by Margaret Carter, Crystal Green, Erica Orloff, Patricia Rosemor
The mercenaries who’d come before them had failed, not only because they didn’t have the proper weapons, but also because they didn’t have women. Women would even things out in a battle for Griff with the strigoiaca. And the more women Camille had with her, the better.
When Ana finished with the rope, Camille patted the woman on the shoulder. Without further ado, the redscarved peasant anchored herself, calling over Sarge for support. Good. Camille hadn’t been forced to ask him.
Machete clutched in one hand, she eased herself over the ledge.
As Camille braced her boots against the rock to walk down the face of the cliff, Delia watched her pass, and Camille forced a smile, trying to calm her.
When she got to the wolf, it was biting almost all the way through Delia’s leg in its bid to stay alive. It looked at Camille sidelong, exposing the panicked whites of its eyes. The woman’s gnawed boot hung off her shattered ankle. Tendons fluttered away from bone.
Camille had seen body parts before, but her stomach still turned.
“Sorry about this.” She grabbed a hank of the wolf’s head hair and positioned the machete at its throat.
Don’t think about it.
With an efficient heave, she sliced from left to right. But even though the beast’s body went limp, its jaws wouldn’t let go of Delia’s ankle.
As its blood dripped down, down into the mist, Camille cursed, then hacked the rest of its head off. Then, after an endless second of skin being ripped from muscle, the body fell into the chasm, too, pawing the air.
Delia, probably feeling the sudden lack of weight, also glanced down, saw that the head was still attached.
“Ayyyy!” she screamed, shaking her leg to get it off.
“No, stop!” Camille tried to hold her motionless.
Reveka and Lucia pulled at Delia, but the woman had already let go with one hand, swatting at the head.
“Delia!” Camille reached for her swinging arm.
Both Reveka and Lucia cried out at the same time, and Camille looked up.
In what seemed to be slow motion, Delia’s glove peeled off, and she slid out of their grips.
The next thing she knew, Camille was reaching for her, grasping air, watching the pretty, porcelain-skinned woman plunging into the mist. Her face was upturned in confused terror, her mouth gaping, her hands—one gloveless—waving.
They could hear her screaming even after she disappeared. And then the sound jarred to a stop.
Shocked, Camille couldn’t look up from where Delia had disappeared into the swirl of gray.
Part of her felt as if she’d fallen into the abyss, too.
When they got up to the main structure, the blaring moon revealed black, winged gargoyles perched on the roofs of Castle Bethlen. Eagles’ nests decorated the ramparts, but they were empty, devoid of life.
The only evidence of that were the bones. Rabbits, rats, sheep, foxes. Humans. Her hired mercenaries?
They littered the packed dirt like morbid cobblestones.
As the team members paused in their numb exploration of one of many courtyards they’d found, Camille said, “They won’t be up here. No protection from the sun.”
Besides, she thought, the stench of vampire was missing. That notable lack of humanity, that faint mustiness of things left abandoned.
Drained of energy, she glanced around. A chapel, moss covered, studded with shards of faded, colored rock resembling the fragments of broken stained glass, squatted in one corner. In the middle of the courtyard, half of a well waited, its stones scattered by the hand of time.
Sarge stood next to her, left arm bound with bandages from her first-aid pouch. He seemed unaffected, but then again, she’d seen him pop a lot of Motrin pills earlier.
All of them were weak, their adrenaline spent. Grief. But they just didn’t have time to wallow.
After Delia had died, Camille had updated Bea and used the doctor’s own coagulating gel to stop Sarge’s bleeding. There’d never been any question about his turning back or having one of the drivers replace Delia. It was almost as if the reminder of mortality had doubled the team’s inner strength, their rage to succeed.
So, instead of waiting for backup, Sarge had asked Lucia to contact one of the Humvee drivers about having Ashe stir up the magickal big guns—a Dragon, he’d said.
