Blood Rites (37 page)

If Patrick had been an Austra adult he would have killed or disabled Russ by now but his body was light and weak and far too slow. Russ lunged past him, pulling Alan through the doorway, pressing the knife against Alan’s throat, keeping the older boy between himself and Patrick. “Come any closer and I’ll kill him, so help me.”

Patrick, on all fours, took one step toward Russ, then raised his head. The scent of blood was all around him but, overpowering it, was the welcome wave of his enemy’s fear. That he had done this all by himself gave Patrick a thrilling surge of self-confidence and he looked at Russ and grinned, his long cat’s teeth drawing Russ’s eyes to his face. His mind extended, instinctively trying to trap and paralyze his victim. Alan felt the unfocused buzzing in his head, even Venault responded with a gasp of surprise. For an instant Russ relaxed his grip, then deliberately tightened it. Alan cried out with pain.

Patrick padded backward and moved closer to Venault. His still-forming senses were drawn to the young man’s agony, the scent of his blood caused spasms of unfamiliar hunger deep inside him. Denied the life of his chosen victim, his body’s new demands must still be met.

Russ laughed. “You want him, don’t you? Go on, you little animal. Let me see you feast.”

Patrick stared at Venault lying helpless, shivering in a spreading pool of blood. As Patrick moved a step closer to him, he felt his mother silently warn him back. A few days ago he would have run to her, clinging to her, begging her to help him. No longer. This decision was his, his alone.

“You want him?” Russ taunted Patrick. “Take him. I even cut your food for you.”

The words meant nothing to Patrick. Oblivious now to Venault’s agony, his mother’s advice, or Alan’s shocked cry; oblivious to even the hunger inside him, Patrick stared at Russ Lowell. For the first time, he saw good and evil as absolutes separate from himself and his needs, and he sensed in a way he could scarcely understand that he faced the first great turning point of his life. Determined to choose wisely, his mind became a tapestry of Russ’s cruelty, his mother’s resolve, and Alan’s shocked denial. As he moved from one mind to another, he noticed Alan hold out his hand, palm up, offering himself in Venault’s place.

There was a willing victim. He did not need to destroy.

Russ used Patrick’s moments of indecision to jerk Alan’s hands behind his back and attach the cuffs. When Patrick still hadn’t moved, Russ sneered, “You little shit. You’re just a baby. You don’t know what the hell killing’s all about.” He dragged Alan across the floor and unlatched one of the trapdoors with his heel before risking a quick bend to pull it open. “Come on, Patrick Austra. Get in the boat. We have to go now.” When the boy didn’t obey, he pressed the knife tighter against Alan’s throat, breaking the skin. “Come on. You do like I say and I won’t hurt you, or him either. You have my word on that.”

Without giving any indication that he’d heard, Patrick padded to his mother and, pressing close to her, ran his fingers down the side of her face and opened his mind to her silent advice. —Go with him. Don’t let anyone see you the way you are now. You’ll be home with Dickey and Father in a few days. I will be, too. I promise you.—

Promises were always kept but he sensed that she was not completely certain about this one. She kissed his cheek and, with a quick mental caress, withdrew from his mind. Patrick, still tensed and ready to fight, walked a slow wide circle around Russ and climbed down the ladder into the hold. “Move into the room at the front,” Russ yelled down, trying to keep his voice even, convincing himself that he was still in charge. “And get back from the door!”

When Patrick had done as he’d ordered, Russ carried Alan down the ladder. Taking no chances when they reached the bottom, he kicked Alan into the hold and locked the door, sliding a bar across it for good measure before returning to the warehouse.

“That’s a slave ship, Helen Wells. The hull is lined with sheet metal. The portholes have bars. When guys pull a double cross and run north, we hunt them down and ship them across the lake in it. Don’t worry about the boys. Domie’s sending them home. Worry about yourself.”

He moved the cycle so its headlight beam would fall across the length of Helen’s body and looked down at her face. Though she kept her expression as impassive as ever, she knew with perfect clarity that he intended to shoot her.

He felt so clever about his plan. He had every detail fixed in his mind. He’d shoot the bullets into her chest, being careful not to hit the heart. She’d sleep just like she had before and when she woke, he’d be back here waiting for her.

