Darklove (2 page)

“I liked you better when you were just a horny, whimsical old vampire,” I say under my breath, and then sigh with frustration. “I'm fine.”

“Riley. You left me, like, ten seconds ago.”

I look at my WUP partner. “I was just . . . walking by. Heading inside.” I incline my head to the heap on the ground. “He grabbed me.” I shrug. “I let him.”

Noah mutters under his breath, something annoyed and unintelligible, and stares at me. “Come on, let's make like a tree and get out of here.” He grabs the bags I dropped and shakes his head.

I watch Noah Miles's broad back as he retreats to our guesthouse's back entrance. The way he moves tells me he's waiting on me to follow. Slow, careful, on full alert. One thing I can say about him: When he makes a vow, he damn well means every solemn word of it. A vow to protect me, keep me safe, no matter the cost. This he made to Eli, back in Edinburgh when the very real threat of the Black Fallen killing all of us lingered.

“He knew my name,” I say to Noah's back as we stand at the door.

Noah's shoulders rise and fall, as though he's taking in a long, exaggerated breath. “That really doesn't surprise me, Poe.” He glances back at me. One eyebrow lifts. “At all.”

I move ahead of him and through the door. “Just saying.”

Inside, I find the switch on the wall and flip it on. The light illuminates a small kitchen area. I move to the hallway and flip another switch. It shines on a staircase, and I head up. At the top, I find a corridor with doors. I throw open the first one and hit the light. Big bed. Fireplace. Terrace overlooking Montague Row. I throw my pack onto the fluffy pink duvet and open it, withdrawing a leather case. I open it and stare down at my cache of pointy little weapons.

“I'll stay on the first floor,” Noah yells up.

“Yeah, okay,” I answer absentmindedly. I pull off my leather jacket and toss it on the bed, too, leaving just my black leather vest on. I truly prefer nice soft cotton, but it can't hold my blades like leather can. Swiftly, I remove and secure on my person multiple silver daggers, knives, dirks. In my vest, the waist of my jeans, front and back. Grasping the lightweight leather holster, I push my shoulder through and secure the strap around my waist. I snug it tight. Then I eye the one remaining weapon I have.

Right now the most important.

My scatha.

What's that? you ask. Well, in the wise words of the great Inigo Montoya, let me s'plain. From the beginning.

When I think of who I used to be, it seems as though I'm looking at someone else in an old high school yearbook or old photo album. I barely recognize myself. The line separating my old life and this one is hazy, muddled, and most of the time I don't know if I want either one of them anymore, if given the choice. I feel icy cold inside now. Ever since Eli's death.

In my full-blown human days, I used to be a juvenile delinquent. Then I found my mom murdered, and it set me right. With the help of loving surrogate grandparents, albeit root doctors, I became a successful tattoo artist and businesswoman. I raised my baby brother, Seth, to near adulthood. My business thrived.

Then the vampires descended upon first my brother, then me. Some vampires good. Some very, very bad.

One . . .
perfect
. But he's gone now. Eli. My fiancé. He was killed by a Black Fallen—a fallen angel whose soul is darkened by the most evil of magic. My friend Victorian Arcos, a powerful Strigoi vampire, was killed, too, by a Black Fallen. The Fallen were taking over Edinburgh, seeking complete mortal power, and killing a lot of innocents to do it. They sought an ancient book of dark magic, and then, well, WUP got in their way. Eli and Vic especially. God, I've never felt so out of control in my life as when those fuckers took Eli and Vic away from me.

Yet Gawan Conwyk, a thousand-year-old Pictish warrior and swordsman, has given me a shred of hope that maybe, just maybe, they're not so dead after all. Once an Earthbound angel, Gawan earned his mortality by offering himself as a sacrifice to save a mortal's life. Not only is he wicked fast and lethal with the blade, but he knows things the rest of us don't. He knows about Heaven, Hell, and in between. According to his theory, Eli and Victorian might just be suffering in an alternative plane akin to Hell itself. Or purgatory. I'm not sure I believe it just yet. In my heart, I feel emptiness. I don't feel Eli there anymore. I think I'd feel him inside me, were he still alive. Gawan, though, knows it's possible. That the Fallen would have thought it more torturous to send them there, to a realm where they have no control, vs. simply killing them. Yet I can't ignore the emptiness I feel, too.

