With Drago momentarily blinded, and Iggy’s eyes closed in laughter, Jack moved to strike. He slid a shank out from his shirtsleeve and into his palm, flipped it around and drove the knife deep into Drago’s chest, sending the Italian sprawling to the ground, bleeding. Schuyler had helped Jack make the blade from one of the deck boards. He had hollowed out the back of a loose stair tread and carved it against a stone she’d found on a dive. The shank was made from ironwood, and it made for a dangerous and deadly little dagger.
Schuyler rushed for the other Venator, but Iggy was gone before she could stand. This they had not counted on. The fat man could move. In an instant he had pulled the shank from his friend’s chest to use as a weapon of his own and turned toward Schuyler, the laughter having died from his eyes.
“Jack!” she cried as the Venator charged. She suddenly couldn’t move. Iggy had hit her with a stasis spell when he’d stolen the blade, which he was now holding above her chest. In a moment it would pierce her heart—but Jack dove between them and took the full brunt of the blow.
Schuyler had to get out of the spell. She wrenched herself forward with every ounce of energy, fighting the invisible web that held her. The sensation was like moving in slow motion through a thick ooze, but she found the spell’s weak link and broke through. She screamed as she ran toward Jack’s seemingly lifeless body.
Iggy got there first, but as he turned Jack over, he did a double take. Jack was unharmed, alive, and smiling grimly.
He leapt to his feet. “Tsk, tsk, Venator. How could you forget an angel cannot be harmed with a blade of his own making?” Jack rolled up his sleeves as he faced his adversary. “Why don’t you make it easy on yourself?” he said mildly. “I suggest you go back and tell the Countess that we are not a pair of trinkets she can keep in a jewelry box. Go now, and we will leave you unharmed.”
For a moment it appeared as if the Venator was about to consider the offer, but Schuyler knew he was too old a soul to take such a cowardly route. The Italian removed a nasty-looking curved blade from his pocket and pounced toward Jack, but suddenly stopped in midair. He hung there for second with a funny look on his face, part confusion and part defeat.
“Nice move with the stasis,” Jack said, turning to Schuyler.
“Anytime.” She smiled. She had taken the edges of the spell that had paralyzed her and hit the Venator with it.
Jack took it from there, and with a powerful gesture, he threw the fat guard off the side of the cliff, sending him crashing to the water below. Schuyler rolled the unconscious Drago to the edge and threw him over as well, to join his friend in the ocean.
“You got the tank?” Jack asked as they scrambled down the face of the cliff to the pirate boat waiting for them below.
“Of course.” She nodded. They had planned their escape well: Jack had driven the yacht’s anchor impossibly deep into the rocky ocean bottom, while Schuyler had emptied the yacht’s fuel supply. The night before they had sabotaged the boat’s sails and the radio.
They ran across the beach toward the pirate boat, where their new friend Ghedi was waiting for them. Schuyler had befriended him during one of their supervised trips to the Saint-Tropez market, where the former member of the self-styled “Somali Marines” was helping unload a pallet of fresh fish upon the dock. Ghedi missed his days of adventure and jumped at the chance to help the two trapped Americans.
“All yours, bossing.” Ghedi smiled, showing a row of gleaming white teeth. He was lithe and quick, with a merry, handsome face and skin the color of burnished cocoa. He jumped off the starboard. He would catch a ride back to the market on the ferry.
“Thanks, man,” Jack said, taking the wheel. “Check your accounts tomorrow.”
The Somali grinned more widely, and Schuyler knew the fun of stealing the boat was almost payment enough.
The massive engine roared to life as they sped away from the shore. Schuyler glanced to where the two Venators were floating lifelessly in the water. She comforted herself with the knowledge that both would survive. They were ancient creatures and no cliff-side fall could truly harm them; only their egos would be bruised. Still, they wouldn’t be able to recover for a while, and by then she and Jack would be well on their way.
She exhaled. Finally. On to Florence, to begin the search for the keepers and secure the gate before the Silver Bloods found it. They were back on track.
“All right?” Jack asked, guiding the ship with expert ease through the stormy waves. He reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly.