So would Stephen. Patrick would tell him and he’d come.

Helen didn’t want Stephen to rescue her, didn’t even want him nearby when she killed this animal. No, Russ Lowell must be hers alone and she saw only one course to assure it. With every bit of power she possessed, she pushed her alien seductiveness to its limits and thrust herself into his mind.

As she moved through him touching every nerve, he could feel a dozen lascivious hands and lips brushing his skin, caressing, kissing. And when he thought that like the first time he’d come in pants he felt a pressure inside him, holding him back. She had never done anything like this to him before. No one ever had! Panting, he dropped the gun and crouched beside her, untying the gag with shaking hands, kissing her in return. She responded so perfectly that he longed to cut her bonds and feel her willingly move beneath him. With effort, he kept his hands away from his knife and concentrated on the supreme pleasure of her helplessness.

She waited until he was inside her, pounding her with a passion that seemed to have no conclusion. Then as he kissed her, swearing in his mind that he loved her, would always love her, she jerked her head sideways and sank her teeth deep in his shoulder, deliberately hard, magnifying the pain. Confused, still wanting her, he pulled back and looked at her face. Lips, smeared with his blood, turned upward into a scornful smile of victory.

And without a word she made her final, desperate move. She drew on all the rage she had hidden for days and let the beast inside her loose—not at Russ because she had no way of attacking him, but into him. The skilled mental hands departed with a quick painful crack like a whip across his nerves. His prick went slack.

—Come on. Come on. Come on, you sadistic son of a bitch. Come on. Forget the gun. Use your fists, your knife. I’m helpless. Rip me apart.—

Silent laughter filled his mind. Vocal laughter echoed off the empty walls around him. With a low growl, he attacked.

Helen felt the first deep plunge of his knife, the second. No more. She need not have worried about lack of courage. Her body knew what must be done and allowed it to happen, automatically deflecting only a few thrusts, drawing the blade to the places most in need of damage, forcing him to strike again and again, slashing her chest, her breasts, stabbing her bound and helpless limbs, annihilating her body.

When he’d finished, he sat back on his heels, his clothes soaked with her blood. Only her face and head and stomach were untouched.

He held a palm to her open lips and felt no breath. He pressed two fingers against the side of her neck and detected no pulse. He’d wanted so much more than this. So much. One single sob was all he allowed himself before he pulled away and coldly began wiping down the padlocks and the cycle, every smooth surface he might have touched. Then, with one final glance at the bloody mass that had once been his greatest prize, he crawled down the ladder onto the boat and began to cry for all the time she had forced him to destroy.

And her lover, the father who looked so much like his deadly offspring, would hunt Russ down.

Unless Russ stopped him.

III

Patrick had felt the entire attack. Now he lay pressed against Alan, his teeth deep in Alan’s shoulder, satisfying the hunger so much misery had aroused. Alan tried to shake him off but the boy only held him tighter.

“Patrick. Patrick, stop!” Alan said in a frantic whisper. He’d even taken a deep breath to call to Russ for help when Patrick abruptly let him go and turned to face the door, sitting motionless, unblinking eyes fixed on it.

“Patrick, what is it?” Alan asked.

“Russ.” The boy frowned, trying to make sense of what he’d learned, then settled for repeating Russ’s thoughts in a wooden tone that made them all the more horrible, “I don’t give a damn what Domie says. I’ll kill the fucker. I know where to shoot.”

“You?” Alan asked and, receiving no answer, asked again, “Me?”

“Papa,” Patrick said, his face still turned to the door.

Alan had no idea how to warn Stephen. They’d tried to call his father for help a dozen times over the last few days and every attempt had failed. As the boat pulled away from the dock and into the center of the choppy river, Alan wedged himself into a corner and tried to come up with a new plan.

Then Patrick was pressed against him, his hands on either side of Alan’s face. Assuming Patrick intended to reach his mother, Alan closed his eyes and steeled himself for her agony. But though Patrick had physically matured, he was still just a small child and he’d had enough of the adventure and the danger, enough of the pain. What followed next would have been impossible for even the strongest Austra adult but Patrick, who had not been instructed in what was possible and what was not, used every shred of human power in his soul. Eyes closed, barely moving, he merged with Alan. Drawing on Alan’s energy as well as his own, he soared north and west, looking for the clearing, the cabin, his brother, home!

