Gabriel (14 page)

“Do the lads ever cook for themselves? Or at least help out in the kitchen?” I asked.

Iona giggled. “Naw, not really, we're a bit more traditional. They have their duties and, well, I have mine.” She paused, perhaps realizing that to an outsider this setup appeared very outdated. “Anyway, I like cooking for them; it makes me feel
useful
. Claire helps me sometimes, when she's not busy with Riley, like!” She giggled.

I turned the eggs over in the pan and laughed along with her. I wasn't about to challenge Iona; I needed her to think of me as a friend, to trust me enough to reveal the things I wanted to know.

Several teapots were on the go, and jugs of coffee, fresh juice, and water were spread onto the table and continually replenished. While the lads waited for their food they drank their morning kick-starters outside with rolled-up cigarettes. Phelan, however, remained perched on the sofa, watching my every move and inadvertently reminding me of the caution I needed to exercise.

The motor home smelled like a café as the odor of sizzling bacon swept through the living area. We served up breakfast, and the lads clambered around the table, hungrily snatching all our hard work onto their plates before traipsing back out of the motor home. Only Riley stalled, taking a moment to glance down the hallway before he left. I noticed that Cameron wasn't present.

“Where are they going?” I asked Iona.

“They're eating in Little Blue this morning,” she said.

Phelan hovered before leaving last. He clearly didn't want me to overhear their conversation. It wasn't a problem; I was glad he had left me alone with Iona.

Nothing that we had cooked remotely interested me. I had never seen Gabriel eat anything, and I knew what Vampires survived on and it certainly wasn't bacon. As I thought about blood, my throat began to tingle and a hot flush rode up my neck. At first I thought it was because of the oven and the stove in the kitchen. “Is it just me, or is it really warm in here?” I asked Iona, tugging the sweater over my head.

“Naw, it's cold with the windows open. You feeling okay? You're not coming down with something are you?”

“No, I don't think so. Is there a bathroom in here?”

Iona pottered over to the table, cloth in hand, and gestured to the hall. “It's the fourth door down.”

I folded the sweater neatly and repositioned the beanie, making sure my long hair was covering the worst of my scars, the one that ran the length of my back. Even wearing a cami, the mark was visible, branching out just below the nape of my neck. I headed for the bathroom. Once inside, I ran the cold tap and splashed my face. It didn't do much. Drying my cheeks on a towel, I looked up at the mirror to see that my skin was indeed flushed. My vision was blurring. I was trying to refocus when that all-too-familiar red mist clouded my sight. My eyes flashed red and I panicked. I ran my finger over my teeth, but there was no sign of my fangs. I ran the tap again, this time rinsing my eyes, and after a few moments, the black smudges reappeared over my sapphire blue. This morning I had felt hollow, and despite absorbing the sun, I knew my body was still craving something. I worried that it was a craving for blood.

I returned to the kitchen to see Iona filling the sink with water and dirty dishes.

Claire stepped into the room, scrunching the last of her mousse into her curls. “All right, girls?”

Claire was truly stunning: She had a tiny frame, which she dressed well; her caramel skin was flawless; and her makeup was simple but effective.

“Morning! They're next door.” Iona opened the fridge and took out a bowl of freshly sliced fruit and a bottle of water. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Claire took her breakfast from Iona and stole a fork from a drawer before making her way outside.

“Claire eats with the lads?” I asked as I removed the foil from the grill plate.

“Aye. She goes with them to—” Iona stopped abruptly. “She's different from me. She's a married woman, so she accompanies Riley, makes sure he's got everything he needs.”

“Right.” I threw the foil into the trash. “She's very young to be married, isn't she?”

Iona slipped her fingers into yellow rubber gloves and stood over the sink. “Claire's sixteen, and she loves Riley. When all this is over, they'll probably make some babies.” She giggled.

“When all what's over, Iona?” I had to be careful, but after my conversation with Phelan this morning, I feared I was going to be booted out before I could gather more information about my mother.

