Touch of Darkness (22 page)

I really shouldn’t.

I could go to any of the thousand-and-one other churches around town and say my thank-you prayers there. But they wouldn’t be “Our Lady,” the church that had been practically a second home for me since I came back to Denver after my folks died. And really, who would it hurt? Nobody. I didn’t even have to go inside. I kept rationalizing the entire time I walked to the bus stop and waited for the bus to come get me. I continued arguing with myself as it jounced its way down the street, making stops every third block or so. But when the time came, and the bus was coming up on that old familiar stop, I hit the bell to be let off. Maybe it was stupid, but I had to see it one more time. Had to look up at the most beautiful stained glass window I’ve ever seen anywhere, touch the baptismal font where Brooks had cut Thrall eggs from my arm as I stared up at the hand-painted ceiling, see the altar where I’d been given my first communion. There was just too much of my life tied up in that place. I couldn’t not go there. Saying thanks for something this big anywhere else would just feel… wrong. It wasn’t until I climbed off of the bus that I felt something odd. It was as if someone was watching. The feel of their eyes on me made my skin crawl almost as much as the sense of deep, anticipatory malice. It wasn’t the collective as such, but it was Thrall. One, individual Thrall of immense power. Whoever it was, they’d expected me to come to the church—not necessarily now, but sooner or later; and they’d left me a message. The question was, did I have the courage to find out what that message was?

I took a deep breath of exhaust-riddled air and turned, intending to walk in the direction of the church. A chill wind made the plastic rattle as I gathered up my bags. Stiffening my spine, I looked up and said a quick prayer for strength.

It wasn’t there.

The church had been the tallest building for blocks. From where I stood I should have been able to see the old steeple and bell tower over the tree line to the east, even glimpse the top section of the stained glass window. I swallowed hard around the lump in my throat. They’d torn it down. It was gone. But that wasn’t all. I knew it. The mind brushing against mine wasn’t finished with me. Come see. Come see. I didn’t want to. But I wasn’t willing to give that voice the satisfaction of seeing me back down. So, my dread increasing with each step I took down the broken sidewalk, I made my way to the church site. I’d known intellectually they’d torn it down from the moment I hadn’t seen the steeple. I thought I’d prepared myself during the seemingly endless walk from the bus stop. I wasn’t prepared. Not even close. What once had been a beautiful red brick edifice was now an open wound in the ground; a pile of rubble taller than my head standing behind a hastily constructed fence of chain link and barbed wire. There should have been a construction crew working, but the scene was completely quiet. I knew then that they’d been ordered to stop. That the scene was meant to stay exactly like this until I came to see it. If I hadn’t come, it might well have stayed the same until doomsday.

I stared at the rabble, trying to make sense of the pieces and parts lying on the raw ground. My heart ached when I saw the broken frame of a huge window arch.

They hadn’t salvaged the window.

It made no sense. That window had been a gorgeous rendition of the Pieta, with Christ’s mother cradling his broken body, weeping in her bloodstained robes. It was a work of art and had to have been worth a fortune. What kind of idiot would destroy something like that? My eyes filled with angry tears as I saw that the window wasn’t the only casualty. There were huge chunks of broken marble, shattered wood from the hand-carved baptismal font. They hadn’t saved anything.

Why? I practically screamed the question in my mind.

Look at the sign, Katydid.

I did as the voice in my mind bid, finding the sign on the far corner of the lot. I walked up, circling to the front so I could read.

FUTURE HOME OF NEW DAWN-DENVER

I threw up. My hands curled in the chain link, I leaned forward and heaved onto the ground until there was nothing left but foul-tasting bile and bitter memory.

It made a horrible, sick kind of sense. The Thrall had received one of their first significant defeats here. This was where I’d come when Monica infested me. This was where the hatchlings were killed before I could be taken over. As a result, not only Monica, but the entire Denver hive and most of their herd had died in a single night. Their loathing of this place would demand something, and now they had the power to do it.

True enough. But that’s not why I did it.

