by Amy Corwin
“We need to talk.”
“Not again,” she replied wearily. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
“Did you recognize any of the vampires?”
She eyed him, flushed, and then glanced away. “You already asked me that. Why would I recognize any of them?”
“Mexico City.”
Her blush deepened, burning her face and throat. Did he think she lied? Exaggerated? Or did he believe she didn’t finish the job?
“That was ten years ago! I killed the ones—” Uncontrollable emotion broke her voice. She swallowed and cleared her throat. “There weren’t any others. Anyway it’s over. I don’t even know why I told you.” Her trembling hand rubbed her neck until she became conscious of the nervous gesture. She forced her hand down and stared at him with fierce concentration, trying to force him to look away so he couldn’t see the emotions ravaging her face.
Don’t look at me—just listen. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she said. “And I should never have slept with you.” She raised her hands palms up in a helpless gesture. “This is what I get for breaking my own rules.”
He grasped her arm when she turned to escape to her bedroom. “I don’t regret it.”
“Well, I do!” Her voice rasped through a constricted throat. “You think you know me. You think you have the right to crawl inside my head and tell me what to do and what to feel—what it’s normal to feel.” She couldn’t breathe. She sucked in the thin air and shook her arm out of his grip, too tired and on edge to deal with it. “Well, you can’t control me or tell me what to do. No one can.”
He blinked, his expression turning from surprise to deep thoughtfulness. “What if you’re wrong?”
“Wrong?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t control me or anyone else. No one can control anyone else.” She hated the uncertainty in her voice.
He shook his head. “Not me. But there are ways…manipulation, other methods….” His voice drifted off. He frowned. “Have you thought through what happened to you?”
“What do you mean, ‘what happened?’ What do you think happened? A government brainwashing experiment gone awry?” A ragged laugh escaped her. “I ran into vampires. They tried to kill me and I killed them first. That’s it.”
“Think about it.” He shook her arm. “You got away from two vampires? Before they killed you? At nineteen?”
Her neck ached. “Yeah. They had a room full of…toys.” The memory of Carlos’s playroom filled with nightmare instruments made her shiver. “I found the whips there and used them. So what?”
“You don’t find that strange?”
“No. They were arrogant. Too confident. Carlos collected weapons.” And other things, much worse things.
“And what about your neck?”
“What about it?” Sudden, hot tears blurred her vision, tears of frustration and fear. She was tired, so tired, of the fear and anger. Her emotions see-sawed violently, beyond her ability to control them. “They bit me. A lot.”
“At the back of your neck? I—”
“You what? I’ll tell you what! You felt an ugly, horrible mass of scar tissue, and it grossed you out. How’s that?”
“That’s not what I meant. I—okay—never mind. Maybe I was wrong.” He ran his hand through his hair. Then he stopped with his hand on the back of his neck as if struggling to reorder his thoughts. “I just think some aspects of your experience were odd.”
“Sure it was odd. It was a freaking nightmare. But I survived. That’s all.” She moved away, smoothing her hair away from her brow. “Now leave me alone like a good ex-priest. I’m tired. And I want to think of some way to rescue Father Donatello since you don’t seem particularly interested in that.”
“Wait—”
“You wait. Or wait—go to bed—no really, wait.” She couldn’t order her thoughts or her words. “If you don’t see me in the morning, it’s because I have a class at ten. You may be some wealthy ex-priest, but some of us have to work for a living. Some of us have real lives.”
To her immense relief, he shrugged and bid her a terse goodnight. As he stalked off down the hallway in the opposite direction, she felt an indescribable sense of loss.
It wasn’t until he disappeared into his bedroom and shut the door that she realized he hadn’t even tried to kiss her goodnight.
She’d never been so depressed in her life.
Chapter Twenty-Four
When Kethan stumbled out of bed the next morning, Quicksilver was gone. Her bed was made, the guestroom empty and lifeless. He stood in the doorway, feeling as if he’d lost something vital in his life during the night. The house echoed emptily as he plodded down the stairs and into his equally desolate kitchen.
Then he caught a faint scent of cinnamon in the air. A quick check of the refrigerator revealed that the remaining cinnamon rolls were gone, too. Interesting. He smiled and set about making another batch. If she liked them that much, they might just entice her to return this evening. After yesterday, he doubted his company would be much of an incentive.
By late afternoon when she still hadn’t returned, he sighed and climbed in his cranky car. Since there was no woman seated next to him to impress, it started immediately.
A few minutes later, he pulled up to Quicksilver’s self-defense training center. She stood outside with her back to the street, locking the front door. Her white-blond hair, held back in a ponytail, gleamed in the late afternoon sun. A gym bag hung off one sloping shoulder and a dark blue towel was draped around her neck.
His gaze drifted down her long legs. His breathing grew ragged. When she turned, his eyes dwelled far too long on her breasts before he came to his senses. He worked to stare into her face, but the harder he tried, the more his gaze was drawn first to her mouth and then to the curves under her loose shirt.
Heat built up inside him.
This was exactly how he got into trouble the first time, so many years ago. Sex, combined with the temptation of immortality.
