Undying

by V. K. Forrest

  She lifted up on her toes and nipped his lower lip playfully with her teeth. “You don’t want me to come over any more?”

  He stroked her cheek. “No, it’s not that, it’s just that…” His voice was breathy. Already heavy with desire for her.

  “How is it so weird?” She gave a little laugh. “I guess the question should be how it could not be weird? This whole town is weird. Like M. Night Shyamalan weird.”

  “What?” He screwed up his face in a most adorable way.

  “You know, the director. He does strange stuff in his movies. Lady in the Water. The Sixth Sense.”

  He nodded, but didn’t quite seem to understand what she meant.

  “From an outsider looking in, everything about this town is a little peculiar,” she explained. “The way you locals talk to each other, the way you seem to know things you shouldn’t know. The way you look at us—the tourists, the outsiders. We’re drawn to you, drawn here, and we don’t know why. You know, I’m not exactly sure how I got here. I definitely don’t know why I came.”

  He broke into a sexy, mischievous grin. “Oh, you know why you came.” He grasped her waist with both hands and slowly lowered himself, dragging his mouth downward between her breasts, down to her belly button and then lower. “You came because you couldn’t get enough of me,” he teased.

  Macy closed her eyes and threaded her fingers through his dark hair. Leave it to a man to end a conversation with a blatant sexual boast. Not that she really minded. She herself had used the technique on more than one occasion.

  Macy’s eyelids fluttered shut and she gripped the door frame for support. She could feel her legs going weak.

  From a weird little town or not, the man certainly knew how to use his tongue.

  “Arlan,” Macy groaned. She clasped his face with both her hands and lifted his head until he was looking up at her. “You wanna move this to the bed, lover boy?” she whispered.

  Arlan smiled up at her. The only light in the bedroom, the butter-soft glow of the moon, illuminated her long blond hair. She looked like an angel. So beautiful. So fragile.

  “Come on,” she whispered, backing up.

  She caught his hand and led him to the bed. She threw herself onto it and rolled over to look up at him. He was just lowering himself over her when he saw a flash of light in the back of his head. He heard a voice and he winced.

  “Arlan? You okay?”

  Had she seen it, too?

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples. Painful light flashed again. Arlan, I need you.

  “Arlan, are you all right?” Macy’s gentle voice barely penetrated his haze.

  His eyes were open, but he did not see his bedroom. He did not see the beautiful, naked woman beside him. He saw a tree with Spanish moss hanging from it. A stone crypt.

  The light flashed again in his head. A painful, blinding glare. He smelled a foul scent. Mud. Rotting vegetation. Putrefying flesh…

  Images burst in his brain. Burial crypts in neat rows. Iron crosses. A stone statue of an angel hovering over his head. A tall gate embellished with a simple iron cross. He smelled the cloying, thick scent of blooming crepe myrtle, so sweet that it was nauseating.

  Arlan, come quick. A bit of trouble.

  Regan’s voice rang as clear as if he were standing in the room.

  Arlan saw a single flash of Regan’s handsome face behind the black wrought iron gate and the image vanished an instant later. Like that, Arlan was in his room again.

  “Arlan?” Macy was standing in front of him, her hands on his face. She gazed into his eyes. “Arlan, what’s wrong?”

  His mouth was dry. All Kahill vampires were able to telecommunicate with one another when in each other’s company, but Regan had the gift of being able to communicate telepathically from great distances. He was also able to speak telepathically to humans. Right now, Regan was communicating clearly with Arlan. He was in trouble.

  “Are you sick?” Macy murmured, obvious concern in her voice.

  Arlan blinked. His heart was racing, he was hot and sweaty, and he could feel the hair on his spine bristle—except that he was in human form so he possessed no hair along his spine at the moment. A small detail that he couldn’t explain, even to himself.

  Regan was in trouble. Serious trouble. But where was he, where was Fin? They were supposed to have met up by now. They were supposed to be on their way home, together.