I feel . . . nothing. Two hours ago, leaving Edinburgh, I had hope. Where did it go? Even Athios, the wrongly accused Black Fallen who saved me and turned out to be not such a bad guy after all, encouraged me. But I feel a hole inside me. A gaping, lifeless, aching hole. Now that I've lost Eli, I only have Seth, my surrogate Gullah grandparents who raised me, Nyx, my friend and coowner of my ink shop, Inksomnia, and, well, Eli's family. And Noah.

With so many to love, why do I feel so cold and empty?

I pick up the scatha. It's an ancient Pict weapon, fashioned sort of like a combination handgun/crossbow. It has cartridges the size of a ChapStick container filled with mystical holy water from St. Bueno's Well. Once I'm in that weird, hellish alternative plane of a world, I can obliterate anything that comes near me with it.

And I have to do it alone.

I tuck the scatha into the holster, shrug my leather jacket back on, and zip it up to my neck. Just as I turn to head out, I pull up short. Noah's standing there. Staring.

“Where do you think you're going?” he asks.

I meet his silvery gaze. “Out.”

Noah's face hardens. “Ri, it's only me and you here. Not the whole team, just us. We have some rogue vampires to take care of, remember?”

“I already took care of one by myself.” I go to move past him. “Your turn.”

His muscular arm juts out and braces against the doorjamb, catching me right at the throat. I pull up short, and our faces are inches apart, and I stare into his eyes. Before Noah was a vampire, he was a cunning soldier in the Revolutionary War. He may have the most beautifully carved-from-stone face, mesmerizing mercury eyes, and sun-bleached dreadlocks, but Noah is clever as hell. He misses nothing. And when he's got your back, he's got it.

Even when you don't want him to.

Which means I gotta do what I gotta do, too.

Noah's pupils dilate just before my thoughts reach his.

I give a dismal grin.
Too late, my friend. Paralysis.
I give this command to Noah in my mind. He goes absolutely, rigidly still. Rigor mortis still. His facial muscles freeze. His arm is still braced against the doorjamb. But I know he hears me.

“I have to try this,” I tell him. His eyes are focused on me, and he might even see me. But he can't move. Not a solid inch. That's one tendency I've mastered over almost all vampires I come in contact with. Mind control.

Pisses them all off.

“I'm taking the scatha and going to St. Bueno's Well,” I tell him. “Gawan said the ground's hallowed there, and old as Heaven and Hell itself. A portal to a place Eli and Vic might be.” I stroke his chin with my forefinger. “He said I have to go in alone.” I close-mouth kiss him on his lips. “I promise I'll be safe. And back ASAP. Then we'll kick some more vampire ass. Promise.”

I stare into Noah's eyes for a few seconds longer. I see them flash a bit, darken to stormy gray, and I know inside, he is boiling friggin' mad as hell. At me for going, and at me for being stronger at mind control than he is. With a final glance, I duck under his arm, jog downstairs, and head out into the night.

I'm in the narrow close behind the guesthouse, where I'd killed the vampire earlier, and I stop a second. Tying my hair up into a ponytail, I take a deep breath and think. It's close to eleven p.m. I fish my cell phone from my rear pocket, pull up Google Maps, and check out my route. St. Bueno's isn't on any map, and it's not in any tourist book, either. But Gawan Conwyk of Castle Grimm told me how to get there. And according to the map, I need to highjack some wheels. I could hike it, but, eh. Why bother when I can drive? It would be a pain in the ass to run with all my blades flapping all over the place anyway. Besides, I'm edgy. Anxious to find Eli, or at least a trace of him. I'd probably fall and impale myself.

I walk out to Montague Row and glance one way, then the other. A dark blue Rover is just pulling up to the curb in front of a guesthouse three homes down. Perfect. I walk over, just as the driver is getting out. A man, midthirties. He leans in and grabs a paper sack of groceries. Mind control time.

Give me the keys to the Rover. Don't report it missing, even if it's gone in the morning. Just call a cab. I'll bring it back when I'm finished. You won't even notice me. Nod once if you got all that.

The guy looks at me but doesn't really see me. His eyes are kinda glassed over. He nods once, and when I hold my hand out, he drops the keys into my palm.

Go inside. Forget you've seen me tonight. Carry on, my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are gone.

The guy turns and crosses to the front entrance of the stone house. He opens the door and closes it behind him. The interior hall light extinguishes, and I can hear his feet moving up the stairs inside his flat.

I waste no time jumping into the Rover, starting the engine. Sweet, the Rover has a GPS. I put in the address Gawan Conwyk had given me, and head out. Jake Andorra gave me U.K. driving lessons before leaving Edinburgh. Even though I drive a manual at home, this one's automatic, and I'm sorta glad. Roads are narrow as hell here. But no sweat. I got this.

