Blood Rites (22 page)

She saw the bruises on Alan’s face, felt how numb his hands had become in the few minutes since Russ had tied them. She sensed Hillary’s fear and her rage grew, narrowed, and focused on the man following the children to the car.

Russ put Alan in the front passenger seat, then walked behind the girls around the back of the car to the other side. Helen tensed, her breathing a shallow pant as she prepared to spring.

As Russ opened the door, Patrick saw her, called to her, and pointed.

Russ whirled and, leaving the back door half open, aimed his gun at her. Smiling, he said her name.

For the first and last time.

The certainty of this awed Helen. She knew exactly how she would strike, wounding not killing, not yet. She wanted him in a way she had never wanted a man before and she felt no pity, no shame, no need to hold back and be anything less than the predator she had become. She sensed all of this as if time had stopped while she gripped her knife and touched his mind, freezing him for the instant she needed to strike.

And she might have succeeded had Hillary not dropped Patrick and grabbed the top of the door, ramming it into Russ’s side to ruin his aim.

When the door hit Russ, the gun went off.

The bullet entered Helen’s thigh, the pain of its impact pulling her out of Russ’s mind, freeing him. With a bellow of rage, Russ slammed the car door and fired again, hitting Helen in the side near her heart. Without bothering to note if she were alive or dead, he swung the rifle toward Hillary.

“No!” Donna screamed and threw herself against him. Russ kicked her back and fired at Hillary, hitting her in the chest. He would have fired again but Patrick jumped at him, his fingers curled, clawing deep gouges into Russ’s face and neck. Russ caught him and tossed him into Donna’s arms. The toddler’s thin arms circled her neck and he looked over his shoulder with cold dark eyes and snarled.

Russ moved back a step. He’d never been attacked so viciously by any kid before and the barrel of his gun shook as he aimed it at Patrick’s face. Donna wrapped her arms around the toddler and turned so her body was between Russ and him. “For God’s sake. He’s just a baby.”

“The hell he is! Oh, all right. Give him to me and get in the car.”

“No. It’s over, Russ. If you force me to go, I’ll scream. I’ll kick. I’ll be more trouble than even you can stand. You said I could leave when I wanted to. That’s now, Russ.”

Russ had his hand on the trigger, the rifle aimed a little lower than her heart. Slow, certain, agonizing death. Donna didn’t even look at the weapon. She kept her eyes on Russ’s face. Patrick also stared at him, their expressions perfectly matched.

Russ wanted to kill them both but he didn’t. Instead he opened the car and pushed Alan back into the passenger seat, jerked Patrick out of Donna’s arms, and tossed him in the back before heading down the winding dirt road. Alan sat beside him looking straight ahead, not even flinching when Russ touched his cheek, holding his hand there as he said cheerfully, “Ah well, you’re the important one after all. If you’re very good and do everything I say, I’ll trade you for your father and you’ll be fine.”

And his father would be dead. Alan lowered his head to his knees and began to cry as silently as he was able.

Stephen’s body would have ignored the wounds Helen received. They might have even healed during the fight, certainly during the time he would have taken to devour his opponent. But Helen’s human flesh needed time. She lay facedown on the damp ground, patches of sun beating on her back, its pain hardly noticed among the others—the wound in her leg, the second dangerous one in her chest, the knowledge that she had failed.

Pressing her hand against the hole in her chest, she crawled the few feet to where Hillary lay mercilessly conscious, slowly dying.

“I’m sorry.” Hillary struggled for breath and her voice was so soft even Helen had difficulty hearing it. “Russ tricked me. There was blood on his shirt. He . . .” She sobbed and could not go on.

Instincts Helen barely understood told her that Hillary was beyond saving. “No!” she whispered in denial of what had happened, of her fear, of what she knew she had to do to rescue her cousin. She wanted to cry but forced back the human tears and the human emotion that caused them. Later, later she’d give in to that part of her and mourn. —Hillary. I need your help.—

Helen sensed the girl’s assent, ripped open Hillary’s blouse, and pressed her lips to the wound devouring the blood, swallowing the bits of flesh she sucked in with it, more animal now than Stephen could ever be, more of a beast than anything she had ever imagined. The girl’s life coursed through her, the energy in it feeding Helen’s mind as they joined in a rush of fear and hope and soared above the clearing and the mountains, moving north and west seeking Stephen.