  “I…” Arlan pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. He had to be careful in Macy’s presence. Sometimes, when he was hit telepathically like this, it was difficult for him to remain in his human form. He wanted to be a lynx or a wolf. He yearned to become something simpler, more elemental.

  He tightened his fists at his sides, fighting the urge to morph. He was playing with fire here with Macy; he had known that from the beginning. He couldn’t let her catch him off guard again. This morning in Eva’s garden he knew she had heard him growl. He just hadn’t been able to help himself. She hadn’t said anything, but she had heard him. Fortunately, like most humans, she didn’t trust her own senses.

  But Arlan trusted his.

  He could still smell the rot of flesh in his nostrils that had mixed with the sweet scent of the flowers. An old cemetery…

  He had to try to get hold of Fin. Try to find out what happened. Where the hell were they? “A migraine,” he managed to say to Macy. “I’m sorry. They…they just hit me like this sometimes.” He squinted and lowered his head, hiding the lie in his eyes, feigning pain.

  “Oh, God. Poor thing.” Macy sat down beside him on the edge of the bed and stroked his temple. “Can I get you something? Some aspirin? A glass of water?”

  “Um…” He was trying to think on two levels and not doing so well on either. It had been a long time since he’d been hit so hard telepathically. It had rattled him. Regan had to be in serious trouble to send those kinds of images. “Water would be good,” Arlan told Macy.

  “I’ll be right back.” She pressed a kiss to the top of his head and hurried out of his bedroom, bare-bottomed.

  Arlan lay back on the bed, his legs still dangling over the end. He lay there for a minute, trying to catch his breath, then sat up again. He slipped his hand into his shorts pocket and drew out his phone. Fin didn’t pick up and eventually Arlan got his voice mailbox. He didn’t leave a message. He dialed a second number. By the time it was ringing on the other end, he was halfway to the bathroom. Hearing Macy come out of the kitchen, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

  “’Lo.”

  Fia was still awake. He could hear it in her voice.

  “Hey,” Arlan said, trying to be quiet. “You hear from Regan or Fin?”

  “No.”

  He could hear her tapping on her keyboard. She was still at work, probably. Or working at home. Not with the boyfriend. Her voice was different when she was with a human. Arlan knew it was wrong but he was glad there was trouble in Fia’s human boyfriend paradise. The guy was all wrong for her. There were too many secrets between them. It was too hard for her.

  “What’s up?” Her keyboard grew silent.

  “Arlan?” Macy called from the other side of the closed door. “You okay?” She tapped on the door when he didn’t answer right away.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Arlan called, lowering his cell to his side.

  She was quiet for a second, but he could hear her breathing. He could feel her on the other side of the door.

  “Why are you in there in the dark?” she asked.

  Arlan reached for the light switch and flipped it on. He could hear Fia talking and lifted the phone to his ear again.

  “Arlan, who are you talking to?” Fia demanded. “Are you calling me when you’ve got her in your bed?”

  “No. No, listen, Fia.” He turned his back to the door and walked toward the shower, trying to get as far from Macy as he could. “Be right out!” he hollered. Then into the phone, “Regan just shot
me a bad one. He’s in trouble.”

  “Crap,” Fia breathed.

  “I know.”

  “And you can’t get hold of Fin?”

  “Nope.” He put the lid down on the toilet and took a seat. He was sweating hard. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back over the crown of his head. “I don’t think Fin is with him, though. He needs my help.”

  “Where is he?”

  Arlan propped his forearms on his knees and leaned forward, still a little dizzy. “I don’t know. A cemetery. Creepy mausoleums. An iron gate with a cross. Blooming crepe myrtle. I could swear I’ve been there before.” He lifted his head suddenly, snapping his fingers as it hit him. “New Orleans.”

  “New Orleans?” Fia echoed.

  “That’s my educated guess.”

  “But he was supposed to meet Fin in Italy. What the hell is he doing in New Orleans? And where is Fin?”

  “I don’t know.” Arlan got up. “But I gotta go. Tonight. Now.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “Fee—”

  “You don’t know what kind of trouble he’s in. Could be bad. Could be—”

  “The Rousseau brothers,” he interrupted.

