Touch of Darkness (17 page)

Joe turned off the engine. When he slammed the door shut I whirled around and jumped a good foot, letting out one of those ridiculous, high-pitched half-screams that slip out sometimes when you’re startled.

“Can you track his scent?” Joe’s voice was flat, cold. He stood in the harsh artificial light, holding his medical bag, his face set in grim lines.

Tom let out a swift bark, and put his nose to the ground. Almost too quick to follow he began running across the uneven ground, through the construction site.

I followed close behind, with Joe laboring to keep up. The braces on his legs were making it hard for him to maintain his balance. I could hear him swearing under his breath. I stopped, turning to offer encouragement. Three things happened at once. Joe stumbled, I saw a blur of movement from behind the construction shed, and the lights went out.

It wasn’t totally dark. The moon was too close to full for that. But it took a second or two for my eyes to adjust. I drew the knife from where I’d concealed it in my cast and began moving back toward Joe as quickly as I dared. A shadowed figure moved with blurring speed to slam into my brother, who fought to keep his footing. As I ran toward the action, I heard the thud of bodies impacting each other, Joe’s oath, and a nasty crunching sound.

“Joe?” I didn’t even try to keep the fear from my voice.

“I’m fine. She’s not.”

He stood, and stumbled, falling hard on his ass next to the body of a fallen Thrall. Even in the uncertain light I could see that the neck had been torn out of the heavy turtleneck he’d been wearing, and moonlight gleamed off of what looked suspiciously like heavy acrylic. His leg was at an odd angle, the brace bent until it had torn through his trousers, metal shining bright in the silver moonlight.

I opened my mouth to say something, but was interrupted by frantic barking that ended in a yelp. Tom!

“Go! I’m calling 9-1-1, then I’ll catch up.”

I had to go, but I couldn’t leave him unarmed, not when he had no chance to run. So I tossed the knife blade into the ground beside him as he flipped out his cell phone. Then I turned and ran before he could say anything to object, ran in the direction of the vicious snarls that were coming from deep inside the cemetery. I stopped just short of the woods because I felt something moving in the flickering shadows between the stunted trees.

I lowered myself into a crouch, searching for something, anything, to use as a weapon. Because someone was in there. Now that I was on alert the faint hint of cheap cologne came to me over the scents native to the woods. The site was remarkably clean: no tools left lying around, no scrap lumber. The best I could do was squat down and pull one of the surveying stakes from the ground.

As weapons went it wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad either. The wood was unfinished and splintery, but it was long, and the end had been sharpened to a nice point—perfect for driving into the ground, or into a vampire. I could’ve done without the cute little plastic flag, but beggars can’t be choosers.

I was just starting to rise when I saw a blur of movement from the corner of my eye. I heard Joe shout. There was no time to look. No time for anything. I dived sideways, rolling out of the way. The cast hit the ground with a thud and sharp pain made me suck in my breath. But it held. I’d have to remember to thank Joe for that. I tried to get to my feet, but a hand like iron grabbed my left shoulder, rolling me onto my back. I moved with it, using my body to hide the stake in my right hand. In one smooth movement I slammed the cast into the vampire’s jaw and then drove the stake at an upward angle through the thin fabric of his black tee-shirt. It tore through the skin beneath his ribcage at an angle designed to take out his heart.

Between the broken fangs and the chest wound he screeched, an eerie high-pitched death wail, his mouth open wide, revealing ragged stumps where his fangs used to be. Spittle sprayed my face from an inch away. Hot blood poured over my hand and down my arm. I shoved him off of me, pulling the stake free. Blood sprayed from the wound in gouts with his every heartbeat. He was dying.

I didn’t stay to watch. I had to find Tom; had to save Bryan. The wall of will that had trapped me inside my own mind by blocking my psychic gift was crumbling. I knew, knew that I had to get to them now or all would be lost. I ran through the trees, bloody stake gripped in my hand. Low branches slapped at my face and arms, the uneven ground making it hard to gain any speed at all. Only when I burst through the trees and made it onto the gravel cemetery road was I able to run full out. My knee was grinding in protest. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but getting to the new grave site just beyond the large crypt by the entrance.

