Cunningham, Pat - Legacy [Sequel to Belonging] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (28 page)

The bartender, a bored werewolf, handed over the beer he ordered without comment. Wallace sipped and waited. In an unending existence, any novelty invited curiosity.

Sure enough, a vamp soon crowded up beside him. He also ordered a beer. They played with their drinks for a couple of minutes.

“You’re new here,” the vampire said finally.

“Relax,” Wallace said. “I’m not sticking around. I’m just here on business. I’m looking for a slayer called the Preacher. Word is he’s in Sacramento.”

The vampire nearly spit his beer. “What the hell you want a slayer for?”

“I like to live on the edge. Know where I can find him?”

“Far from here, I hope,” the vampire said. He quickly abandoned Wallace, leaving his beer behind.

Wallace hung in for another ten minutes. No one else approached him. He left his glass with a few swallows in it and strolled out the door in search of the next fang bar. Bats liked to gossip. It wouldn’t take long for word to hit the street about the newb with a death wish.

Two hours and three bars later, he hit pay dirt. He’d barely walked through the door when a coyote popped up in front of him. “You the bat looking for Preacher?”

“Whoa. Word travels fast.”

“Slow night. Eternal life gets boring.”

“You know where I can find him?”

“Maybe.” He looked at Wallace expectantly. Wallace pulled a hundred dollar bill from his pocket and handed it over. The coyote
woofed
in surprise. “You in a hurry to die?”

“Do you care?”

“Not really.” He tucked the bill inside his shirt. “Come back here tomorrow night. I’ll have a time and place. Who shall I say is calling?”

“The Tin Man. I’m sure he’s heard of me.”

The coyote hissed in a breath. His human ears actually flattened against his skull. “You’re kidding, right? Chaos, you got balls.”

“You’ll tell him?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell him.” The coyote’s yellow eyes darted away from him. Wallace also swept his glare around the bar. Their immediate proximity had just grown ominously quiet. One by one, the vampires turned to stare as word was passed along.

“I think you just wore out your welcome,” the coyote muttered. “I’d skedaddle, I was you.”

“Good idea.” Wallace treated the vamps to a jaunty salute and left the bar.

Back at the van, he checked the time. He still had hours of nighttime to kill, and Sacramento had just become dangerous. A change of scenery was in order.

The van’s GPS guided him out of the city, along northeastward-aiming roads to the hamlet of Lamont. The place was the size of a postage stamp, fortunately just large enough to support a 24/7 gas ‘n’ go. The drowsy clerk roused himself long enough to answer Wallace’s questions. Sure, he knew where the old commune had been. The whole town knew that story. Apparently, the rousting of the hippie-terrorist-religious-freak lesbians was the most action Lamont, California, had seen since its founding in the Gold Rush days. Wallace took a Slim Jim, paid with a twenty, told the clerk to keep the change, and drove off.

Three hours before sunrise, he reached the turnoff described by the helpful clerk. He maneuvered the van up a rutty, weed-choked, dirt track that had long ago lost its claim to the title “road” and now qualified as a nature trail. Clearly, no one had used it in years. He wrestled the van up the track until a chain stretched across it rendered such wrestling moot. Wallace parked and hiked the remaining quarter mile into the Woods and the Waters.

It didn’t live up to its rep or even Colleen’s descriptions. Like the track, this place hadn’t seen any use in a long time, probably not since the raid. Signs of human settlement were still evident in the form of cleared paths and avenues, even if they weren’t as weed-free or precise as they must once have been. His vampiric night vision picked out the remains of buildings, first charred by fire, then warped and weathered by the northern California climate and long fallen in. There wasn’t as much trash around as he’d been expecting. Maybe Lamont didn’t have enough teenagers to make the abandoned commune a party place.

He prowled up what had once been the main drag, alert for signs of life, or un-life. Evidence of the forest’s population assailed his senses—tiny, rapid heartbeats, the endless rush of blood, an owl’s hoot, the pungent odor of coyote scat. As he neared the end of the street, something big crashed through the brush. A deer, he figured, probably confused by his undead scent but not of a mind to take chances.

No humans, though, and no vampires. They weren’t reusing this as their hideout. That idea had been a long shot anyway. Vampires never returned to any place a slayer had torched. Even he, the hardened, reluctant bat, had hunched his shoulders and tugged his bomber jacket tighter without even thinking about it. Vampires had died in this place, and the stink of their ashes screamed at him to stay away, even over the twenty-year void. He’d find nothing here but bad memories.

Had there been any good ones? He tried to picture the place as Colleen would have known it, peaceful greens and dappled sunlight and birdsong and fresh air. Children playing among intact buildings while their mothers worked at crafts or tended garden patches. Pale young women drifting through their captivity in a dreamy haze brought on by blood loss and vampiric control. No, no happy memories.

His own memories sparked one razor-tipped vision in spite of his efforts to stop it. He tried to see her as she’d been, but his traitorous imagination showed him what she must have become—her rich blonde hair now brittle, her Malibu tan faded to pallor from the constant drain of blood, her bright eyes dull, a faint smile on her vapid face. How long had they kept her? How long had she suffered here? Had one of those children been hers? Had her captors forced her to bear a daughter to replace the son they’d killed?

“I didn’t know,” he said aloud. “I thought they’d killed you, too. I swear to God, I didn’t know. I’d have come to get you, baby. I’d have burned the whole fucking place down myself. I let you down, Elisa. I’m so sorry.”