Not we. I. I noticed the phrasing, knew it was significant. The change I’d noted in the hive a few days ago was even more pronounced now. There was only one dominant voice. One queen in charge of everything. I tried not to let that realization swim too far up into my consciousness. I didn’t want him knowing I knew. Him: Dylan Shea—my former fiancé, the man I’d nearly died for, the man who’d died for me. Or so I had thought. But he wasn’t dead … and he was my enemy now. The Thrall inside him had turned him, had made him as evil as Monica, or Amanda, or Larry had ever been.

God help us all.

I had to let Dylan think I believed things hadn’t changed, that he was just another Thrall in the crowd. Let him believe I would make mistakes based on that belief—that I didn’t know the ruthless streak he’d always hidden had given his Thrall the tools it needed to take over the hive.

Then why? I wouldn’t have been able to keep either the rage or pain from my mental voice, so I didn’t bother to try. Because of you.

When I didn’t answer his voice in my mind continued, growing in mental volume as his control slipped and anger got the best of him. I stared down at the befouled concrete, my head pounding with my pulse as his words and emotions beat against my consciousness like a club.

I will destroy everything and every one who matters to you as completely as I destroyed this building. I have stripped you of your home and your belongings; next it will be your friends, your family, your relationship with him. I will destroy your life while you watch helplessly. And when it is over, and you have absolutely nothing, then I’ll take your life. It was a movie villain tirade. The thing was, he meant it.

The knowledge that he’d do it, that he’d use others like that just to get to me, filled me with fury. Rage gave me strength. Screw secrecy. I stood tall, stepping away from the mess at my feet. I looked out, clear-eyed. I focused my mind, my will, making sure I put every ounce of intensity I possessed into the response I spoke with both mouth and mind.

“Fuck you, Dylan Shea.”

I slammed my shields down as hard as I possibly could, even resorting to the old standby of listening to AC/DC at top volume in my head.

The rat bastard. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became until I was actually quivering with suppressed rage. I’d thought, I’d actually believed that Dylan had died a hero’s death saving Tom and Joe. I shook my head to clear it. It didn’t matter how we got to this place. We were here. And I’d damned well better be on my toes because the stakes had just gone up. Hurting me was one thing. I hated it, but I could live with it. But he was threatening people who were dearer to me than my own life.

“Strong as an ox and almost as bright.” I quoted the dream in my mind. I almost agreed with it. Because even with this revelation I wasn’t any closer to knowing what his plans were, or how to stop them—yet. I started to turn my back on the sign, to just walk away, when a piece of rubble sticking out from beneath the fence caught my eye. It was a heavy chunk of plaster about the size of a saucer, broken from what had once been the handpainted ceiling of the church entryway. Generations ago a local artist with talent had created a ceiling that looked like a cloud-filled summer sky. But the truly amazing part was that, hidden in the clouds like figures in a Doolittle painting were pictures of angels and saints. You’d had to look closely to see them. I always looked—even that fateful night when I’d been cuffed to the baptismal font and Brooks had been performing surgery on my arm I’d sought for those hidden images. I squatted down and lifted the bottom of the section of chain link with my right hand as I worked the piece free with my left. It came loose so suddenly that I fell onto my butt on the hard concrete, still holding my prize. I stared at it for a long moment, looking at the delicate brush strokes almost hidden beneath the layers of grime. I looked, and found the image of St. Michael, the archangel. Even soiled and broken it was exquisite. The image painted in the plaster glimmered slightly in the light. I didn’t know how the artist managed to make the paint of the clouds pearlescent, but he had. I ran my finger gently over the plaster’s surface. My finger came away filthy, but I caught a clearer image of the angel who is considered a leader in battle. I’d told Tom once that I don’t believe in omens, but looking at that chunk of plaster restored me. I felt strength, and peace, fill me. It’s the feeling I get sometimes in response to my prayers. Usually, in this very church. But ultimately a church is just a building, and God is everywhere.

Reaching into my bags I began shifting things around until I had an empty sack. With great care I slid my new prize into the bag and rose to my feet. It was time to go home and ready myself for battle.

