Blood Rites (41 page)

The men outside were talking when the news broadcast began and Dick had to strain to separate the announcer from their voices. By the time the pair realized he might be listening and tuned the volume down, Dick had learned enough. The boys were safe. The sniper victim’s body had disappeared from the morgue. As he expected, someone there had died but he never caught the name.

Not Corey
, Dick thought.
Stephen wouldn ‘t
.

Idiot
, he reminded himself.
Stephen would kill you if his body demanded it. And choice would mean nothing at all
.

Ignoring what might have already been done, Dick concentrated on trying to reach Stephen until he recognized Carrera’s voice outside, barking orders to the men.

The lock slid back with a well-oiled click and Volpe’s huge form filled the doorway. The bare bulb above Dick’s head came on and he squinted at the brightness as he watched Volpe and Carrera come in and close the door behind them.

Only these two? Carrera might just be cautious. More likely, Dick thought, he didn’t want anyone but Volpe to overhear his questions or the answers he might receive.

Stephen had said he would feel Dick’s pain. If so, Dick should experience as much of it as he could before Carrera realized that he had no intention of talking and killed him. He therefore greeted Carrera with a jaunty grin completely at odds with his usual personality. “Lose something?” he asked in a glib tone

Carrera kicked hard, a steel-toed shoe connecting with Dick’s ankle sending a stab of pain up Dick’s leg. Dick let the pain flow through him and out in a silent cry for help. “Problems getting away from you, are they?” Carrera swung a fist. Dick instinctively tilted his head to dodge the blow. As he did, he saw the edge of a table nearly hidden by the stack of boxes, the corner of a butcher’s scale. Suddenly the boxes around him made sense. He was dying at the source of the city’s drug problem—the rumored spot the cops referred to as Cleveland Central High. “You think I killed your son,” he said, his voice ice-water calm. “You killed him with your junk long before I pulled the trigger. He was a casualty of war, no better or worse than the rest.”

Carrera’s eyes glazed with rage. “Hold him,” he ordered Volpe. The big man’s hands trembled as he laid them on Dick’s shoulders, then clamped tight. Carrera pulled two long rags from his pockets and fastidously wrapped them around his knuckles before he started in.

As the blows began to fall, Dick pictured the pain flowing through him, the steady stream growing to a torrent of agony moving up and out.

The beating stopped in the same calculated manner it had begun. Dick slumped forward, gasping for breath, a cut above his eye and a split lip dripping blood onto his pants.

“That was for getting smart with me,” Carrera said. He unwrapped his hands and lifted a trench shovel from the ledge beside the door. A quick twist removed the handle and Carrera pressed it hard into Dick’s stomach. “Now we’ll talk about Austra. Then you’ll die. Why not cut the pain short and tell me what you know?”

“Ask,” Dick responded, not surprised at Carrera’s disappointed expression.

“Start at the beginning. How did you meet him?”

Dick had no intention of answering but when he tried to think of what he would not answer, nothing came to him. If Carrera roasted him from the toes up, the answer still wouldn’t come. All that remained was Stephen’s impassive face, his final instructions, and the blood they had shared a few hours before. The act shamed Dick. The shame enraged him. Friendship. Bonds. Lies! That damned bloodsucker didn’t trust Dick any more than he trusted anyone! “I don’t remember,” he said evenly.

Carrera swung low, connecting with the same ankle he’d kicked. The pain swept through Dick, merging with his fury, creating a potent flammable mix that exploded in Dick’s mind in a way that the pain alone never could.

Stephen sensed the rage—faint and distant. He waited for the second blow with long fingers spread on the dashboard, nails digging into the faded brown vinyl. When it came, he spoke through clenched teeth. “Climb the hill, Dr. Corey. We’re in the wrong place.”

As Corey drove, Stephen forced his voice to remain slow and even in spite of the growing torture he shared. “Up Canal Street. Left at the bridge. Right on Huron.” He only revealed a hint of his concern when he overshot and had Corey backtrack.

The blows became faster and Stephen was close enough now to know Carrera’s patience had snapped. Only Richard’s endurance kept him alive. As soon as he showed signs of losing consciousness, Carrera would stop the blows and he would die.

Stephen made the last move in his calculated bid for time.