  “Shit.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Macy was at the bathroom door again. She knocked.

  “Be out in a sec,” Arlan called to Macy; then to Fia, “I gotta go.”

  “Meet you at the airport,” Fia said.

  “Soon as I can get there.” He slipped his phone back in his pocket, took a deep breath and walked out of the bathroom.

  Arlan found Macy sitting on his bed. She was now wearing her shorts. She looked up at him, her face sweet and soft. She looked worried. She offered the glass of water, which he accepted. He took a sip and then went to the other side of the bed and lay down, his head on the pillow.

  Macy crawled across the bed and peered into his face. “Want me to go or stay here with you?”

  He closed his eyes. “I don’t know. Usually if I can get to sleep, I can get rid of it.”

  “I’ll go.” She kissed him ever so lightly on his lips. “See you around?”

  He felt her weight lift from the bed. He kept his eyes closed and smiled, lifting his hand and letting it fall. “See you around.”

  Macy walked back to the hotel, packed her backpack and her laptop and put on a pair of sneakers. Outside, the air was finally beginning to cool. She got into her car and drove the two blocks to Arlan’s house. She didn’t know why, just a hunch. Something was going on with him; she had sensed it back at the house, and the feeling was only getting stronger. She didn’t know what was going on, but it was something weird. Something M. Night Shyamalan weird.

  He was just backing out of his driveway in his truck. He didn’t notice her. She stayed well behind him all the way through town. Within ten minutes, he was on Route 1, headed north. She wondered where they were going.

  Chapter 18

  Arlan and Fia caught an early morning flight to New Orleans. Not knowing where to go or what to do, they checked into a quaint hotel on a street off Bourbon. By noon, they were sitting on the lobby’s veranda, sharing a muffaletta sandwich and drinking sweet teas.

  “You check your phone?” Fia pinched a stray olive that had fallen from the sandwich and popped it in her mouth. “Nothing from Fin?”

  Arlan shook his head and used his cloth napkin to wipe his forehead. “Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” he said under his breath. “I hate this city. I hate this heat.” He tugged on the collar of his John Butler Trio T-shirt. They were one of his favorite bands. Wearing one of his favorite T-shirts should have made him feel better. It didn’t.

  She frowned, taking a bite of her half of the huge sandwich. “It’s not any hotter here than in Delaware in August. Stop being such a pussy.” She threw an olive at him. “And be honest, it’s not the heat that’s got your fur ruffled. It’s the Rousseaus.”

  He pushed back in his chair. He’d been in a foul mood all morning. Mostly just because he was worried. He’d kept his mind open, waiting for word from Regan, but he was getting nothing. Nothing.

  The possibility that Regan might not contact him again…might never contact him again, chilled him to the bone.

  And he was worried about Macy back in Clare Point. She’d played along with his migraine story, but he was afraid she hadn’t believed him. He had smelled suspicion on her breath. And her comments about Clare Point being weird had him doubly worried. Every summer their town was flooded with humans. No tourists ever noticed that the Kahills were different. After all these centuries, members of the sept did a fine job of blending in, of appearing human. Some of them were so good at the game that they half believed they were human. So what was it about Macy that was different than the average human? Was she one of the one in a million who had a pinch of psychic ability? It wasn’t unheard of, of course. Just not likely.

  “I’m not afraid of the Rousseaus,” he grumbled, reaching for his sandwich.

  “Didn’t say you were. Far as I know, you’re the bravest guy on earth. Pedophiles in Athens, serial killers with axes in Brussels.” She pointed at him. “And remember those zombies in Amsterdam? Zombies? Ugh. They’d have had me quaking in my stilettos.”

  If she was trying to make him feel better, it wasn’t happening.

  She leaned closer, studying him through the dark lenses of her black Ray-Bans. “Look, I don’t want to tangle with the Rousseau brothers any more than you do.” She shrugged her muscular shoulders. “But they might not even be involved.”

  “Oh, they’re involved, all right.” He chewed his sandwich, but he didn’t really taste it. “If Regan is in trouble in New Orleans, I can guarantee you the Rousseaus are involved. They’ve hated us for two centuries.”