IV

Donna woke suddenly, feeling hot and sweaty in spite of the cold night draft blowing through the house from the open front door. Though she’d bolted it, Dickey must have managed to reach the lock so he could go hunting again.

His father had said Dickey behaved like a normal toddler. Granted, the first two nights had been normal. Then he’d slept for hours until, tired of waiting for him to get up for his night feeding, she’d gone to bed herself. Sometime while she was sleeping, he’d left the house. When she discovered that he was missing, she had stood outside in the frosty night air calling to him, hearing his high-pitched peals of laughter flowing down from the ridge. When she’d gone running after him, the deep growl of the wolf warned her back. On the second night, she called again and only the wolf answered. Each time she’d sat up until dawn, frantic with the worry that he’d get lost or killed and she’d be left alone to face his father’s wrath. Both times, he came home at dawn covered with something else’s blood, looking wonderfully satisfied.

Normal, hell! With a groan of frustration, she rolled out of bed. Well, his father could never accuse her of not trying to get him back. She pulled on her jacket and went outside.

This time Dickey waited for her at the edge of the moonlit clearing, standing upright with one steadying hand on the back of the wolf. Deep gashes crisscrossed on his bare stomach and she saw scratches on his cheeks. Whatever he’d killed tonight had fought back. Judging from the smell of it as he rushed past her, it had been a pretty nasty beast.

When Donna joined him, he was in the kitchen trying to clean himself off with a damp washcloth. He flinched and refused to look at her though he did cooperate when she pumped water into the sink and bathed him. She changed the water twice before she decided he was clean. By then the wounds had already begun to heal and she didn’t even bother to bandage them before she carried him to bed with her. “I’m a light sleeper, Dickey Austra. You move and I wake, understand.” She rolled him over so his back pressed against her chest. Holding him tightly, she slept.

And dreamed of Alan and Patrick here and talking to her and Dickey. Patrick looked different somehow, older and stronger, and when she looked at his face she saw that his teeth, like his brother’s, had grown. Though she listened carefully, she couldn’t make out the words they spoke. Finally she stopped trying. This was her dream, after all, and she was too much in need of sleep to really care.

She woke at dawn and, pleased to see Dickey still motionless beside her, rolled over and closed her eyes again.

Late that morning Dickey’s wail of anguish woke her. All toddler now, he sat with his lower lip jutting and eyes filled with angry misery. “Dickey, what’s wrong?” Donna asked.

“Patrick changed too!” he whined.

“What?”

“I saw him in the dark. He changed too.”

“Like teeth and everything?”

Dickey nodded and buried himself under the blankets. Donna pulled them off. “Did Patrick talk to you?” she questioned. He pulled at the blanket and she jerked it out of his hand, demanding, “Tell me!”

“Not just me,” Dickey responded.

Donna remembered.

She found Dickey some clothes and drove as fast as she was able to the nearest phone.

V

This is the way Helen should have been born—with a body as strong as her mind.

No matter, the strength would come now. Unconscious, barely breathing, she felt the power moving through her like liquid fire. Her heart had instinctively slowed, halting the bleeding so the healing could begin.

She had no idea how much time had passed before the first spasms of hunger hit. She had expected them but she had never guessed they would be this potent, this painful. Their pounding reality kept her from focusing on anything but her waiting victim.

—Jean Venault, come to me.— She forced him back to consciousness and repeated, —Come!—

Venault moaned, a sound so soft she could scarcely hear it at all, then began a long slow crawl across the floor. She sensed his will drawing him forward. He wanted to touch her just once before he died.

The attraction that had always been such a nuisance to control had never seemed as important as it did now. Though she sent him more encouraging words, her thoughts were darker and far more frantic.
Slowly, Jean. Slowly. Please don’t die before you reach me. Please
!

He lay motionless, collecting his strength, then with one final surge of will forced himself to slide the last few feet, lying on top of her, the day’s growth of beard on his face scratching at the raw wounds on her chest. He felt so lovely, so perfectly alive.