Iona stopped scrubbing the frying pan and thought carefully before answering. “Nothing. I just meant the holiday is all. When we go home, they will set up house back in Lucan.”

“You don't live on the road?” I asked.

“Oh, no, we're not travelers. Back home we all have houses and family and the church. We don't normally leave Lucan; the lads have their hands full doing our Lord's work there.” The frying pan reclaimed her attention, and she whispered under her breath. “I hope we can go back soon.”

Before I had the chance to delve any further, the motor home shook as Fergal came charging through the door. “Iona! We're leaving. Cam called.”

Iona swung around from the sink, and she gripped the work surface. “Oh,” she said quietly.

Chains and other objects clattered against one another as they were gathered and tossed into Little Blue, accompanied by the double click of guns being loaded.

“Brooke, you'll stay with Iona and keep her company,” Fergal told me.

I nodded, and he rushed back the way he had come. Something was going on, and I wanted to know what, but if the lads were leaving I could talk to Iona, do some digging, and then get away. This was the opportunity I had been waiting for.

“Wait!” Iona cried, tripping over her feet to reach Fergal outside.

Phelan suddenly appeared from nowhere. Grabbing my hair, he jerked me backward into his chest. “I don't know who you are, and I don't trust you.” He tugged my hair down and my neck made a cracking noise.

I gulped hard and tried to pull away. “What the—”

He pulled me in and brought his lips to my ear. “When I get back, that girl better be in one piece, or you won't be.” His words were like flames, licking up the air around me so that I felt suffocated.

He shoved me forward as a crestfallen Iona reappeared.

“Be careful. I mean, have fun,” Iona whimpered to Phelan, caught between the truth and the lie of what was going on, of who they really were. I could sympathize with that.

As Iona scurried off to the bathroom, I wished I didn't have such sensitive hearing; my heart broke on her behalf as her tears gushed. Clearly, she didn't want Fergal to leave. How many people had left her, never to come back?

I turned back to Phelan, my skin simmering as I prepared to retaliate—when I stopped. He looked stunned: His eyes were huge, and his chest had stopped rising and falling as he held his breath. His smooth skin became creased as his forehead crinkled, and his eyebrows dipped. My first thought was that my eyes were shining red warning lights, but then he wasn't reaching for a stake or a gun.

His Adam's apple bulged as he swallowed and edged toward me. “I'm sorry—was it painful?”

“Well, I don't appreciate being manhandled, but no,” I replied, unsure of him.

He stood precariously in front of me—a cold, silent exchange of confusion passing from him to me.

“I didn't mean that,” he said finally, repeating my earlier words, and I realized then that he was referring to the horrific scar running down my back—Frederic's last mark on the world, on me.

He stepped forward. “Your scar, when did you get it?”

I scuttled back and he stopped, allowing me my space.

“A few years ago,” I replied honestly.

Phelan eyed me, turning on his human lie detector once more. The motor home outside grumbled as the engine started and the band of slayers set off. His eyes slanted, and he hesitated. “Your ma is gone, right?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Do you swear on your ma's memory that you got that scar a few years ago, as you say?”

Why was he asking me this? What did it even matter to him?

“Brooke?”

“Yes. I swear on the memory of my mother.”

Phelan exhaled noisily, almost as if my response had disappointed him. Striding toward the door, he looked back over his shoulder. “Don't forget what I said: One piece, or you will be many.” His jaw locked, and then he was gone.

His motorcycle growled as it started up and then screeched as he set off in pursuit of the motor home. I wasn't going to last here a few more hours. I needed answers, and I needed them now—before Phelan came back.

Iona was still in the bathroom so I wandered outside, my eyes resting on the truck-pulled caravan. I had a feeling I knew where the weapons I had heard them gathering had come from.

The door was secured with a silver padlock. I couldn't place my hands on either side and use force to break it because I could seriously damage my skin, which I would not be able to explain. If I was going to get in, I needed another way.

I remembered that Gabriel had once started a car by touching his index finger to the ignition; perhaps that trick worked for locks, too. I closed my eyes and imagined it unlocking. When I opened them, nothing had happened. Perhaps I needed to touch it? I didn't want to, but I didn't have a better idea.

