“Hello?”
Still nothing. Jackson retraced his steps. The ground was filthy with dust and dirt, so his footprints, seemingly covered in oil or grease, were easy to trace.
“What do you want here?” a deep voice called out.
Jackson spun around so fast he nearly fell over. “Who’s there?”
“Why are you here?”
The deep voice was followed by a sound that Jackson could only identify as bubbling.
“Come out!”
“Why are you here?” the voice demanded again.
Jackson was too afraid to move—the thought of running largely overlapped with one of something chasing him. “I was just looking. Just looking.”
“Looking for what?”
“What does it matter?”
“All matters here,” the voice said. “This is our place now.”
Jackson forced his feet to go. He moved faster and faster, and all the while his grip on the piece of metal tightened.
“What have you taken from here?” the voice called out; it sounded much closer now.
“What?” Jackson turned to face the voice again. “Nothing. Some junk. Some piece of metal.”
“Junk…”
Jackson was sure the deep voice sounded irritated now.
“Yeah, trash. See?” He held it up, hoping the sight of it gripped in his hand would scare off whoever was talking.
“You…” the voice said, letting the word hang there.
“Listen…I’m leaving, okay? I’m leaving.” Jackson started to jog. He knew he was close to the car, yet it felt like it was miles away.
“No!” the voice commanded.
Jackson started to sprint, but something reached out and grabbed the end of the scrap of metal he carried. The pull was so hard, it halted him. He turned and braced himself, then added his other hand to the metal.
He expected to see someone there. Instead, all he saw was a black shiny mass and something that appeared to be a long tentacle wrapped around the metal only centimeters from his hands. Shock made him release his grip, and the scrap metal was yanked away.
“What the fuck!” Jackson shouted and then kicked his feet, pitching dirt and debris everywhere. “What the fuck!”
Whatever it was, was gone.
When Jackson reached the car, he realized his sneakers were covered in oil—ruined. He considered pitching them off, but just jumped into the car and inserted the key in the ignition as fast as he could. He grabbed the gearshift, and suddenly dread stopped him from shifting into reverse. What if something is back there, behind me? he thought, his eyes glued to the steering wheel. He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. He finally glanced in the rearview mirror, then quickly back to the wheel. He saw nothing—nothing lurked behind him as he had feared.
Eyes forward, headlights on, a crowd of people—no—things suddenly appeared in front of the car.
“What the hell!”
He slammed his foot down on the pedal, and the car’s tires spun out before they caught. He sped away in reverse, his eyes glued to the crowd as it slowly receded away. Whatever he had just seen, he was sure of one thing, they—it wasn’t human.
Jackson spun the wheel hard, the street he wanted to be on was ahead.
“Recalculating,” the GPS announced.
He didn’t wait for the GPS’s directions. As he accelerated, he felt the ground rumble beneath his tires. Oh God, the sinkhole’s spreading…
As fast as Jackson drove, he seemingly could not distance himself from the quake. Cracks in the pavement sped alongside of him like street racers. He shifted gears and held his breath. He wished Moselle’s car came equipped with nitrous oxide, like the ones in the Fast and Furious movies.
There was a loud crash to his left. A smaller building had begun to crumble and slammed into the one next to it, and like a domino that building begun to tilt towards the next.
“Come on! Come on! Come on!” Jackson shouted.
He could feel his speed now. The odometer read seventy-eight and rising. A traffic light blinked to red, but the street was empty so Jackson ran it. The steering wheel shook, but not from the ground beneath him rumbling; it was from the vibrations of the roaring engine. He hit ninety miles per hour before he spared another quick glance back and realized he was clear of the damage.
“Finally…”
Jackson lifted his foot off the accelerator and loosened his grip on the wheel. The car slowed to the speed limit, and at the next intersection he came to a full stop. His forearms burned from how tensely he had held his body earlier and he was shaking his hands loose when the area erupted in police and fire alarms.
He watched a smoke cloud fill the sky behind him through the rear view mirror. The light turned green, but he sat still. One police car and then another sped by him. The rush of motion further rattled his nerves.
What was that thing-those things? Jackson looked at his hands. Moselle would know, Jackson realized. What the hell is going on?
He retrieved his cell phone—it was blinking. He had missed two calls, both from Moselle. He didn’t bother to dial; he just stared at the phone and said, “I’m coming home, Moss.”
Jackson’s Ghost
Jackson had only driven two blocks when he thought he heard a voice whisper in his ear. He shrugged it off at first, figuring he was still on edge. He reached for the car radio, but before he could turn it on, he heard the voice again—louder.
“Jackson.”
He jerked the steering wheel, swerving into oncoming traffic as he took a turn. Cars braked to avoid hitting him, and drivers honked and swore as they passed. Jackson spun the wheel back and righted the car before he looked into the backseat.
“Who said that?” he asked as he heard something rattle in the trunk. “Who’s there?”
He looked from side to side, checking traffic and the streets. It wasn’t someone outside calling my name, was it?
“Asshole! Watch where you’re going!” an old man in a pickup yelled as he drove by.