18

« ^ »

I was pretty much lost in thought for the entire bus ride. There was plenty of time. I had taken the regular bus rather than an express, and it stopped every block or two to let passengers on and off. I wasn’t sorry. I had lots of information to think about, and none of it made sense. It was like a jigsaw with several pieces missing, or as if I were completing a crossword and somewhere I had used the wrong word so that everything was off.

Dylan was a puzzle. The intensity of his hatred for me had been chilling. When in hell had that happened? The last time we’d actually spoken, before he’d “died,” he’d made a pass at me and said he wanted me back. Now he was trying to destroy me. I didn’t get it, and I felt singularly stupid. He’d said I’d chosen the wrong side, had chosen Tom. I had, and I wasn’t sorry. Was it just jealousy? Was it really that simple? I mean, surely when somebody hates you that much you should be able to understand why.

And what about the werewolves? There was a wolf in my vision, and Tom had fought a wolf in the cemetery. But vampires and werewolves hate each other. I couldn’t imagine them working together. But they seemed to be, at least on a limited basis.

Then there was the kidnapping of Dusty and Rob’s baby. Why? Not only why did they take him—but why did they give him back, without any muss or fuss? I’d overheard enough to know that they’d gotten what they wanted. But what was it?

The whole situation was so damned frustrating. Lives were at stake. I needed answers. I just didn’t have any. The bell rang and the bus pulled to the curb and jounced to a halt. Looking down, I realized that I’d been so distracted I’d missed my stop by three blocks. I’d ridden as far as the stop past the neighborhood grocery. Shit. I hurriedly grabbed up my packages and climbed down the rear stairs to step out onto the trashy, leaf-strewn curb. I know Regional Transportation District has crews that go around regularly cleaning the stops. This one was obviously overdue. I might have gathered up some of the detritus myself, but the trash can was overflowing, there would be nowhere to put it. Besides, it was just gross. I mean dirty diapers left lying around? Ewww. I picked my way past the mess, heading to the grocery. As long as I was in the neighborhood I might as well pick up a few things on the way home. I’d need to eat soon, judging by the rambling in my gut. The nausea at the construction site was past, and my body had started audibly reminding me that it needed fuel to keep moving. I was just starting to cross the street when I caught a glimpse of something, some movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head to look, but there was nothing there. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. Maybe it was my imagination. Yeah, right.

I looked in both directions again and waited for traffic to clear. As soon as there was an opening I hurried across the street. While making my way through the parking lot I used the windows of parked cars as mirrors to check behind me. There was nothing. No one, at least no one I could see.

I tried to look as though I were completely oblivious, “just little ol’ me walking to the store to pick up a few things,” while in fact I’d lowered my shields and was stretching my psychic senses outward. There! Got her! But what in the hell? It was Janine. She was trailing me, had been trailing me for days, stalking me really. She hadn’t done anything yet; didn’t even really have any organized plan to do anything. There was confusion, but underlying that was a black, mindless jealousy. I could hear her thoughts clear as a bell. Running through her mind, over and over like a record stuck in a single groove: Why her? There’s nothing special about her. She’s not a wolf, not a surrogate. She’s not even particularly pretty. I’m just as strong as she is. Why would he choose her?

She was obsessed, obsessed enough that she’d come back to Denver from Las Vegas against her mother’s wishes, and probably against the terms of her bail bond. If I called Brooks he’d probably check for me. They might even be able to pick her up. I’d feel safer with her in jail. I surely would. But that would make her mother my enemy, and Tom’s?

Could I really afford to do that? Could I afford not to?

The automatic doors whooshed open and I stepped into the grocery store. I grabbed a cart from the metal corral just inside the door. Tying a knot in the top of each of the bags I brought in the store, I placed them one by one onto the shelf underneath the basket.

This was the store where Bryan worked, when he wasn’t off doing spy missions for Mike. Now that I was moving into the neighborhood it was probably the store where I’d be getting a lot of my groceries. I didn’t want to start out my relationship with the owners on the wrong foot, having them think I was shoplifting. Every couple of minutes I would sneak a glance outside. I couldn’t see her. But I could feel her out there, watching. It creeped me out right proper.