* * * * *
Abby closed her eyes and leaned her head against her seat. She was going to take Brian’s advice and get some rest. She needed it.
She listened to the tires’ hum as they rolled over the blacktop, the sound of Brian clenching and unclenching his jaw. She could hear everything— the sea beside them, the rush of the wind as it flew passed their car.
Ever since what happened at Logan, her senses were heightened. Even with her eyes closed, she could tell that Brian kept glancing over at her, could actually feel his eyes on her skin.
Lust, thought Abby, and she started to blush, her cheeks burning like wild fire. He wasn’t like the others, not at all. Abby knew what was running through men’s minds when they saw her. But with Brian, it didn’t bother her half as much. It doesn’t bother you at all. She crunched down her lip, wincing through the thoughts that bubbled up.
Don’t do this, she thought. Don’t do this to him. Because the truth was she was changing again, and whatever it was that she was becoming, she didn’t think it was good. You’re deadly, she thought as a face flashed through her mind. Moon white skin, eyes wide with fright, a cascade of bubbles gushing from a mouth like a wound. It was Lauren Liney, the first dead girl. The one Abby didn’t save.
Stop it, thought Abby. Just get some sleep. Maybe Eleanor will come and help you figure out what to do. She slipped her hand into her coat pocket and grasped the feather. Its plum was cool against her palm. Abby half expected to hear Eleanor’s voice, but silence filled her mind instead. No one was coming; no one was there. And so she focused on the sea, feeling its pull, so much stronger than before. But they were leaving it now, and maybe that was why. Maybe it just didn’t want her to go. Bridgewater was completely landlocked, and she’d never been more than a few miles from the sea.
You’re a Cape girl, she thought as she focused on the waves, allowing their hush to ease through her body. She could actually see them behind her closed lids: a blue lullaby, calm and sweet, pulling her forward into her dreams.
12. The Memory Thief
Luther Pentos, Chief of the Clifton Police, peered warily out his office window. The sun was beginning to set. Long rose fingers stretched across the sky, losing themselves in patches of gray. Night was coming quickly now. He could already see a few steel stars poking their way through.
Luther knew he should head home. Clifton was a relatively peaceful town, at least until recently. Still, even with one missing person and two clear murders, it was nothing like the twisted streets of Detroit. Just the name of that city gave him a chill, and a terrible darkness eclipsed his mind, wiping out the near godly sunset until all he could see was the smoky skin of a corpse.
Stop it, he thought, inhaling deeply, then holding his breath as long as he could. This simple action steadied him enough to push the past away, and focus wholly on where he was now.
He found it peaceful in his office, with its muted walls, and gleaming, leather chairs. He liked to keep the lights down low, which gave the room a cave like appearance. It was comforting, just like home. It was unusual for him to even crack his blinds, but tonight the outdoors called to him, stirring up an ancient memory, a terrible need.
Luther kept his office warm— too warm, in fact, for the rest of the force. Not wanting to impose on the others, he’d had it rigged to a separate thermostat. And he’d installed a top-end air purifier to keep out the scent of decay. It followed him, and he couldn’t help that. He’d had the air purifier installed at home too. It’d been an expense, but he’d had no choice. And it wasn’t for Delilah, who wouldn’t notice the smell. She didn’t notice anything anymore. But the boy, well, he was another matter altogether. One that Luther couldn’t seem to fix.
Just go home, thought Luther aimlessly. Go home to your wife. She’s waiting for you. He wanted to go, he really did, but he wasn’t quite sure he should enter the house. Not like this, not tonight. Not when the calling was so fresh.
Luther could already feel the Hunter’s pull, that searing hunger, gnawing at his chest. He felt it because it was his too. His bane to share, his terrible curse. No matter how hard he tried to be human, he couldn’t erase it, couldn’t take it away. It was always there, writhing in the shadows, coursing through every thought.
Stop it! thought Luther, rebuking himself. You’re a man now. Control yourself.
But he was losing his grip, and there was nothing he could do. Delilah assumed it was the job. Two definite murders and one student missing, and it had all happened in the last week. The whole town was on alert. People were scared. Any normal cop would be feeling the pressure.