Jackson spotted a gas station and pulled the car into one of the empty parking spots.
“I’m losing it,” he said after he engaged the parking break. “I’m seriously fucking losing it.”
He put his head in his hands and breathed deeply. The sight of Moselle killing someone was still on his mind. He just couldn’t shake it. He thought that coming downtown and searching for Sabrina might help; clearly, he’d been wrong.
“Jackson?”
He jerked up, his seat belt tight around his chest.
“What the fuck!”
He grunted and slammed his knuckles into the release, unbuckling himself, and jumped out of the car as fast as he could.
There was the sound of deep breaths and then the voice returned. “You’re Jackson, right?”
“Who’s saying that? Come out! Where—” Jackson rambled.
“Oh, would you relax and just get back into the car? Man, you’re jumpy and your shoes are covered in that filth. Get rid of them.”
Jackson looked around again, but there was no one near. “Who’s there?”
“Would you just get in the car?” the voice urged.
Jackson peeked into the car again, staring curiously at the empty seats when another voice spoke behind him, this one accompanied by the shuffle of sneakers across the pavement.
“Hey, dude…you okay?”
Jackson glanced over his shoulder. A man approached with his hood up, his face partially concealed.
“I’m fine.”
“You need my help?” the man asked. “I can help. Let me help.”
“No. I’m fine. Go away.”
“Hey, you got any weed or—”
“No.”
Jackson turned fully around to face the guy and he noticed how the man limped and swayed as he walked. Fucking junkie. Just what I need.
“Look. Go away. Get out of here.”
“No reason to be rude,” the hooded man said as he stepped closer. “I�
�m just thirsty.”
Jackson took a deep breath and readied himself. If he had to, he’d hit this guy—and with the way his day had been, he thought it might actually make him feel better.
“Let me help you. I’m thirsty.”
He lifted his hands as the hooded man drew nearer, ready to fight. As he got closer, a streetlamp illuminated the man’s gaunt, inhuman features, and Jackson blurted out, “What the fuck are you?”
“Fucking vampires,” the voice from the car grumbled.
The man lunged in to attack but was stopped by a nearly invisible force that flew past Jackson. The man grunted in pain, convulsed and then went suddenly still after what looked like the outline of a translucent spear pierced his chest.
The force. The hooded man. The voice. Jackson leapt to a quick and chilling conclusion: Kintner’s alive.
“Kintner! I knew it! I knew you weren’t dead!” He shouted at the car. “Here to kill me again? Let me see you first, coward.”
“Kintner? No,” the voice said. “Would you just get in the car already, before you attract any more ghouls?” The voice sounded momentarily weak, wheezing at the end of his question.
“Ghouls?”
Jackson peered into the car again, and this time he saw something: the blurred and nearly smoky form of a man seated in the passenger seat.
“No way!” he hollered, shocked.
“Surprise.”
“You’re a-a ghost?”
“No, my name is Weston. I’m a—”
“You’re a fucking ghost,” he laughed. He could hardly believe it. “Sabrina and Moselle didn’t tell me there were ghosts. This is amazing.”
“I’m not a ghost,” Weston repeated. “I’m an air spirit.”
“A spirit made of air? Sounds like a ghost to me.”
Weston hung his head. “Get in the car. Please.”
For the first time in the last hour or so, Jackson was not afraid. In fact, he was amused. He got in the car, smiling at Weston, who was a reasonably solid—looking tall, naked, bald man.
“What?”
“I’m just surprised… I guess, I just expected something different.”
Weston coughed. “Different?”
“I always believed in ghosts. I’ve often hoped to see my grandmother again, but—”
“I’m not a damn ghost!” Weston faded from view a second and then returned in clearer, less smoky form. “Touch me.”
“What?”
“Just touch me,” Weston said and then lifted his hand up for a high five. “Here, slap me five, bro. You’ll see.”
“Don’t you slime me.” Jackson aimed his palm at Weston’s but found it slowed to a near stop before it struck something…well, not “solid” in the normal sense, but definitely something impenetrable. “Whoa.”
“See?” Weston said. “Can a ghost do that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, trust me, they can’t.”
Jackson’s heart skipped a beat. “Kintner could do that.”
“I’m not the guy who kidnapped Sabrina.”
“Yeah, well, how do you know so much about Sabrina?” he asked. “Who are you? Why should I trust you?”
“I just saved your life,” Weston answered sharply. “Drive out of here, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
Jackson started the car and shifted it. “What was that thing out there? Those things back at the sinkhole?”
“That thing out there was a ghoul,” Weston said with a wheeze. “A dirty, diseased, foul vampire.”
“I thought vampires were all supposed to be asleep.” Cade had told Jackson several times.
“They are,” Weston wheezed.
“So you killed it?”
“Maybe. Not sure.”
Jackson nodded. “And those things back at the sinkhole?”
“Yeah…those.” Weston sounded concerned. “We’ll talk about that later. Let’s get far from here first, okay?”
“Okay.” He grinned. “Well, where do you want to go, Mr. Ghost?”
Weston sighed. “Where were you going?” he asked, coughing.