Camille had almost reminded him that Delia had died, unprotected by any of Ashe’s spells or magick. But she didn’t have the energy. Not after watching Delia fall.
Besides, their team had ended up beating those wolves—those preternaturally fast guardians.
She thought of their speed, their size. Was there something besides Mother Nature at work in this part of the world? Or was the stress driving her batty?
Either way, she had confidence in her team. They could do this, even with their numbers decreased by one.
She watched Sarge as he closed his eyes, moved toward the well.
“You’re right about them not being up here, Howard, but they’re somewhere real close.”
A shiver ripped down her spine, almost as if someone—something—was watching.
She glanced over her shoulder, but all she saw was one of those gargoyles, its massive wings spanning the face of the moon.
Creepy.
She tapped on her watch tracker. If the vampires were around, shouldn’t it be thumping by now?
Sarge took a few steps toward the chapel. “Listen.”
Following him, she tried to tune into what he was picking up.
“I don’t hear anything,” she whispered.
“It’s not so much hearing, it’s…” Sarge shrugged, his weapons clanking as they both moved away.
“Do you have sonar?” she asked. “How is it you know what to do without tracking devices?”
“Part of it’s trusting yourself, I guess.”
His face went stony, chiseled out of hard knocks. She knew Hana had crossed his mind.
“And,” he added, “I’ve got a sort of touch with the vamps, and with predators in general. When Ashe told you about Hana, he didn’t tell you about how I found her. I was just too green to realize she was a vampire.”
“Okay, first, how do you know Ashe told me?” There hadn’t been a moment for the men to chat between her conversation with the Wiccan and the start of their trek.
“I asked him to.” Sarge shot her a cocky glance. “Ashe doesn’t like to deceive, but we thought a little of your sympathy aimed in my direction wouldn’t come amiss. And seeing as how we both know you’ll have no use for me when we get to those bloodsuckers, I wanted you to think twice about turning on me, Miss Bleeding Heart.”
“Play on my better instincts, why don’t you. How do you know that I don’t think you’re a complete ass now, even after the stories?”
“Hey, your opinion of me couldn’t get any worse than when we started.”
Argh. And the worst part? He was right. Ashe’s story about Hana and dear old Dad had gotten to Camille, all right. Even now, as she stood next to him, there was a hum of awareness separating them. An unsettling need to glance at him just to see if he was watching her.
“You have another question?” he asked. “We need to go silent in a second here.”
She heaved in a huge breath, head swimming at the thought of being so close to her mingled hopes…and fears.
“Sarge, are you some kind of chosen one, then? A Buffy without the fashion sense?”
He laughed softly. “I don’t know what I am, but I figure the good Lord gave me a leg up on vamps for a reason. That’s why me and Ashe hang around together—two birds of a feather. Back in the day, the other operatives trusted him, but thought he was kind of strange. I didn’t. I sort of understood his feelings and all that. Not that I’m an empath, too. I’m just…”
“Adapted to your surroundings. Like a good survivor.”
She wondered if he’d developed his talents while avoiding his father’s belts. If he’d chosen hiding places as a little boy, adjusti
ng his senses so he’d always know where the predator was.
But that was a kooky theory. True, humans didn’t use a fraction of their brains’ potential, but that didn’t mean they were all walking psychics.
Speaking of which…
She felt it again. That very reasonable niggling. The knowledge of being watched.
A shadow rolled over in front of Camille, and she switched her focus to the roofs.
There should’ve been a gargoyle where she was glancing. There’d been one there just minutes before. Now it was five feet to the left.
Or maybe the moon had just moved.
“Crossbow?” she whispered to Sarge.
Again, without question, he handed it to her. Camille took aim at the monstrous winged guardian, then fired.
The arrow zinged straight toward the gargoyle, veered to the right just as it was about to embed itself in its skin or scales or….
Why had the arrow deviated so sharply?
“Your crossbow sucks,” she said.