Becoming a priest had helped bring discipline and control over his passions. At least that’s what he thought, until now. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just sex this time. Or maybe it was. Quicksilver’s remorseless sensuality drew him like fire on an icy winter’s eve, and when she looked at him in a certain way, her eyes said she wasn’t exactly the nice-girl-living-next-door type. That suggestive quality made him lose whatever was left of him mind each time she came near.
He couldn’t go down that street. Not now, maybe never.
Then Quicksilver glanced up and smiled at him. Her face lit up with welcome. With her flushed cheeks, she looked like a sixteen-year-old cheerleader after practice. It wasn’t until she caught his gaze that the illusion shattered. Those eyes betrayed far too much pain, far too much knowledge writhing in the depths to belong to any young girl.
He opened the driver door and stood up, propping his forearms on the roof. “Come on. Let me give you a lift.”
“My bike—” She gestured toward the alley leading behind the building.
“Leave it here.”
She hesitated. His back tightened as he waited for the inevitable argument. “I guess I could lock it in the shed. Wait here.”
She disappeared around the side of the building before he could reply, leaving him slightly off kilter. The feeling increased when she returned less than five minutes later without him having to chase her down.
When he managed drag his gaze away from her chest, he noticed dark smudges under her eyes. Her skin looked dull and stretched tautly over the underlying bones, and even her usually brisk movements seemed clumsy and tired.
“Bad night?” He opened the car door for her.
She climbed in without looking at him and cradled her gym bag on her lap. Silence reigned while he walked around the car and eased into the driver’s seat.
“Just thinking about Father Donatello. Have you heard anything?” She studied him, vertical lines of worry creasing the skin between her br
ows.
“I’m sure he’s all right.”
“Really? Based on what?”
“Based on the fact that they’ll make sure he’s all right if they wish to bargain. They wouldn’t have spoken to us if they didn’t want to negotiate. They’d have just killed him.” He turned the key and after a brief prayer murmured under his breath, the car started.
“I hope you’re reassured by that reasoning.” She crushed the bag more tightly to her chest. She leaned forward and craned her neck as her eyes scanned the sky through the windshield. The day was already dying. Fall was sweeping relentlessly toward winter. “I’d like to know. For sure. Considering it seemed more like they wanted to kill us last night.”
“There might be a way.”
Up ahead, the verge swelled slightly into a half-moon covered by gray gravel. He pulled over and picked up his cell phone.
“What are you doing? Why did you pull over?” She stared through the window, shifting in her seat. Her face grew pale as her gaze locked onto the red-stained horizon. The days were growing shorter and shorter as autumn descended into winter. Even the air inside the small car seemed tinged with icy crystals.
“You wanted to know if Joe was still alive,” he said. “I’m going to find out.”
“By calling Heaven?”
No, by calling Hell.
“Joe. I’m going to try his cell phone. It’s not the dark ages. Priests have cell phones these days.”
Despite his conviction that Joe was alive, he knew the fallacy of making assumptions based upon nothing more than hope, and he had no illusions about the friendliness of the unknown vampires who had appeared last night. Their behavior unsettled him, casting doubt on his belief that they would be open to negotiation.
Another disturbing—and disruptive—factor was Quicksilver. She had killed at least one, possibly two, of the undead, and he couldn’t imagine how their clan would react. It might eliminate any chance they had of getting Joe back alive.
And then there was the strange question that had occurred to him in last night’s melee while he watched Quicksilver dispatch a vampire with elegant efficiency. How did she escape not one, but two vampires after they had bitten her? Even if she had such strength of will, how could she obtain the weapons to kill them? Why would they leave not one, but three deadly whips where she could get them?
Despite his grip on the steering wheel, his fingertips remembered the strange hardness of the scar tissue at the back of her neck. What had they done to her? The location was a strange place for a vampire bite. The undead usually targeted the arteries.
He moved the phone to his left ear and listened to it ring.
Something was going on beyond the kidnapping of Joe and the potential clash between two vampire clans. Forces were working in the darkness to maneuver Quicksilver, and him, into this precise position. His thoughts felt like fleas slipping under his clothes, biting him in unexpected locations without warning.
It was too convenient that she should be here at this exact moment, poised to destroy Sutton’s clan. Why now? Why should she suddenly begin hunting vampires again when Sutton was in the middle of negotiating the first peace treaty between vampires and humans?
Certainly the incident with Kathy Sherman could be enough of a precipitating incident, but he couldn’t shake the sense of being delicately shepherded into a position he may not want to occupy.
Or maybe Quicksilver’s paranoia had rubbed off on him.
Nonetheless, she was right about one thing. He had to be more proactive. He had to get Joe out of the line of fire and back to the safety of the Church.
Brr-ring. Brr-ring.
He almost gave up, expecting the call to go to voice mail. As he lowered the phone, a strange voice answered in Spanish.
“Si?” the stranger lisped.
“This is Kethan Hilliard. Put Father Donatello on the line.”
Soft, breathy laughter whispered through the phone. “Why? You no wish to talk to me?”
“No. Not at this time. Put him on.”
During the minute of silence or near silence, Kethan concentrated and thought he heard voices arguing in the background.