“Back to my girlfriend’s house.”
“Moselle?”
“Yeah.” Jackson looked at Weston, seeing straight through him and barely able to identify his shape. “Do you know her?”
Weston didn’t answer. “Is the air clean there? At Moselle’s home?”
“Very clean.”
“Good. Then let’s go there. Quickly.”
Jackson drove down the road quietly for several minutes, peeking at Weston every now and then, marveling over how the ghost seemed to become more or less visible at random. When Weston coughed, his body nearly vanished but quickly solidified some afterward.
“What were you doing down there, Weston?”
“I was trying to find anything of Sabrina’s that I could salvage. I thought if I brought her some of her stuff, she’d be happy,” he explained. “What about you?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, after all that’s happened lately, I just wanted to get out of Moselle’s house, maybe go back to my apartment…but then for some reason I thought I should come down here,” Jackson said. “I guess I wanted to see it. The sinkhole. And I kept having this feeling like Sabrina would be there, where her home was. I figured I might be able to find her before everyone else.”
“What do you mean, everyone else?” Weston perked up.
“Moselle, Cade, and his friends—his family. They’ll be getting here soon.”
“Cade.” Weston shook his head. “That guy. It’s always something with that guy.”
“You don’t like him?”
Weston did not answer. “You said he was looking for Sabrina?”
“He is.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s not going to like where he finds her.”
Night Cap
Sabrina sat in a high-back leather chair across from Peter in his home’s library. The room was large but had no windows; only a stained-glass skylight provided a sparkle of moonlight from above. Peter had turned on several standing and reading lamps; he even lit a candle, but that, she assumed, was to cover up the musty, old book smell.
Sabrina would have wagered a guess that there were thousands of books in the room, but what held her attention was one of the ladders; it was like those she had seen in movies, that rolled from side to side over the bookcases. She imagined climbing to the top, a good twelve feet up, and having Peter give the ladder a push, so she could glide down the length of the wall. The thought made her smile.
Sabrina actually likened this room to her walk-in closet. Her closet was filled from top to bottom with clothes; she even had a wall of shoes—at least she had had all that. It was all gone now.
That was still a tough pill to swallow, and every time she thought about her building’s collapse, she relived the experience. Falling… a fairy’s worst fear.
“Are you well, Sabrina?” Peter asked kindly.
“What?” she said, startled from her thoughts. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You were staring,” Peter said.
“Was I? I’m sorry. Did I creep you out?”
“Oh no, you weren’t staring at me—at the books.”
“Oh, I was just thinking.” Sabrina smiled. She didn’t want to tell him what she was doing when the building fell—fucking her bodyguard—or how upset she was that all her clothes, shoes, and jewelry were gone. She didn’t want to sound shallow, but she really missed her stuff. The best she could do was to bury her emotions and say the first thing that came to mind when she thought about all these books. “You know, my father has lots of books. He even has a room similar to this, but not as big and without one of those zippy ladders.”
“Do you like to read?”
“Me? No,” Sabrina said with a chuckle. “My father used to make me read. I hated it. Oh how I fucking hated it.” Sabrina lifted her hand to her mouth; she hadn’t meant to swear. “I’m sorry.”
Peter shru
gged it off. “Now you don’t enjoy reading at all, do you?”
“Hate it.” Sabrina nodded. “Oh, but I do like fashion magazines.”
“Who doesn’t?” Peter laughed, standing and walking to the nearest wall of books. “In this room, I have a large collection of rare first printings. There are books here worth thousands of dollars. Some worth even more.”
“Are they your prized possessions?”
“Some might say they are,” he answered with a smile. “But I like to think I value other things more.”
“I had a few prized possession.” Sabrina’s smile turned to a frown. “I actually owned one of my favorite bands’ platinum records. It hung in my living room. Gah, I loved looking at that thing. I used to stare at it while listening to music, just dreaming of the day I’d have one of my own.”
“Do tell. What band was it?”
Sabrina crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her treasured platinum record was gone now; so were all of her other belongings, but one thing that remained was her sex drive and that was being amped by her impatience.
“Do you really want to talk about a successful band that your company didn’t sign?”
“No. You are right.”
She fidgeted. She couldn’t shake the excitement that still flowed through her body. Revealing her wings had left her jazzed; now was a time she would have rather spent with actions, not words.
“Peter,” Sabrina said loudly. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but I show you my wings and then you show me your books. It’s an interesting trade-off, don’t you think?” She winked.
Peter poured glasses of wine for Sabrina and then himself. “I keep this room locked. I rarely allow staff or guests in here. In fact, I have never shown a…a woman this room before. You are the first I have entertained in here.”
“I’m honored.” Sabrina nodded.
“I figured…” Peter lifted his arms up and gestured about. “Well, where better to discuss business with a fairy than the very spot in my home filled with stories of myth and legend.”
Sabrina nodded again, she wished she could convince him to be less interested in words and more interested in something physical, like she was.
“So what will it be? Business with a fairy or fairy business?”
Two Polluted Black-Heart Romances Page 18