—I’m coming, Richard. Talk to him. Tell him anything he wants to know.—

Though Stephen still continued his directions in the same calm tone, a series of long rips grew beneath his fingers. Corey ran the last two lights.

“Stop.” Stephen pointed to a four-story building in the middle of the block. The city’s soot had darkened the brown bricks, boards sealed the windows. He motioned for silence and, eyes closed, moved his mind through the space. “Richard’s there. Volpe, Carrera. Two others on guard. I’m going in.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No. I may need you to call the police or an ambulance. You’ll know if you should.”

“They’ll kill him if they hear you coming.”

“They won’t.”

Stephen took off his shoes and rather than risk some overlooked guard seeing the car door open slipped out the rolled-down window. He made no more noise than a shadow as he padded across the dark street. At the corner of the building he leapt high, hooking his hands over the second-floor window ledge while his toes dug into the narrow cracks between the bricks. Dick’s pain was stronger now. Stephen tried to ignore its waves as he inched himself up and pried out a loose lower board.

In a moment he’d squeezed inside, hands and feet padding his fall onto the floor. The darkness meant nothing, his eyes adjusted, welcoming the change the way his body warmed to the hunt. His hearing concentrated on the sounds two floors below him—the men on guard cracking jokes about the killing, Richard’s stifled cry following the pain of an impatient blow. Swallowing a scream of rage, Stephen picked his way through the debris and slowly pushed open the inner door.

When his memory returned with a sudden snap and he heard Stephen’s faint advice, Dick spit out a mouthful of blood, inhaled as far as his cracked ribs would allow, and began. After so much forced silence, the first words came hard. Gradually, the sentences flowed faster. He embellished, fascinating Carrera and, judging from his expression, terrifying Volpe.

As he went on, one of the guards outside went upstairs to relieve himself and died instantly in the darkness just beyond the door. Stephen jumped the metal rail, landing next to the stairs. Pushing himself upright, he kicked, hitting the second guard in the midsection. As his stomach split open, he fell forward into Stephen’s waiting arms, a scream frozen in his throat. One quick stroke and the man’s neck snapped.

Stephen stepped over him to the door. It had been too long since he’d killed an enemy. With tonight’s quick deaths behind him, his past cried out for blood.

As he pulled the door open, Carrera spun, aiming his gun before he recognized the intruder. When he saw Stephen, he tried to fire. Though his hand shook with the effort, his muscles would not obey him.

“Untie Richard,” Stephen ordered Volpe.

Volpe, relief evident in his expression, did not need a mental command to force him to obey. He worked quickly, standing back as soon as he’d unlocked the cuffs. Dick brought his arms forward slowly, gauging the injuries.

“Can you walk, Richard?” Stephen asked.

“If you give me a hand.” The words were slurred. His swollen lips refused to move.

“Corey’s coming down. I want you to go with him.”

“No!” Volpe whispered, the soft desperate word seeming so at odds with his huge body and hands. “No. I have something for you. Please.” He dipped into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper and a key, holding them out to Stephen.

Carrera knew what they were. “What did you do to me, Ang?” he shrieked.

Volpe didn’t look at him. He was noting the changes in Austra—the tensing and curling of his fingers, how dark his eyes had become. Domie couldn’t see it but Volpe knew. As soon as Wells left, he and Domie would both die, frozen the way Domie was frozen, unable to move, to speak, to do anything but give whatever this thing wanted. Scraps of memory of the afternoon in the restaurant came back to him. He couldn’t face that hell again. “Your reports,” Volpe said. “They’re waiting for you at the post office. The box number’s on the form. Get them and leave us alone. It’s over.”

“The hell it is!” With an angry growl, Carrera fired three shots into Volpe’s chest. The big man remained standing, looking more stunned than hurt before pitching forward against Dick’s chest.

The impact threw Dick sideways, his battered ribs taking one more bruising on the concrete floor. Ignoring the agony, he turned and watched Carrera moving slowly backward until he hit the table. Stephen had allowed Carrera to kill Volpe, now the gun had become useless once more.

Carrera’s mind opened to Dick—the feral rage, the instant when he felt his first despair. He’d lost. Completely. Irrevocably. With Halli’s expression clear in his mind, Carrera tried to force his finger to pull the trigger, then tried to drop the gun and appeal to mercy but even begging was denied. Carrera’s fingers had numbed, only Stephen’s will allowed him to still grip the useless weapon, still point it at his intended victim, make the murder to follow justifiable as self-defense.