She held it against her cheek, loving the feel of his rough calluses against her skin. They had done it. They were together. Safe. Free. Then she froze. “Jack, behind us.”
“I know. I hear the engines,” he said, without even bothering to look over his shoulder.
Schuyler stared at the horizon, where three dark shapes had appeared. More Venators, on Jet Skis with a black-and-silver cross insignia emblazoned on the windshields. Their forms grew larger and larger as they drew closer. Apparently Iggy and Drago hadn’t been their only jailers.
Escape was going to be harder than they thought.
THREE
Into the Deep
The first drops of rain fell like gentle kisses on her cheek, and Schuyler hoped it would be nothing but a mild shower. But a glance at the ever-darkening sky told her otherwise. The calm blue horizon was now a palette of gray, red, and black; the clouds swirled together to form a heavy, solid mass. The rain, which had begun like a quiet afterthought, suddenly drummed against the deck in a rising staccato. The thunder cracked, a deep rumbling boom that made her jump.
Of course it had to rain. Just to make everything more complicated. Schuyler reached behind Jack and holstered a short bow they had asked Ghedi to procure and stow in the smuggler’s locker, a hidden compartment located in the bilge.
During their month at sea they had passed the time by preparing for this escape. After hours, Jack had schooled Schuyler in the fine points of Venator craft (subterfuge, ammunition), and with Iggy’s and Drago’s approval, had taught Schuyler a rudimentary course in archery. With her steady hand and eye, she had proven an even better shot than Jack. She removed several ironwood arrows from her pack, more handmade weapons fashioned during their captivity. Schuyler holstered one against the bow and took position.
Their pursuers were still a long way behind for now. She could see them clearly even through the wind and fog. She bent her knees slightly and willed herself to be a statue in the moving sea, raising the bow and drawing the arrow as far back as she could. When she was sure she had her mark, she let it fly. But the Jet Ski expertly dodged away.
Unperturbed, she reloaded the bow. This time when she drew the arrow, it lodged in a Venator’s knee. The Jet Ski swerved uncontrollably in the water, and Schuyler felt triumphant until the Venator righted again, unfazed by his gaping wound.
Meanwhile, Jack kept his eyes straight ahead, a steady hand on the throttle. He was giving the engine everything it had, and it was burning up too fast and too hot—throwing off a shower of sparks and making a horrid sputtering noise.
Schuyler looked behind them again. Their pirate boat was doing the best it could, but it wouldn’t be long before they were overtaken. The Venators were much closer now, no more than fifty feet away. It rained even harder, and she and Jack were both soaked to the bone as the wind whipped up the waves and the boat rose and fell in a treacherous, roller-coaster fashion.
She planted her feet, hoping to get more leverage, as columns of water surged onto the deck. She only had two arrows left; she had to make them count. She armed up and poised to strike, just in time to see something fiery and blazing aimed right at her.
“Schuyler!” Jack yelled, pulling her down just as something exploded in the air where she had been standing. Good God, the Venators were fast—she hadn’t even seen her assailant take aim and fire.
Jack kept one hand on the steering wheel, the other hand he kept protectively at her back. “Hellfi
re,” he muttered as another explosion barely missed the starboard and shook the ship. The missiles were outfitted with the deadliest weapon in the Venators’ arsenal: the Black Fire of Hell, the only thing on earth that could end the immortal blood running in their veins.
“But why would they want us dead?” Schuyler asked, above the roar of the storm as she held the bow to her side. Surely the Countess did not wish them that much ill will. Did she hate them that much?
“We’re collateral damage now,” Jack said. “She was only keeping us alive while it was convenient for her. But now that we’ve escaped, her ego can’t take it. She’ll kill us just to make a point. That no one defies the Countess.”
The boat bounced across the swelling waves, each time landing with a hard jolt, a rickety crunch of bolt and nail against wood and water. The engine was shot. It felt as if it was only by their sheer will that the makeshift speedboat held together.