They sensed him as a point of light shining more brilliantly than the morning sun on the snowy peaks above him and descended, hitting his mind with all the force of their combined fear and pain.

—Death!! Danger!! Home!!—

Then there was only Hillary and herself and the light she remembered from the time of her changing—a different eternity waiting for a human soul. They shared a quick moment, a good-bye, and Helen was alone with the shell of a friend and her sorrow. She gave in to it now, sobbing, oblivious to her own pain, repeating Hillary’s final words, “So much was possible.”

Helen felt something brush her shoulder and looked sideways at Dickey, squatting beside her, staring at Hillary. “Gone,” he said.

“Yes, gone,” Helen replied. Instinctively, she pushed herself to her feet and limped toward the comforting darkness of the storage shed. Inside, the healing sleep merged with the dawn lethargy and fell into a coma as profound as the day of her changing.

She was unaware of Dickey unbuttoning her blouse, licking at the wound, then, still unsatisfied, finding her breast. Hillary was gone. Patrick had been taken from him. Dickey had never been so miserable and though he begged, his mother would not hold him.

II

As Russ drove away, Donna had stood in the center of the clearing fighting the conflicting urges to run or to faint. It seemed stupid to do either.
Russ is gone. He won’t come back
, she reminded herself.

Dickey brushed her leg. She looked down at the silver-haired boy, screamed, and jumped sideways, then with courage fueled by pity reached for him. He bolted away toward the blond woman who lay motionless with the blood seeping from beneath her. Hillary moaned softly and Donna had decided to do what she could to ease the girl’s pain. She’d gone to the fire pit and found a brandy bottle still containing a couple of ounces. As she turned and started toward Hillary, the blond woman began her long slow crawl to the girl.

Donna saw how they looked at each other in shared understanding, love, and pain. She saw Hillary’s lips move as she nodded. When the woman ripped Hillary’s shirt. Donna thought she planned to help the girl. Though she wanted to go and see what she could do for both of them, she felt fixed on the spot where she stood, as if her feet were planted deep in the hard earth beneath them.

Then Helen began to feed. Donna felt their mental scream, their silent cry for help not meant for her, then an order—primal and instinctive.

Donna ran.

And maybe it was the worst possible choice to make but she couldn’t think of any other. “Russ!” she screamed though he was probably long gone. “Russ!” she repeated and ran down the rutted road, stumbling, falling, picking herself up and running again.

Russ had stopped where the dirt road joined the highway and turned sideways in his seat, convinced he’d heard Donna call him.

She ran to the passenger side of the car, saw where Patrick had been tossed, and got into the front seat beside Alan. “Why did you wait for me?” she asked Russ.

He shrugged and turned onto the highway. “Why did you change your mind?”

Donna tried to speak but terror made it impossible. Russ reached over the boy’s head and grabbed her shoulder, squeezing until she winced from the pain. “What happened? Tell me.”

“The blond woman. She . . .”

“She still alive?”

Donna managed to nod. Swearing, Russ slammed the car into reverse and backed down the dirt road while Alan looked up at Donna. His eyes seemed sad to her, as much from her betrayal as the killings.

At the clearing Russ locked the car and, gun in hand, ran to Hillary’s body, so savaged now that he did not bother to check for a pulse. He scanned the area, then checked the storage shed, and in the dim morning light saw the woman inside.

She lay as Dickey had left her, her shirt unbuttoned, her body alabaster pale and smooth as a child’s, her breathing even. Russ crouched beside her and studied the bullet hole in her chest. It didn’t seem as ragged as it should be nor as deep. Maybe his gun had somehow misfired, diminishing the impact. He laid it down and pulled the knife out of his pocket. He would end it now, personally, cleanly. He unfolded the blade, holding it up ready to cut before wrapping his fingers through the woman’s long hair. He didn’t need to do this but he wanted to see those eyes open, wanted to see the terror as he made the single killing stroke.