“You just can’t shoot the big boy,” Sarge said, taking the weapon back. “And don’t waste good ammunition on decorations.”
All of the women were watching her as if she were bonkers. And maybe she was. Their watch trackers weren’t thumping, and Sarge wasn’t “sensing” anything about that gargoyle.
“Little jumpy there,” Camille said, adjusting her utility belt. “I just want to find these things.”
Sarge cast her an amused gaze, then froze and turned toward the well. With a hand gesture, then a raised palm—which she took to mean “Stay here”—he stalked toward the fixture.
She could hear her quickened breathing. Her loud-as-thunder pulse.
Then he motioned her forward, signaling for the women to come, too.
Blump. Blump.
It was her watch starting up. Faint. Reliable.
Her heart stuttered.
They all bent over the well, looking into pure darkness. Even their headlamps didn’t lend illumination.
The smell. Blood. Near death.
Vampire.
Her common sense told her to run, but that would be a betrayal of everything she cared about. This time, the darkness held life for her, and she wouldn’t turn her back on it. Never again.
She stood, untied her rope, then secured it to an iron stake poking out of the ground. Without a word, Sarge tested it, seeing if it’d hold her weight.
Thumbs up.
Positioning herself at the edge of the well, she pointed to Sarge, then Reveka, Ana and Lucia.
She didn’t look down, just grabbed the rope in one gloved hand with her UV wand in the other. Here it went.
With a what-the-hell breath, she jumped in, balanced her feet against the wall, sprinted downward, her headlamp shining a lone ring of light on the stones in front of her.
Fifteen seconds later, she hit bottom in an attack-ready crouch, tracker telling her that she was safe for now.
Blump. Blump.
The tunnel was clear. She jerked the rope as a signal for Sarge to follow.
A fetid wind rushed over her, but Camille stood her ground, just inviting one of those harpies to take her on.
Let’s go, she thought. I’m so ready.
When something brushed her shoulder, she proved her mettle by swinging back her elbow in a dedicated punch while flicking on her UV light.
Crash! Something got it right in the jaw.
On guard, she turned to find Sarge with his good hand still on the rope. Since his bad arm was hanging by his side, she guessed he’d rested it during the descent.
But his pain showed in his gaped mouth.
Impulsively, she jumped up, hugged him to relay her remorse. Uh-huh. Hugged. Him.
A surprised, or maybe agonized, grunt answered her, but she couldn’t let go. For a crazy moment, it felt too good, too natural.
Two halves of a whole strengthening themselves by clinging together in the dark.
His body was honed, hard, comforting in the way a handle would be if you’d fallen down and had to grab on to something. When his healthy arm slid up her back, Camille stiffened, realized she had crossed a line. Had enjoyed the fleeting reassurance way too much.
Immediately, she backed up, reached out to slap his good shoulder, stressing to him that she still thought he was a sexless side of beef.
Her lamp revealed his responding gaze. It burned over her, almost as if he hadn’t wanted her to let go of him.
Which, truth be told, she almost hadn’t.
Weirded out, she busied herself by turning off her UV wand to conserve its energy—they’d need every second of juice—and adjusting her scientific armory as the rest of the women came down. They left the rope hanging since there was no way to undo it.
All around them darkness hovered, cold and threatening. She couldn’t breathe…oh, God, she couldn’t…
Griff. Dammit, the dark wasn’t going to stop her.
Clawing for oxygen, she fortified herself. With a burst of courage, she forged ahead into the darkness, ignoring the painful blaze of her pulse, the terror of the unknown.
Griff. The name pulled her through the blackness.
Using the increasingly agitated beat of her tracker, she led them down a passageway, probably a secret one, she thought, from days gone by. A place where a royal family could hide during a revolution or siege.
It seemed to go on forever, this trip into the cold void. She wanted to start running, blindly chasing the yearning, the hunger to find Griff.