Silence answered, an emptiness devoid of even the sounds of the forest. Whatever nocturnal beasts were about had fled the immediate area and the creature that had invaded their space.

He lifted his head. He sensed the dawn coming. He’d considered sleeping the day away here, but not now, not with the ghosts of this place, and that one particular ghost, pressing in on him. If he floored it, he could make it back to Lamont before sunrise. Wallace was pretty sure one of its scanty establishments had been a motel. He headed back to the van at a brisk trot with only one searing regret.

He would find the bastards, and they would pay. Bet the bank on that.

* * * *

The following night, Wallace arrived at the fang bar shortly after full dark. He’d barely stepped inside before the coyote grabbed his arm and hustled him back onto the street.

“I wouldn’t go in there,” the were said. “Word’s out on you, Tinny. You’re persona non grata in Sacramento. I was you, I’d wrap up business and fly away home.”

“The drawbacks of having a spectacular rep. What about the Preacher?”

“He’ll see you. There’s an elementary school about five blocks from here.” The coyote provided directions. “Preacher will be there. You’re not here to kill him, are you? You don’t look that stupid.”

“Gee, thanks. No, I’m just here to talk shop. You’ll still have a job when the night’s over.”

“That’s a relief. This economy sucks.” The coyote ducked back inside the bar.

Wallace found the school without any trouble. He vaulted the chain-link fence and paused to get his bearings. This stank of a setup, and a damned well-thought-out one. A thin drift of fog obscured visibility. The thick smell of children and all their attendant odors—greasy fast food, bubble gum, soda, and dirt—clogged up his nose like a head cold. Just enough traffic whizzed by on the street to mask any stealthily approaching footsteps. Where was he supposed to hide? On top of the swing set? The jungle gym? Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. Times like these he missed his .45s.

At least Scarecrow was safe. He and the chick were probably fucking each other blind right now. A half-smile touched his mouth. Colleen. He wanted her. He didn’t have to question it or struggle to admit it. She’d slithered into his life and coiled herself around him like a snake in a sleeping bag. She and Scarecrow clicked like a son of a bitch, which made it icing on the cake. Whatever she was, human or otherwise, Wallace really didn’t give a shit. He’d take her as she was, and Scarecrow, too. They could be a family. A flock.

If he made it through this screwed-up mess—hell, if he made it through tonight—there’d be some definite changes. More listening, less snark, more shows of affection. And a helluva lot more sex.

Okay, bat-boy. Head in the game
.

According to the coyote, the Preacher should be somewhere around. The fact Wallace hadn’t detected him yet said a ton about the slayer’s prowess. He snorted briefly. A vampire slayer turned vampire meeting with a vampire slayer, object cooperation. If that wasn’t the definition of awkward, he’d eat his dictionary.

There. The faint breeze carried a fainter whiff of human scent. The whole playground reeked of sweaty six-year-olds, but this was adult, and fresh. If he hadn’t been on the alert, he would have missed it. Wallace winnowed out the traffic noises and snatches of loud music from cars and finally caught the thump of a heartbeat. Either the slayer knew those weird Eastern breathing tricks that kept his heartbeat steady, or he was one cold bastard. Given that he was a slayer, probably both. Wallace turned toward the sound of the heartbeat and waited.

With the jig up, the slayer stepped out from around the corner of the school. He made no more sound than the breeze, or a vampire himself. He said nothing, so Wallace got the ball rolling.

“You the Preacher?”

The man nodded curtly. His rumpled, dark hair contrasted with skin white enough to rival any vamp’s. He looked younger than Wallace had figured on, early to mid-thirties, maybe. No shock. This wasn’t a job for old men. The rest of him was swallowed up by his shin-length, black duster. Wallace kept a wary eye on it. The street said he had enough of an arsenal under that coat to put away a whole nest of bats. No point in finding out the hard way.

“The legendary Tin Man,” the Preacher said in a low, raspy voice that sounded like someone had once tried to slit his throat, and succeeded. “I’m surprised you’re not dead.”

“I’m surprised you’re not taller.”

“You didn’t chase me down to exchange pleasantries. What is it you want?”

“Information on a bat gang from thirty-odd years back. The Woods and the Waters.”

The slayer showed no surprise. “I heard they were active again. I’ve been looking into it.”

“Me, too. My interest’s personal. I knew one of the victims.”

“You have her with you now?”

“No.” That look the slayer was giving him bordered on way too intense. He fought an urge to circle, as he would an attacking vamp. Christ. Didn’t this dick ever blink? At that thought, Wallace smiled to himself. Sometimes the blink of an eye was all the time a vampire needed. The slayer was just being cautious. With reason. “Let’s just say I’m a concerned citizen, and let it go at that.”

“Do you know what they wanted the women for?”

“If I did, we wouldn’t be having this delightful chat.”

“Then pay attention. Not all of the flock was slaughtered. Some of the vampires escaped. So did some of the women. One of the victims took refuge at a Catholic church. The priest took her confession. Luckily for both of us, he needed to share with someone other than God, so he kept a detailed journal. Fascinating reading.”

“If you’re into that sort of thing. What did she confess to?”

“That she was a broodmare. All of them were. The commune was only the latest incarnation. The bloodlines stretched back for centuries.”