But she didn’t wake. Didn’t struggle. Unconscious, her body automatically mobilized its final defense, a simple one that hardly seemed strange to Russ at that moment. He didn’t want to kill Helen Wells anymore, at least not yet. No, he wanted her for many things and killing was merely the last of them.

As he stooped to pick her up, he heard the distant howling of a wolf and, out in the sunshine, a second closer howl. He looked down at his new prisoner, noting again the odd pallor of her skin, her long slender neck, her incredible beauty, and he carried his prize quickly toward the car.

As he approached it, he saw a shadow moving on the opposite side of it and Patrick Austra pressed against the glass watching something. He warily rounded the front, coming face-to-face with Dickey who pulled on the door handles trying frantically to make one of them open. Russ automatically kicked, intending to send the small boy spinning but Dickey danced out of his way. Russ motioned for Donna to crawl over the seat and hold on to Patrick while he opened the door, then pulled the girl from it before locking Helen inside. Patrick clung to his mother, looking pitifully out the window at Dickey who sat, just out of Russ’s reach, staring back.

“You didn’t tell me there was another one,” Russ said. Donna only shuddered and stiffened, waiting for a blow that never came. “Go get him.”

Donna looked at Russ with dull surprise and he gave her a push in Dickey’s direction. “Go on. The other one likes you. Maybe this one will come to you.”

She took a step toward Dickey. He retreated an equal distance. Another step. Another retreat. The space between Donna and the car grew wider and her choice more clear. She could catch this strange small child so that Russ could kill it and be drawn deeper into his plots of kidnapping and murder or she could take the one chance open to her.

Besides, now he had that woman—that strange, beautiful, frightening woman—so why would he want her anymore? She heard Russ swear and made her decision.

“Run!” Donna whispered and took off after Dickey into the trees, falling flat when the shots started, scrambling to get away from the clearing. Though she immediately lost sight of Dickey, she kept on running until her sides hurt and her legs were weak. Then she doubled over, hugging her ribs, trying to force her lungs to slow their pumping. The trees grew high above her, their branches woven together hiding the sun. The clearing was miles away from the nearest town and she didn’t even know which way to go to return it. She’d probably freeze or starve before she found shelter, and with that thought, she remembered the boy, probably as lost as she was. “Kid,” she called softly, still afraid that Russ had followed her. “Kid?”

Then she heard a branch crack, whirled and saw a wolf sitting a few yards away, staring at her.

“Shoo!” she said, waving her arms. “Shoo!”

It cocked its head. It seemed to be smiling at her, telling her it wouldn’t be frightened away like some toy terrier by a ninety-pound girl, already half dead from exhaustion.

Donna couldn’t outrun it nor would her aching legs have the strength to push her up one of the thin pine trees. Maybe an attack would confuse the wolf enough that it would leave her alone. She picked up a stick and rushed toward the animal. It ran until she stopped chasing it, then turned and watched her. Donna caught her breath and charged it again with no better result.

The wolf sat a moment, ran a few yards, stopped and looked back at her. Its intentions seemed clear, and with no idea where she was going, Donna followed it. Even if it took her nowhere, its presence would keep the cougars at bay.

The wolf led her deeper into the forest, then, as if its mission had been accomplished, disappeared into the trees. As Donna stood, considering what to do next, she saw a flicker of motion near the ground, and still holding on to the stick that could hardly be considered a weapon, Donna walked forward as softly as she could.

In the dim light she saw the child huddled against the rotting stump of a fallen tree, clutching a tiny piece of fabric from his mother’s blouse. When he saw Donna, he ran to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Though Donna wanted to push him away, some old memory surfaced in her—of a time when Donna had been a small child, alone and frightened and not at all sure anyone cared for her.

If she ignored the difference between them, this was a beautiful child. And she wanted to ignore them, to comfort him and herself. She unzipped her oversize jacket, picked him up, and held him close to her. He snuggled against her sweater making a sound like a cat purring softly. She zipped her jacket to keep him warm and ran a hand through his soft curly hair.

She sat on a log, looking at the shadows around her, trying to decide on the best direction to go.

“Dickey,” the toddler said. They were the first words Donna had heard in hours and she jumped.

“Donna,” she responded with a nervous giggle.