I took a sharp breath and moved my fingertip over the key-shaped hole, thinking about the mechanism turning. A spark of light left my finger, followed by a click, but my skin sizzled and I yelped as I leaped backward.

I bolted back into the motor home and retrieved a small wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer, taking a moment to make sure Iona was still in the bathroom.

Back at the caravan, the lock turned; now I just needed to get the padlock from the door. I leveraged the spoon and used it to lift the padlock up. It hit the ground with a thud as it fell.

I was in.

I yanked the door open and beheld Aladdin's cave. Well, if Aladdin cared for a vault full of silver, instead of gold, crafted to create Vampire-exterminating weapons instead of jewels.

I didn't dare go in, but from where I stood I could see sharpened wooden stakes, silver spears, and what looked like some sort of flamethrowers chained across the back wall. A variety of guns positioned in holders were strewn over a ledge, and next to them—hanging from hooks and dangling from the roof—were single silver maces and handheld crossbows. A multitude of mismatched buckets sat side-by-side; one was full of bullets, another consisted of jagged-edged throwing stars, and the last contained bundles of chains cast entirely from silver. It dawned on me quickly that perhaps these guys actually knew what they were doing; maybe they were experts at killing Vampires. Clearly they were well funded and scarily good at amassing a horde of very accurately crafted weaponry to take down the enemy.

“Brooke?” Iona's sweet voice tweeted in my ear.

So engrossed in my own thoughts, I had failed to notice that she was standing beside me. “Iona. I'm sorry. I, well, I just popped out, and the door was ajar,” I lied, edging back from the caravan—from her.

“We hunt demons,” she said, her voice cool and smooth.

I was surprised by her admission. “I see that.”

“You don't seem surprised?”

“Not much surprises me these days,” I answered, keeping check of her movements.

She shrugged. “Phelan will be angry with me if I talk to you, but come inside. I'll fix you a cup of tea and we can chat, like.”

Maybe she was lying—perhaps trying to lure me inside the motor home and then she would try to kill me. But her expression was sincere, as though she just simply needed a friend. And so I followed her back indoors and sat down while she prepared a teapot.

At first, we sat in silence, sugaring our tea and stirring incessantly, until she eventually spoke.

“Demons walk the Earth, Brooke. My family, Phelan's family, and the others protect our community—the congregation back in Lucan—from the Devil's creatures. It's been this way for generations, but something terrible happened.” As Iona spoke, her gaze never left her mug. Finally she placed her spoon down and looked up at me from across the table.

“What happened?” I encouraged.

“You believe me?
About the demons
?” she whispered.

“Yes, if that treasure trove out there is anything to go by.”

“Oh yes. Demons invade our town, stealing and murdering our people. Daddy never knew what they did with the ones they took, the ones whose bodies we never found.” Her words were rushed. “My daddy was a reverend, and he said that the mouth of Hell sits on the outskirts of Lucan. And the Vampires we hunt come through Hell's gates, disguised to look like us.”

Iona thought that Second Generation Vampires came from Hell. Clearly, she didn't understand that they were human once, turned by a greater evil—the Purebloods.

I wrapped my hands around the mug and placed it to my lips, as though I were sipping the warm tea. “Iona, I think Vampires who look human were human once. They became Vampires; they were not born that way, no?”

“That's just what you see on the television, like. Daddy said they came straight from Hell's mouth, and that the Devil's own would never reveal their horns.”

I nodded.

“But then, we got a new task. My daddy was in charge; he said an Angel came and gave us a new purpose. We left Lucan, but something went wrong, and my daddy…” Her voice squeaked. “Nearly all of them were killed by the demons. Hardly any were left. So now Fergal's in charge,” she explained.

“You said an Angel came, Iona. What
exactly
did the Angel say?” This was it, the answer I had been waiting for.

“She appeared to my daddy and my uncle, and asked them to find the girl. She said we must find her before they did.”