Pushing himself into a sitting position, Dick turned and studied Stephen. Stephen’s eyes were huge, clouded with need and, Dick sensed through the bond still strong between them, shreds of regret. How many times could Stephen do what had to be done, kill out of expediency, immerse himself in pain and torment and come back civilized and unscathed? Acting on his own instincts, Dick said softly, “Throw the gun to me, Dominic.”

Carrera, partially pulled from his trance, glanced at Dick. Logic told him he should not obey but fear dictated otherwise.

“Damn it, Domie!” Dick yelled. “Listen to me. If you don’t want to die the way Halli died, throw me your gun.”

Carrera managed to toss the weapon. Dick caught it, aimed, and with the quick justification that he only did what should have been done years ago, he fired two shots. Carrera fell backward against the table, scattering the boxes beside it, beyond Stephen’s reach before he hit the floor.

Stephen knelt beside his intended victim, dipped a finger in Carrera’s blood, and tasted it. His expression was unreadable, his thoughts equally guarded.

“It had to end this way,” Dick said.

“I understand why you killed him. Tomorrow I may even be thankful.”

The throbbing in Dick’s ribs and face and ankle felt wonderful. He was alive and they would heal. One question remained. Dick thought he knew the answer but he had to be certain. “When Carrera started asking about you, why couldn’t I remember anything?”

“You hide your pain too well, Richard, but you’ve never learned to control your temper.”

“That’s what I figured.” Dick pulled the chair closer to him and used it to help him shift his weight while Stephen picked up the gun Dick had fired, wiped it clean, and pressed it into Volpe’s hand. Tomorrow Volpe would be a hero. He might even deserve the honor and Dick would see to it that he got his due.

“I hope you weren’t too hungry, Austra. I don’t have much life to spare,” Dick commented.

Stephen smiled and Dick looked up at the long rear fangs brushing Stephen’s lower lip. Then Stephen crouched beside him, stole the worst of his pain, and helped him to stand.

“Lean against me, Richard, and I’ll help you up the stairs.”

“Lowell’s still alive. Are you going after him?”

“He belongs to Helen, yes?”

“Are you going after him?” Dick repeated with a sharper insistence in his tone. If Stephen wouldn’t, then Dick would find the strength and go himself. He’d be damned if he’d let his niece face a madman alone.

Stephen looked at him and seemed to be actually considering the idea, as if there could be any debate.

Helen Wells—her face.

Helen Wells—her body.

Helen Wells—those incredible things she did with her mind.

When Russ Lowell had pulled out of the pier, sobbing because he thought he’d lost her, he’d never felt such a horrible emptiness. Then he’d heard her laughter faintly in his mind and thought it a memory like the rest. By the time he’d reached the private dock near Rockwood, she’d begun whispering to him saying words he could almost discern. He’d mechanically dumped the boys into the trunk, then shared a few drinks with the guys who had driven his car across the border. He left soon after and sent the guys back to Windsor on the boat.

On the outskirts of Toledo, Helen’s whispers had grown louder, her words clear. —Fool! Did you think you could destroy me so easily? Come back, Russ Lowell. Your vampire is waiting for you.—

Then she left him with only her laughter and her memory etched and burning in his brain.

As soon as he reached Cleveland he’d begun hustling money, driving around with the kids in the trunk, strong-arming for old debts, emptying his safe deposit boxes, dumping drugs in the car along with the cash. By the time he fired the shots into Stephen’s head, he had almost $80,000 in cash and goods hidden in the doors. He could live well for a year or two on that kind of dough even with all the special precautions he’d have to take to hold on to his magnificent victim and to avoid the hired killer that Carrera would undoubtedly send after him.

Vampire
, she’d called herself.

Was she really? No matter. He knew how to handle her. And after what he’d done to her, there was no way she’d wake up in the few hours it would take him to get back to her. Even if she did, there would be no one to hear her cry out or to heed her mental call. He became so certain of her helplessness that he even pulled off the highway at a truck stop where, with locked doors and a gun on the floor beside him, he slept until after midnight.