  She sat back, flapping her napkin before spreading it on her lap. She looked like the female tourists seated at the tables near them; khaki capris, a red tank top. But there was an air of sophistication about Fia that few could match. Human males, young or old, gay or straight, couldn’t walk within thirty yards of her and not be attracted. She was that hot.

  “What do you think we should do now?” she asked. “Just start looking in the cemeteries?”

  He stared at her. “I can’t believe you just called me a pussy.”

  “Well, you are sometimes. You’re too soft. You’re way too in touch with your feminine side.”

  “It’s a good thing I like you,” he said quietly. “Otherwise I’d have to turn into a Kodiak bear and eat you and your half of the sandwich.”

  She snatched up the remainder of her lunch.

  “I guess we don’t have any choice but to start looking for him.” He took another bite. “But I don’t know if he was actually in the cemetery or if he was just sending me images he thought I would recognize.”

  “Would have been easier if he’d just telepathed an address,” she quipped.

  “It’s Regan,” was his response. He contemplated their options as he chewed. “I’m thinking we wait until dark and hit the French Quarter. Talk to a few of the local freaks. Who do we know?”

  She thought for a minute. “The voodoo queens in Vieux Carre. That coven of witches off Dumaine. We can see what the word is on the street. Ask our favorite witch doctors if they know anything. A door to door canvas.”

  He managed a grin and winked at her. “Shouldn’t be much different for you than cruising bars in Philadelphia.”

  Pussy, she telepathed.

  “You keep this up,” he threatened aloud, “and we’re definitely not touring Anne Rice’s neighborhood.”

  “Now that’s cutting below the belt.” She rose. “Be right back. Ladies room.”

  Arlan waved to the waiter and was waiting for him to bring the pitcher of iced tea for refills when he saw Macy stroll through the veranda doors. He was so shocked that he did a double take to be sure it was really her. It was her all right. She was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and a Saints ball cap and carrying what appeared to be a mimo
sa in a tall glass.

  “This seat taken?” She sat down beside him.

  “What the hell—” He looked away. When the waiter had filled the glasses and moved on to the next table, he turned back to Macy. “What are you doing here?”

  “Research for a piece on old houses reconstructed since Katrina.” She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “What are you doing here?” She glanced at Fia’s plate. “You know, you tell me there’s nothing between you two and I believe you’re not having sex with her, but there’s definitely something weird going on here.” She motioned, indicating his plate and then Fia’s. “Something M. Night—”

  “Please,” he interrupted, raising both hands. “Don’t start that again. I have no idea what you’re talking about with that, and frankly, I’m not all that interested.”

  Macy had taken him so off guard, showing up like this, he didn’t know what to say or where to start. She had followed him. Not only had she followed him, but he hadn’t known she was following him. What was wrong with him? He was better than that. The wrong person following him could get him killed.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Macy.” He leaned toward her. “You can’t be here. This is FBI business,” he lied.

  She set her glass down on the table and dropped her bag over the back of her chair. Apparently, she was intending on staying a while. Fia was going to kill him. She was going to separate his head from his body and hurl his soul into everlasting purgatory.

  “So, I’m just trying to figure this out,” Macy said conversationally. “Are you an undercover FBI agent, using the handyman thing for a cover, or are you like Fia’s Watson? Maybe her Barney Fife?”

  “Barney Fife?” He shook his head in confusion.

  “You know, on The Andy Griffith Show, the sheriff’s deputy, Barney.” She shrugged. “I watch a lot of TV.”

  “Macy, I can’t talk about this with you.” He glanced in the direction of the lobby. “Fia see you?”

  “No, but I saw her. Inhumanly nice legs. Is she six foot tall?”

  “’Bout that.” He scooted forward in his chair. Fia would be furious when she found out Macy was here. Maybe he could just get her to go. Maybe Fia wouldn’t have to know. “You’re supposed to be in Clare Point. Fia asked you to stay put. When the FBI asks you to stay put, you stay put.”