by J. R. Ward
Chapter Twenty-seven
John Matthew walked home from Moe's, trailing the three-thirty A. M. police patrol. He dreaded the hours until dawn. Sitting in his apartment was going to feel like being in a cage, but it was much too late for him to be out and about on the street. Still. . . God, he was so restless he could taste the agitation in his mouth. And the fact that there was no one he could talk to made him ache.
He really needed some advice. Ever since Tohrment had left him, he'd been scrambled in his head, debating whether or not he'd done the right thing. He kept telling himself he had, but the second-guessing wouldn't stop.
He wished he could find Mary. He'd gone to her house the night before, only to find it dark and locked up. And she hadn't been going to the hotline. It was as if she'd disappeared, and worrying about her was one more reason he was twitchy.
As he approached his building, he saw a truck parked in front. The bed was full of boxes, like someone was moving in.
What a weird time of night to do that, he thought, eyeing the load.
As he saw that there was no one around to stand guard, he hoped the owner came back soon. Otherwise, their stuff was going to get disappeared.
John went into his building and up the stairs, ignoring the cigarette butts and the empty beer cans and the crumpled potato-chip bags. When he stepped off onto the second floor, he squinted. Something was spilled all over the corridor. Deep red. . .
Blood.
Backing up into the stairwell, he stared at his door. There was a sunburst in the center of it, as if someone had had their head. . . But then he saw the broken dark green bottle. Red wine. It was just red wine. The drunken couple who lived next door had taken another fight out into the hall.
His shoulders eased.
" 'Scuse me," someone said from above him.
He moved aside and looked up.
John's body seized.
The big man standing over him was dressed in black camouflage pants and a leather jacket. His hair and skin were utterly white, and his pale eyes had an eerie shine to them.
Evil. Undead.
Enemy.
This was his enemy.
"Some kind of mess you got on this floor," the guy said before narrowing his gaze on John. "Something wrong?"
John fiercely shook his head and dropped his eyes. His first instinct was to run to his apartment, but he didn't want the guy knowing where he lived.
There was a deep chuckle. "You look a little pale there, buddy. "
John took off, shooting down the stairs and out into the street. He raced to the corner, took a left, and kept going. He ran and ran, until he couldn't go any farther because he'd lost his breath. Squeezing himself into the juncture between a brick building and a Dumpster, he panted.
In his dreams, he fought pale men. Pale men in black clothes whose eyes were soulless.
My enemy.
He was shaking so badly he could barely get his hand into his pocket. Taking out a quarter, he gripped the thing so tightly it dug into his palm. When he had his breath back, he leaned out and peered up and down the alley. There was no one around, no sounds of heavy feet hitting the asphalt.
His enemy hadn't recognized him.
John left the Dumpster's sanctuary and walked quickly to the far corner.
The dented pay phone was covered with graffiti, but he knew it worked because he called Mary from it a lot. He put the quarter in the slot and punched out the number Tohrment had given him.
After one ring, voice mail kicked in with a robotic recitation of the numbers he'd dialed.
John waited for the beep. And whistled.
