holding one arm as if it were broken.
“I came for something else,” Manchester said. “Not just the baby. Not just my house. Can you guess?”
“The heart,” Evan said, panting. “It’s gone. I don’t have it.”
“Part of it is in you. I can sense it. You are me.”
“I’ll never be you.”
“All men are capable of darkness.”
“But all men don’t welcome it.”
“You’re wearing my scarf. That tells me so much.”
“Maybe I’m cold.”
Manchester laughed. “You mean to tell me you never wanted to kill somebody?” A shift. “The heart. Where is it? I know it’s here. I know it’s close.”
“Evan, don’t give it to him.”
Evan ignored her, reached in the dresser drawer, and pulled out the tin.
Rachel closed her eyes and let the disbelief and pain roll over her. When she opened them again, Evan had removed the lid. He shook the tin, peer- ing inside. “I always wondered how much of this I’d consumed. Half, I’d guess.”
Manchester held out his hand. “Give it to me.” His voice shook. The first emotion he’d shown.
Breathing shallowly, Rachel backed to the bed and picked up the infant. Then, half crawling, she began moving toward the door.
“Will it make you whole?” Evan asked. “Make you just like you used to be? Will it give you a pair of fucking eyes?”
“Give it to me.”
“Will it make you stronger than you are now?” Evan taunted.
“The heart.”
“I’m not sure I like the idea of a stronger you,” Evan said.
Rachel reached the open door.
They weren’t paying attention to her.
“If it will make you stronger, it only stands to reason that it would do the same for me.”
Evan reached into the tin and pulled out something shriveled and brown that looked like a dried mushroom.
While Rachel looked on in horror, he stuffed it in his mouth, and Manchester let out a cry of alarm. He flew at Evan, tackled him, knocking him to the floor. Manchester grabbed him around the throat and began squeezing. “Give it to me!”
Two madmen.
She must have made a sound, a note of despair.
Manchester swiveled.
The distraction was enough for Evan to lock a heel to the floor and shove himself backward, out of reach.
He swallowed and broke into a sweat.
As Rachel watched, he changed before her eyes. He took on the characteristics of Manchester. A strange sensuality, a boldness. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness.
She scrambled to her feet and ran.
Chapter Fifty-one
Graham was frozen.
He couldn’t feel his toes or fingers. His face was numb.
He’d gotten lost, but now he was on track, because he’d finally found the lane. Walking was easier within the protection of the trees, and the wind wasn’t as bad, but the damage had already been done.
He wasn’t dressed for cold weather, and he began to think that maybe Kristin had been right. He slowed, alternated between high steps to clear the depth of the snow, and dragging his feet to plow right through. Why not run? Not some flat-out gallop, but a jog to get the circulation going and get him there faster.
It worked.
He began to warm up. By the time he spotted the house, his fingers and toes were warm.
Something in the driveway. A vehicle. He swiped a hand down the side. CORONER.
He frowned. Rachel?
He circled around to the back.
Chapter Fifty-two
With the baby in the crook of her arm, one hand on the railing, Rachel ran down the steps.
Black radiated inward from the edges of her visual field.
Don’t faint.
On the first floor she walked rapidly to the kitchen.
Have to hurry. Before they come downstairs.
Before she passed out.
Snow blew in the shattered window. She pulled the quilt over the baby’s head and frantically searched drawers, looking for anything to use as a weapon.
She found a butcher knife.
The kitchen door banged open and a dark form appeared in the opening. She lifted the knife high.
“Rachel!”
She hesitated—an almost physical stammer. “Graham?”
“Holy shit!” Graham’s eyes took in her bloody clothes, her bare legs and feet, the knife. “What the hell?”
The baby let out a whimper, and Graham’s eyes got bigger.
Rachel put down the knife and thrust the bundle into Graham’s arms. “Go. You have to get out of here. Take the baby and go.”
He didn’t move, and she turned him and shoved. “Go! Now!”
Graham vanished into the night, and she slammed the door, leaning her forehead against it.
She’d just sent her premature infant into a raging blizzard. But freezing would be better than death at the hands of the Pale Immortal.
With numb feet, she shuffled back to the table and picked up the butcher knife.
Those men upstairs. She would kill them both.
She laughed a little at the ridiculousness of the thought. As if she could kill two men, one who was already dead and one who was halfway there.
She collapsed on the floor.
Graham cradled the infant in his arms, unsure what end was what, unsure whether the baby was even alive. He hunched his body and leaned into the driving wind, trying to protect the child as best he could.
Evan must have gone completely insane. Graham hated to leave Rachel, but the baby . . . Had to protect the baby . . .
The snow was a foot deep, deeper where it had drifted, and progress was slow, his steps long, high, and awkward. The snow itself created an uneven surface, and he repeatedly slipped, only to catch himself at the last moment.
It was easy to stay between the trees that lined the lane. He didn’t even try to figure out what was going on or what had happened back there. He had one focus, and that was to get the baby to the car.
He finally spotted the misshapen outline of the snow-covered vehicle. The headlights were off; the engine wasn’t running. He staggered toward it with an awkward, step-plunge gait.
Locked.
The door was locked.
He wedged the flashlight under his armpit and brushed snow from the driver ’s window. “Kristin!”
Nothing.
He pounded a fist on the hood. “Kristin!”
The locks clicked. He opened the door; the dome light illuminated the interior. Kristin was huddled in the corner of the passen
ger seat, knees to her chest. “Graham?”
“You expecting somebody else?”
“Yes.” She dropped her knees. “What’s that?”
He passed the bundle to her. “A baby.”
Alastair’s phone rang. An officer calling from the museum.
It was late, but Alastair was still up. He was too worried about Graham and the storm to go to bed.
“I think you’d better come down to the museum,” the officer told him.
“I’ll stop by in the morning, once the storm’s over. This guy’s cried wolf too many times.”
“Is it crying wolf if we have a dead body and a missing mummy?”
Graham cranked up the engine and turned on the heat.
The bundle squirmed and began to cry. Kristin gingerly pulled the blanket aside enough to reveal the face. “It has dried blood on it. Oh, my God, Graham. It’s just been born.”
“I’m going to walk back to Tuonela and get help. Or at least get closer so my cell phone will work.”
“No. It was bad enough to walk to your dad’s, but Tuonela is five miles.”
“I have to.”
She let out a sob. “No.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Lock the door.”
“There’s no reason to do that. Not in this storm.”
“Lock it.”
He did.
The baby started crying. “You can’t go. Somebody’s out there.”
“Kristin—”
“I saw somebody.”
“People see things around here. Things that aren’t really there.”
“He was here.” She jiggled the baby and made hushing sounds, but it kept crying. “The Pale Immortal was here.”
He recalled the terror in Rachel’s face. Was it true? Was the Pale Immortal loose?
“Lock this when I get out. And shut the engine off as soon as you’re warm. No telling how long you might have to wait.”
She put a hand on his arm, made a sound as if to argue, then stopped. “Be careful.”
He knew she was thinking how hopeless her words were, but she had to offer them. Leaning across the seat, he found her face in the dark and turned it to him. He gave her an awkward, blind kiss, then left.