Blumpblumpblump…
Closer. She couldn’t stand this.
Stealthily, the team gripped their UV wands, while Sarge readied what looked like an explosive device or two. They gathered by a gap in a stone wall that led to a chamber with half the ceiling torn off.
Inside, lit by a shaft of moonlight, two men were crumpled in the corner. Their clothes were nothing more than strips of material, their skin washed out, their hair long, their sky-tilted faces hidden by beards.
With a barely restrained cry of fright, relief, curiosity, joy, horror—she wasn’t sure what—Camille surged forward, moving to flick on her UV wand while shooting herself up with adrenaline.
But not before she saw the bestial red eyes of the strigoiaca streaking toward them.
Chapter 10
Juni, approximately nine months ago
The night the strigoiaca came
Camille cuddled against Griff as yesterday’s rain continued. Clouds covered the moon, casting the room into pure darkness, spreading a chill due to the spent fire.
Today, she’d interviewed five more villagers—men who tried to act like Petar Vladislav’s rash words hadn’t mattered. She should’ve been excited to witness the effects of folklore in action, to see how the tales were coloring village dynamics and relationships.
Instead, she felt on edge.
Maybe it was because she could imagine Flora Vladislav bursting into their room to punish her and Griff for sleeping in the same bed. Maybe she felt protective of Griff in light of how the strigoiaca—even if they didn’t really exist—preyed exclusively on men. Or maybe it was all these tales of the undead, seeping into her bones like water into earth.
Death can come back to life.
She wanted to believe it, wanted to pull her parents back from the grave, tell them how much she missed them. How much she wanted them to meet Griff.
The thought was attractive, but impossible. Silly.
Vampires and resurrection existed only in fiction.
So why was she more willing to embrace the concept with each passing day?
In his slumber, Griff clutched her tighter against him, and Camille melted into his arms. Time to rest. Time to feel safe and warm, forgetting all of her questions.
She must’ve slept, because when she heard the night’s first scream, she bolted, caging Griff with her arms.
“What…?” he mumbled.
Camille fumbled for the light. It wouldn’t turn on. “Did you hear that?
”
Her heartbeat was like a card stuck in the spokes of a bike wheel, fluttering. Caught.
Blinking away the sleep from her gaze, she froze, listening.
Nothing.
But hadn’t both of them heard it?
They’d packed miniflashlights in their backpacks, so Camille tumbled out of bed in her long johns, felt her way around the room, intent on finding one. “Go back to sleep, okay? It was a bird or…” What?
Another scream. Closer this time.
A male?
Come on, she thought. Imagination working overtime.
“I heard that,” Griff said.
While she battled the fear creeping over her skin, Camille finally found her backpack where she’d left it, by the foot of the bed. Digging into the front pocket, she groped for the small light device.
She heard Griff sit up. “Bloody dark. Tex?”
“Griff, stay in bed. I’m going to knock on Mrs. Vladislav’s door down the hall to see what’s happening.”
But it’d be nothing. She was sure about that.
Outside, the wind howled, slapping rain against the window. Then it calmed to an eerie whistle.
She found her cell phone first, turned it on, lighting the space around her with a blue glow. “No signal.”
The covers rustled as Griff tossed them away.
“Where’re you going?”
“Down the hall, as you said.” There was the swish of denim rubbing against itself. He’d found his jeans and had thumped back onto the bed to put them on.
She almost told him to bag his testosterone and get back under the covers. But why bother? What protection were covers?
And why was she worried about it? What did she think was happening? One of the fabled vampire attacks?
She tried to laugh at the thought, but couldn’t. Not after hearing that old woman a couple of days ago.
There, the flashlight. She prepared to turn it on.
The door hinges squeaked, the opened barrier ushering in colder air.
“Griff, just stay in bed, okay?”
He paused.
“I am in bed.”
Time stopped, blood pounding in her head. Camille dragged her gaze to the doorway.