And, of course, now he had FBI under his skin with their relentless questions about why he hadn’t roped off the beach. Why he hadn’t enforced that silly curfew, when doing so would just have been for show. They thought they were facing a serial killer, a human one. How wrong they were. For in the days before the first death happened, he had felt the Hunter’s presence here, had begun to feel the call of the snake. And though Luther wasn’t sure what the Hunter wanted, for he had lost the ability to read his brothers’ minds, he knew, without any semblance of doubt, that the Hunter couldn’t be stopped. At least not by him, and most certainly not by the FBI.
Luther glanced up when he heard the knock on his office door, his green eyes narrowing, pupils elongating into slits. Mary Ellis, the force’s sole secretary, popped her head through the doorway. “Sir?” she asked. She always spoke in a question. “Sir it’s late. Mind if I head home?”
He gave her a cursory nod and watched as a smile slipped across her face. She was a heavy woman with thinning, red hair, who was jolly with the rest of the force. But not with him. No, never with him. With him there was always a certain respect. A distance even, but one he enjoyed. Because the closer they got to him, the harder it was to maintain his secret. And every time he altered their minds to keep it; he changed them somehow, lost a bit of who they were. The entire department was under his spell, had a certain dazed way of seeing the world. They’d never make it on another force, not without him calling the shots. That’s why he’d only altered two of the FBI agents, and what he’d done had been relatively minor. That day in the auditorium, he’d just curbed their fear and made them invested in his own department so they would listen to what he said. He didn’t dare do more than that. If he sent too many agents home with dulled senses, someone might become suspicious. And he couldn’t have that. But Delilah was the one he regretted the most. Delilah who was now a shadow of herself. He’d had to do it; there’d been no other choice. Not if he wanted to stay a man.
Go home, he thought, there’s nothing you can do. At least not until after dark. He knew he should go, eat his wife’s poorly cooked dinner, avoid the glares of that awful boy, and wait until it was time to follow the Hunter’s call. He could do it. He could withstand the pull, though it was growing stronger as the minutes passed. But he had to keep that part buried inside him, at least until the time was right.
After all, hadn’t he abstained for over two years? And even before that, when he’d been in the game, it was only criminals he’d taken. Bad guys who’d deserved what he’d done to them. Who’d cried as he’d sucked the life force from their veins, sniveling and moaning like little girls. But this time, no. This time it was different. This time he would meet one of his own.
Luther sighed and closed his eyes, as the Hunter’s call contracted inside him then pulled taut and lean as a rubber band.
Okay, he thought, cracking open his lids. Go home. See your wife. He won’t seek you there. Just stay in control until after dark. It will be safer to find him then.
Luther reached for the blazer that hung on his coat rack, sighing as he slung it over his arm. In all these years, more than he would let himself count, he’d never grown accustomed to the clothes men wore. Clothes he had worn when he was a man, before the change. But they still felt wrong.
He touched the holster at his hip, sliding his fingers over the Glock.
Good thing you like guns, he thought. At least that part isn’t foreign anymore.
Luther stepped out of his office, switching off the light as he went. The barracks were quiet, almost everyone was gone. Two cops sat hunched over their desks catching up on paperwork, but the rest of the force was patrolling the town. The force was on high alert right now; they would be until the killer was caught. Which Luther knew was impossible. Even with help from the FBI.
Luther exited the barracks through the front door and headed out to his car. The moon was rising; he could feel its draw. Its silver glow caressed his skin. His eyes widened and his pupils started to dilate as he stared down the near empty street.
He found his white, vintage Mercedes, its color a comfort to his darkened soul. Go home, he thought. There’s nothing more you can do. But he had to get passed the pressure inside him, the tug in his gut urging him to hunt. He tried to ignore it, but it was hard. Almost as hard as those early days when all he could do was obey.
But it was different now; he was different. He was more like a man than he’d been in a very long time. Only the thing that would meet him tonight wasn’t human at all. A bolt of fear shot through him— sharp and noxious and blistering hot. Luther gasped and clutched the Mercedes’ door, stunned by the rawness of it all.
“I’m afraid,” he whispered, “I’m really afraid.” He remembered the last time he’d seen the Hunter, and his stomach flipped as his skin grew dark. “Not yet,” he hissed, tasting the air, his pink tongue splitting into a velvety fork.
Black Waters (Book 1 in the Songstress Trilogy) Page 17