Another blast rocked the helm of the ship, closer this time. The next one would sink them. Schuyler leapt from her hiding place, and in quick inhuman succession, pulled off the last two shafts. This time her arrows pierced the gas tank of the nearest Jet Ski, which exploded upon impact.
They didn’t have time to celebrate, as another missile sailed over the bow, and Jack turned the wheel sharply to the right only to come directly upon a ten-foot-tall wave that swallowed the ship whole.
The pirate boat burst through to the other side, miraculously still intact.
Schuyler looked over her shoulder. Two Venators left; they were so close she could see the outline of their goggles and the silver stitching on their leather gloves. The Venators’ faces were impassive. They didn’t care if she and Jack lived or died, if they were innocent or guilty. They only took orders, and their orders were to shoot to kill.
A crashing wave took them precariously off balance, the ship tilting forward until it was almost vertical, then slammed back hard on the opposite end. Any moment now they were bound to capsize. They were out of arrows. They were out of options.
We’ll have to ditch the ship. We’ll go faster if we swim, Schuyler sent. It was the same thing Jack was thinking, she knew. It was just hard for him to say it. Because swimming meant being separated from each other. Don’t worry. I am strong. As are you. She exchanged a wry smile with her love.
Jack gripped the steering wheel, his jaw clenched. You’re sure?
Meet me in Genoa, she told him. The nearest coastal town from their current location. Thirty miles to the north.
He nodded, and a picture appeared in her mind, to show he knew it as well. A crowded port city ringed by mountains, colorful boats of every stripe bobbing in the harbor. From there they could hike through the rugged terrain to Florence.
Swim out as far as you can. I’ll aim the ship at the remaining Jet Skis, Jack sent. He held her gaze for a moment.
Schuyler nodded.
On my count.
I can do this, Schuyler thought. I know I will see Jack again. I believe it.
There wasn’t any time for a last kiss, or a last word of any sort. She felt Jack’s countdown more than heard it—her body executing the commands before her brain could register them. By “three” she was already diving off the edge, already plowing down into the deep, dark water, already kicking her legs against the tide, already measuring her breath. As a vampire she could swim underwater for longer stretches than her human counterparts—but she would have to be careful not to waste energy.
Above the surface she heard a sickening crash as the pirate ship slammed into their enemies. The darkness of the sea was absolute, but after a while Schuyler’s eyes adjusted. She pushed her hands against the water, churning, churning, muscles pushing and aching against the heavy water. She watched the bubbles rise to the surface. She could go five minutes without air, and she had to make good use of it. At last her lungs screamed for oxygen, and she began to kick up toward the surface—she had no desire now except to breathe—so close—so close—yes—one more kick and she would break through—yes. . . .
A cold, bony hand grasped her ankle, keeping her down, pulling her back into the deep.
Schuyler squirmed and kicked. She twisted so that she could see who was holding her. Below, a female Venator seemed to float effortlessly in the dark water. Her attacker assessed her coolly and continued to pull. You are under the protection of the Countess. To deny this protection is an act against the Coven. Submit or be destroyed.
The hand gripped her ankle in a solid lock. Schuyler could feel herself weakening—she would pass out soon if she didn’t get air. Her lungs were about to burst. She was dizzy and starting to panic. Stop it, she told herself. She had to be calm.
The glom. Use the glom. RELEASE ME, she demanded, sending a compulsion so strong she could feel the words taking physical form, each letter an attack upon the Venator’s cerebellum. The hand on her ankle shook slightly, and that was all Schuyler needed.
She burst away just as the Venator sent a compulsion of her own. Schuyler ducked and sent it back tenfold.
SINK!
The compulsion was a punch to the stomach, and the Venator flew backward into the deep, as if propelled downward by a sinking cannonball tied to her ankle. It would take her to the very bottom of the ocean, hopefully giving Schuyler enough time to get away.
She scrambled to get above the waves, finally breaking through to the surface, gasping for air. The rain, cold as a dead man’s fingers, lashed her cheeks. She chanced a look back.
Their little motorboat was on fire. Burning, with sparks of black flames shooting up toward the heavens.
Jack made it out, she told herself. Of course he did. He had to.