I passed a large, brindle-furred form lying dead on the ground, its throat ripped out. It wasn’t Tom. Tom was a few feet away, his huge form half-buried as his paws scrabbled frantically into the fresh soil, sending clods of dirt flying in an arc.

I dropped the stake, fell to my knees, and began digging frantically with one hand, the other rendered useless again by the recent battle. I could feel the cracked bone moving under the cast and wetness seeping down the arm. Probably ripped the stitches. Damn it. Well, they’d just be bigger scars. I could still feel them healing, so I wasn’t going to have the cast cut off and the stitches redone. Not when the chunk of plaster had been so useful thus far. But none of that mattered as we uncovered the still, still form of my younger brother. He wasn’t buried deep. Only a foot or so down. Just enough to conceal him, to smother him. They’d drained him damn near dry, and when he was too weak to do anything, they’d buried him alive. I gave a howl of anguished rage at the knowledge as I pulled his upper body from the enveloping ground. Desperately, I sought for a pulse. It wasn’t there. But his body was still warm to the touch. And my mind could feel… something. Some tiny thread of him remained. He wasn’t completely beyond reach.

I cleared his mouth and airway, breathing air deep into his lungs. Nothing. I screamed for Joe at the top of my lungs. Tom was in wolf form and the adrenaline in his system wouldn’t allow him to change back until he was calm, which wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. He couldn’t help with CPR. But he could lead the EMTs to me. I didn’t see him run off, but I felt it. I was too busy pushing the heels of my hand into my brother’s chest in the prescribed rhythm, ignoring the screaming pains that shot up my left arm with every thrust; too busy pulling air into my lungs to expand his while I tried to breathe for both of us.

As I pounded on Bryan’s chest and prayed, I heard sirens from the direction of the church. Then shouts and running footsteps. Help was coming.

I opened my mind and the last of the barrier was gone. There was no need for it now. We’d found what they were hiding. I felt the presence of the hive in my mind, and knew they were waiting with smug satisfaction to hear what I would say.

“I will kill you for this.”

A laugh filled my mind—a single laugh that was male and confident, just before the reply. “You can try.”

13

« ^ »

Three days passed in a very ugly blur. Bryan had been transported to the county hospital in Murphysboro in critical, but stable, condition. Murphysboro was the seat of a newly created upscale mountain county, and thus home of the spanking new county jail. I’d been taken into custody the night of the attack and was being held without bond, awaiting prosecution for the death of the man—whom prosecutors wouldn’t readily admit was a vampire. The jail was clean. I was the only female prisoner, which meant that I got the entire four-bed area to myself, showered alone, and slept on an ordinary twin bed, staring at cinder block walls painted with pale yellow high-gloss paint. The food was passable. The guards polite. It was boring, but all things considered, it could’ve been one hell of a lot worse.

Fortunately, the town had a hotel, and a Wal-Mart where Joe could pick up clothing for everybody and put it on his credit card.

My hearing was scheduled for first thing Monday morning. The day dawned clear and cold. The guard came to get me bright and early so that I could get first crack at the showers. My attorney had arranged for me to wear street clothing to the hearing. Joe had chosen an inexpensive brown suit that, while it was technically my size, didn’t really fit. It was too big in the bust, too tight across the shoulders, and the shoes didn’t fit so that my feet started aching the minute I’d forced my way into them. I did, however, look considerably better than the men I’d caught a glimpse of climbing into the other transport. Those poor souls were stuck wearing “jailhouse chic”: orange cotton, one-size-fits-all jumpsuits that really don’t fit anybody.

Sheriff Beall himself escorted me, along with the largest of his deputies. In addition to my street clothes I got to wear shackles on my ankles and handcuffs that were only partially obscured by the long sleeves of the jacket. The shackles made a jingling noise as we passed through the hall leading out of the jail to the spot right outside the door where the sheriff’s cruiser was parked and waiting.