Then the same, whispery voice returned. “You want him? Send the woman—she get him.”
He darted a glance at Quicksilver. She leaned against the door, her head pressed against the glass as if trying to cool a raging headache. “No.”
“Si.” There was the sense of the phone being shifted, a finger hovering over the “off” button.
“Wait! Where?”
“The Viccars’s house—357 Oak Street. One hour, si?”
His stomach clenched. He’d heard of that place from the owner, Gwen Wright, another recidivist vampire. She refused to live in the house or sell it. The place was deserted and rumored to be haunted. Not ideal.
“Why there?”
The call disconnected.
“What is it?” Quicksilver asked. “Is he okay?”
He nodded grimly and started the car and checked the traffic before pulling out onto the road. “I’m going to get him back. Tonight.”
“That’s good.” She studied him. “Isn’t it?”
“Great.” The word sounded strong, confident, which was more than he could say for himself.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Quicksilver tensed with surprise when Kethan pulled into the driveway of a large house built of gray stone. It looked run-down and deserted with pale swaths of lace cobwebs for curtains and brown, dried up leaves for carpeting on the wide front porch. The porch sagged, the rotting wood bowing down as if the house itself were frowning.
He killed the engine, or at least turned the key to kill it. It took several agonizing seconds of spitting and gurgling before the car hiccupped and actually died.
“This is it?” Every instinct urged her to get away—run as far away from this monstrous house as possible. “Father Donatello is here?”
“Yes.” He gripped the steering wheel and stared at the building. His brows furrowed over his eyes.
Thinking long and hard about it wouldn’t change anything. She flung open her door. “Let’s go.”
“I—” His voice trailed off.
“You—what?” She rested her forearm over the edge of the door and leaned inside the car. “I don’t like this either, the place gives me the creeps. But if Father Donatello is in there, we need to get him out. This is not a good place.” She shivered and pretended it was just a cool breeze trickling over her shoulders. But it felt worse, much worse. It felt like a premonition of death.
When he looked at her, his eyes were hard, angry. “I can’t go with you.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice rose with irritation in response to the edge in his voice.
“They said to send you. Alone.”
“They?” She glanced again at the dusty front door, feeling betrayed. A trap? Had this been a trap all along? All of it?
The brief flare of emotion subsided into a grim hollowness. She felt as empty and lonely as the house in front of her. Grabbing her gym bag, she rifled through it until she found her gloves and her whips.
“Fine. I can handle it,” she said.
“I don’t know who is inside. Joe may not even be there.”
“What exactly did they say?”
“Not a lot. Just to send you here if we wanted to get him back.” He ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated and worried. “If I go in with you—”
“They may kill him?”
“He didn’t say that.” He jerked the handle to open his door.
“Don’t. Stay here. There’s no point in both of us getting killed.”
“It’s a trap. Something isn’t right, I can feel it.”
“No kidding,” she replied dryly, “but think about it. You’re more important to them—to everyone—than I am.” The truth squeezed out of her, leaving her throat raw. “And I’m armed. If it’s a trap and someone has to die, let it be me.”
“No!” H
e hit the steering wheel with a fist. The car rocked. “No—you can’t go in alone—I’m coming.”
“And risk Father Donatello’s life? No, stay here. For once, let me do the right thing.” She tried to smile with stiff lips. "I promise I won’t kill anyone who doesn’t need a-killin’.”
Before he could extract himself from his rust-bucket, she ran up the uneven, cracked sidewalk. Her heart pounded as if she’s run a mile instead of a few yards. The streetlight cast the steps in sharp relief and a clean-edged triangle of light highlighted the area in front of the door. Stepping into the golden pool made her feel exposed. The vulnerable skin between her shoulder blades twitched and she gritted her teeth to keep from glancing over her shoulder. She grabbed the icy door knob and thrust the door open before the overwhelming sensation of fear stopped her.
The hallway was oppressively silent. As her eyes adjusted, she moved inside, taking in the wide staircase directly in front of her. A dining room lay to her right, furnished with an oval wooden table and six chairs. Dust-laden spider webs shrouded the legs of the furniture and she stared at the table. An expectant hush enveloped the room as if a ghostly presence roamed the kitchen beyond, selecting plates and silverware to set the dining table for guests. But the table remained bare except for a thick layer of dust.
On her left, a living room with heavy, upholstered chairs and a long, low sofa drowsed in Stygian shadows.
“Father Donatello!” she called as she moved toward the living room.
“Here!” A hesitant voice replied. The darkness filling the corners of the living room stirred.
Tensing, she walked toward the sound, her skin crawling as if invisible spiders ran over her bare flesh. She flicked a quick glance over her shoulder and studied the empty dining room.
“Where are you?”
“Here.” Father Donatello stepped out of the farthest corner in the living room. He moved to stand in front of the fireplace, barely visible against the black shadows behind him.
The rotten drapes covering the wide, double windows had long ago ceased to hold out the in watery gray light from the streetlight. The weak light filtered through the tattered remains and painted the contents of the room with a sickly, bluish tint. The priest looked ill with deep hollows cut into his cheeks and his eyes invisible in deep, blackened sockets.