A few feet away, Schuyler could see another Jet Ski circling the fiery carcass. But why hadn’t that Venator gone after Jack, Schuyler wondered. Unless . . . unless he was already . . .
She couldn’t finish the thought.
She wouldn’t.
She pushed her head underneath the waves. The Genoa port. She began to swim.
FOUR
Driftwood
Everything around Schuyler was black, as dark above as below. If she swam below the ocean’s surface she found she could make better time, and took to swimming deep underwater for longer and longer periods. Schuyler pushed against the current, buffeted by the waves; she felt as insignificant as flotsam, just another piece of ocean rubbish lost in the tide. She had to fight the desire to give in, to stop swimming, to close her eyes and rest and drown.
The storm broke for a moment, and Schuyler, bobbing up, could see the city rising from the water, its cheerful pastel buildings only a few hundred feet away. The midday sun was shining brightly on the pretty waterfront cafés. It was past high season, and the weather was brisk, so the outdoor tables were empty.
Schuyler tread water furiously to keep her head above the waves. God, she was tired. She was so close, but she didn’t know if she could make it.
That was the problem with the Velox, Lawrence had warned her. You begin to believe in your superhuman capabilities, but the Velox demands rest, and it will have it whether you liked it or not. He had warned her of vampires who had pushed themselves to the limit, only to collapse at a crucial juncture and be overtaken by the Silver Bloods.
She had no more energy left; she couldn’t propel herself the last few tantalizing feet to reach her goal.
She felt as limp as plankton. All the strength had drained from her body. She had covered about twenty-five miles in half an hour, but it wasn’t enough to get her onto that nearby beach. She spit out some salt water and pushed her bangs out of her eyes, dog-paddling listlessly. Her muscles were torn, spent. She couldn’t do one more stroke. . . .
An idea came to her. . . . She couldn’t push forward anymore, but she could float. . . . She could just lie down, really, and let the waves do the rest. The thought of backstroking the rest of the way struck her as incredibly ironic after the intensity of her escape. Well, she could float or she could drown. Just as she�
�d hoped, the slow steady movement required only the amount of energy that she could provide.
A few minutes after setting off at a leisurely pace, she felt the water around her vibrate, and she heard the distinctive motor of a Jet Ski. For a moment she was seized with fear; she kicked upright, looking all around, and then she saw it. Approaching quickly was a familiar vehicle branded with the dreaded black-and-silver cross, but that was no Venator at the helm.
Schuyler bounced up and down on the waves. “GHEDI! GHEDI!” She had no idea how the pirate had come to be on the Jet Ski, but right then she didn’t care. All she knew was she had to get his attention before he got too far away.
He couldn’t hear her, and the Jet Ski was getting farther and farther away.
GHEDI. TURN BACK. I COMMAND YOU.
The Jet Ski swung around, and in a moment, had roared up next to her. “Signorina! There you are!” he said, his bright smile splitting his face.
She pulled herself up next to him, thankful to be out of the water at last. “What are you doing here? Where’s Jack?”
Ghedi shook his head. After he had bid them good-bye at the Cinque Terre, he had seen the Venators chase after them. He’d tried to radio them a warning, but the storm had taken out the satellite signals. He’d borrowed a motorboat, and had come upon the wreckage of the pirate ship (“Black, black smoke. Bad.”) There had been no sign of Jack, and he’d taken an empty Jet Ski that was most likely left behind by the Venator who had chased Schuyler and who was probably still struggling to swim to the surface.
If Ghedi was here with this Jet Ski, then where was the other Jet Ski with the other Venator, Schuyler wondered. And where was Jack?
* * *
They circled the shoreline for several hours. It would be evening soon. Jack should be here by now, Schuyler thought. It would take a vampire of his speed only minutes to make it. She had managed, and he was by far a stronger swimmer. Schuyler dropped Ghedi off at the harbor, and she continued on the Jet Ski alone, as her new friend was showing signs of fatigue from their search. It wasn’t fair to ask him to accompany her on what was looking more and more like a hopeless endeavor.
Misguided Angel Page 2