I got to ride in the back, of course. It wasn’t comfy, but it wasn’t meant to be. There was no back seat, just a simple bench molded out of a piece of hard plastic. I could see through the “cage” bars into the front seat, hear the radio dispatcher explaining that we would have to wait until they got somebody over to the courthouse to direct traffic. We waited. It seemed to take hours, but in reality it was probably only a matter of minutes. I was nervous enough that time seemed to be passing oddly—crawling endlessly at some points, then lurching forward abruptly. When we got the all clear the sheriff started the car and pulled out. The jail was only three blocks from the courthouse, so I could see the crowd almost immediately.

Representatives of the press were there. Not a lot of them, but enough to take up a bunch of the parking slots and snarl up traffic around the courthouse. I, of course, was thrilled to death by that development. After all, I needed another dollop of infamy. You betcha. And having the most humiliating experience of my life broadcast over the Internet and on national television was a dream come true.

Sheriff Beall was driving slow and steady, keeping the vehicle moving through the press like a hot knife through butter, getting me safely to the courthouse. He wasn’t a tall man, maybe five foot eight or so, five foot ten with the cowboy hat. He was built compact and wiry. He had a face that was gracefully moving toward the tail end of middle age. There were wrinkles in the leathered skin, and deep laugh lines around his brown eyes, but he seemed comfortable with them. His face was dominated by a drooping iron-gray moustache. It suited him, went well with his rough-cut features.

“Quite a show today.” He didn’t seem any more happy about it than I was. Of course, I couldn’t blame him. What press there were had no doubt been making a damned nuisance of themselves, getting underfoot, and digging around the investigation to see if they could find anything amiss. If anybody had made the slightest mistake it would be trumpeted to the world, and his people would have egg on their faces.

I didn’t answer. There wasn’t much to say. And I was actually a little bit afraid that if I opened my mouth I’d throw up. I wasn’t just nervous, I was terrified. I do great in an emergency, when you react to the situation instantaneously. But this kind of stress was hell for me. I’d had too much time alone to think of worst-case scenarios. What if I was convicted? I’d killed the Thrall in self-defense, but what if—

Stop it, Reilly. Just stop it.

I looked out the window, searching for Tom and my brothers. I didn’t see them, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Maybe they were already in the courtroom, waiting. If they weren’t, from the looks of things they might not get a seat.

“This isn’t all for you, by the way.” His voice was a gravelly baritone, and he spoke with just the tiniest hint of a drawl. “There’s a full load of cases on the docket this morning. Probably half of the crowd is their families and attorneys.”

He was trying to reassure me. It wasn’t helping much, but it was nice of him to try.

“Thanks.”

“Just the plain truth.” He sighed and eased the cruiser over to the curb. A uniformed cop moved aside a yellow barricade long enough for us to drive through, then dropped it back into place. Meanwhile, Sheriff Beall pulled into the spot reserved for prisoner transport at the rear entrance of the building and put the car in park. “Although there’re bound to be more than a few of the locals hoping to get a look at a celebrity, and a lot more want to show their support.”

“Their support?”

“Your brother wasn’t the only person those vampires attacked that night.”

I felt my eyebrows rise until I thought they’d slide off my face. It was the first I’d heard of anything like this.

“They did the same thing to Father Raphael as they did to your brother. Only he didn’t have a werewolf to find him and dig him out.”

I swallowed hard, forcing bile back down. I would not throw up. I wouldn’t. But the thought of being held down while a bunch of vampires fed on me, then being buried alive—I swallowed convulsively again. I would not throw up. The sheriff gave a curt nod to the deputy and the two of them climbed from the vehicle. The deputy was a big man. I hadn’t realized how big until he climbed out of the vehicle and stood, legs slightly apart, hand near the butt of his gun. I was surprised. The press actually backed away a step or two at his order—probably because he so obviously meant it. Sheriff Beall opened the door for me, and I slid across the plastic seat.

I walked a step behind the sheriff, and a step ahead of the deputy. Reporters yelled questions, cameras flashed. I kept my eyes on the glass doors that led inside the courthouse, staring straight ahead. I caught a glimpse of my reflection as the door swung open. I almost didn’t recognize myself as the pale, grim-faced woman in the glass. Attorneys with briefcases, their clients, and gawkers parted enough to provide a narrow space in the aisle that led to the elevator. I saw my local counsel pull himself away from the group he’d been chatting with to slither like an eel through the crowd to come up next to us.