The streets are quiet as I pull out of Montague Row and follow the GPS out of the city. I hit a few roundabouts before I take the A-9, cross over the Beauly Firth, and through dense mist head toward the foot of Ben Wyvis and the small villages of Dingwall and Strathpeffer. According to the GPS, they're about fifteen miles out of Inverness. I hit the gas and make myself remember to stay to the right. A few random cars pass, their headlights obscured until close proximity because of the heavy Highland mist. Soon, though, I see no one. All shops are closed up for the night. I speed up.

I'm now weaving through the small village of Strathpeffer. Gawan Conwyk had explained that it had at one time been a Victorian spa town, and that the people of the time had believed the natural spring waters contained magic. Like, life-eternal kind of magic. It is still in existence. Gawan said it wasn't so much a
spa,
and that it was more of a place people brought their crazy relatives in hopes of a miracle cure. A huge insane asylum Victorian-era town. Very Stephen King–ish. And the architects of the spa weren't giving magical therapy. As I drive through the quiet village and notice the tall, dark-stoned Victorian homes set back upon tree-ensconced hills, I can only imagine the creepiness of the times. Ice-water dunkings in the springs, or, nicely put,
hydrotherapy
. Craniotomies. Whatever. Victorians, Gawan said, were a “weird and morbid lot of folk.” I believe it, and coming from me, that's sorta hypocritical and funny as shit.

No sooner have I left the village of Strathpeffer than I see a small white sign with black letters for Dingwall. My British-accented GPS speaker directs me pretty easily, and before long I'm winding through the town center. More narrow streets, stone walls, stone buildings. I pass several stores, a few takeouts, a haggis shop, the police department, and a school. Soon I turn at a car dealership and start up a steep, high hill. At the top, I follow it left, and I'm still climbing a bit as I skirt several small farms. The smell of sheep poop and hay, mixed with whatever that nice herby, clovery smell is of the Highlands, wafts through the vents of the Rover. Too bad this whole trip to Scotland is a WUP mission. Too bad I'm headed into some heinous underworld that I may or may not escape alive from with my fiancé and friend. I might actually love it here. There's something breathtaking and mystical about Scotland. Something unexplainable. A feeling, I guess.

Ahead, a small dip in the road, then to the right I see a sign:
IVY CROFT AND COTTAGE
. It's a narrow paved drive, and I hit the headlights off and turn in. I pass a relatively large two-story house, and at the smaller cottage at the top, I park the Rover and pull the emergency brake. The moment I open the door, the scents assail me. Clover. Floral. Pungent. Perfect. Quietly, I close the car door and scan the shadows. A half-moon hangs over a field, and while it's not totally dark, the mist makes it hard to see more than fifty feet. According to Gawan's directions, I have to travel on foot behind the barn I'm standing in front of, up the hill, and after passing a set of ancient standing stones, cross into the wood. I glance behind me, to the house at the foot of the hill. Lights are out, and all is quiet. Hopefully, I'll be in and out before the family wakes up.

My hands fly across my body, checking all of the blades holstered onto my person. I double-check the scatha, zip my leather jacket, and with a deep breath, take off behind the barn. I leap over the fence, startling a few dozing sheep. They jump up, bleat, and herd away from me. There is a trail close to the fence, and it slopes up the hill. I start off across the spongy, wet ground. Something tells me I should've worn rubber boots vs. my leather ones.

The half-moon light slips through the mist just enough for me to make out the sheep path I'm running on, and as I climb the hill and leap one metal fence, I see the crooked silhouettes of the standing stones ahead. I'm moving fast, and within seconds I'm beside them. The wind howls, and in the distance, a set of wind chimes dong. A feeling overcomes me, starting at my feet and moving up through my body. It's like a small jolt of electricity, a low hum vibrating and attaching to every single nerve ending I have. I almost feel nauseated, but . . . not really. I recognize it. It's holy ground. The ancient, old-as-hell kind of sacred. It's so strong, so powerful, it's almost as though whispers emanate from the stones themselves. Way ahead, a hill, or as the Scots call it, a
pap
. And to the left, a dark, ominous mass of blackness. The wood. According to Gawan, that's where I need to go. Even without his direction now, I can tell it. The same force that lies beneath my feet and hums through the standing stones beckons from the forest. More whispers. They're calling my name . . .