Brandon double-checked the kitchen. The staff left it spotless, as usual. Opening the refrigerator, he saw all the blood bags had been replaced from his private supplies, instead of the blood bank. A bright, yellow sticky note read, “I took the liberty of ordering the staff to use only the personal stores from now on. -Hadrian.”
“Personal stores,” Brandon chortled. He knew it was their way of saying the blood came from the donors they held in the lowest level of the building under guard. The supply stood a better chance of being uncontaminated.
As he closed the fridge door, he saw another note in Hadrian’s writing, but this one was unsigned.
“Keep Mea Dulcis safe. I have a few errands to run and may not be back for a few days.”
The note unsettled Brandon. For centuries, Hadrian led his own life quietly in the Tuscan hill country, not letting anyone in his inner circle except his area bosses. Even then, he seldom explained where he disappeared to on occasion, but since living in Atlanta, he made it a point to let Sabrina know where he would be and when to expect him back. This made the note odd.
Shrugging, he took the note off the door and made his way to the bedroom, checking the spare room on the way. The house was as quiet as a tomb. He carefully opened the door, hoping not to disturb Sabrina.
In the dark room, everything seemed to be in order. Brandon slipped between the sheets. He rolled to his side, ready to hold Sabrina as she slept. He reached over to her side of the bed, but found only empty space.
Brandon jerked the covers back and turned on the bedside lamp. In her place were the pajamas she wore and the hair tie. It looked as if she simply vanished where she lay.
Brandon scrambled out of bed, holding the pile of silk. He ran back through the apartment, checking every room, every closet. He even pulled open the pantry door.
The heavy, light blocking, curtains of the French doors were closed. He reached his hand through to check the locks. The sunlight seared his flesh. The handles refused to give. Locked. He jerked his hand back and cradled it to his chest while it healed.
He jerked open the front door. The hall guards took a defensive stance. The werewolves growled low and menacing.
“Put the building on alert! Get Delilah up here now! Search every nook and cranny in this place! Sabrina is missing!”
Chapter 16
Soft fur rubbed Sabrina’s skin from head to foot. It felt good. The scent of a crackling fire mixed with the earthy aromas of the fur-lined blankets.
Wait. That was not right. She fell asleep wearing silk pajamas in a silk-covered bed. Their apartment did not have a wood burning fireplace.
She sat up suddenly. Solid, carved rock made the walls. No windows meant no clues as to where she was. Through the open door, she saw a simple room with a primitive table and a single chair. A heavy oak door filled another carved rock opening. The only light came from the fireplace.
Heavy clove permeated the air, burning her nose. The heat from the fire only intensified it. The cloying smell told her who to look for but not where she was.
Sabrina assumed this was Charon’s humble abode. After all, why would the ferryman need much of a house? His task never ended, taking people from one shore to the other. It was a one-way trip for the passengers.
Must be lonely to only ever encounter dead people you know you will never see again, Sabrina thought. For a moment, she empathized with the creature.
Shuffling noises outside the main door interrupted her train of thought. Someone or something seemed to be trying to enter.
Sabrina looked down, realized she was naked in bed, and panicked. Not a scrap of fabric lay anywhere. She noticed the room held many dark recesses. Where there was darkness, there were shadows.
She glanced down. The dark rainbows and shadows filled the pendant facets. She assumed this meant her powers were back, as well.
Closing her eyes, she thought of the sleek, black bodysuit from the apartment. Stretching out with her mind, she called the shadows to her, imagining them taking form on her body to make the garment. It worked.
A chilled sensation crept along her skin, wrapping her body in shadows. She looked down in time to see the insubstantial mist become solid. The flexible, practically weightless fabric returned. This time, the zipper back felt solid.
She threw her legs over the edge of the bed. The hard, cold floor reminded her she forgot the boots. Repeating the process, she imagined the boots on her feet. The coldness disappeared as the black boots took form, protecting her from the irregular edges of the rock floor.
The door creaked open. A hooded figure in a rough, dark gray cloak shuffled into the cave. Withered hands from the wrist down stuck out from the sleeves. The hood threw the figure’s face in complete shadow.
The door remained open just long enough for her to catch a glimpse outside. A long, wooden pole with a dark watermark lay by the door. Enormous stalactites and stalagmites made the surrounding rock look like razor-sharp teeth. Torches burned in a neat row, presumably along a path.
The figure shuffled to close the door, blocking her view. It turned to face her. The place where the face should be was nothing more than a black spot. A boney hand made a gesture at the only chair in the place for her to have a seat.
“Thanks, but I’ll stand,” she said coolly. The lioness inside chuffed nervously. The figure looked frail, but to assume what she saw matched reality would be foolish. A waft of clove hit her, nearly rolling her stomach with nausea. The pendant hummed around her neck. The stone gave a faint glow of rainbows and shadows.
Reaching up for the hood, the withered hand filled out. The sleeve dropped back to reveal a thickly corded arm. A dark head of hair emerged from the hood. The rugged face of a man in his late forties looked back at her with coal black eyes.
“Sit or not. Your choice,” he said in a scratchy, deep voice. It sounded like a voice unaccustomed to speaking.
“Where am I? Why am I here?” Sabrina demanded. She scanned the dimly lit room for anything that might help her escape. But what then?
“The where is easy enough. You are on the far bank of the River Styx and my guest. Why is more complicated,” he said, not offering to elaborate further.
“Complicated? I’ve been kidnapped from my own bed!” Anger twisted inside her. The lioness within laid her ears back and snarled.
“Kidnapped? No. Rescued.” Charon shook his head, muttering to himself. He took a step in her direction, the shuffling steps replaced by smooth movement.
Sabrina matched his step as she moved away from him.
He froze. “I—”
A light rapping on the door cut him off. A look of aggravation mixed with surprise crossed his face. He glanced from the door to Sabrina. His eyes widened with a hint of fear.
He spoke only one word in a rasped whisper. “Hide.”
* * * *
“I remember telling you not to let her leave with Thane,” Delilah chided. She propped both hands on her hips as she loomed over Brandon’s chair. Her bright, white, and very sharp teeth flashed between her dark-green lips.
“I didn’t let anybody do anything. Haven’t you been listening? She was asleep. I went to bed for the day, and she was gone. Her pajamas were in the exact spot I left her. She just vanished like the bed swallowed her whole,” he said, exasperated and exhausted. Part of him wanted to rush out and do something. Sitting here waiting killed him inside. His wife was out there somewhere, kidnapped or worse. The few moments’ rest he had had was not enough. Only a large dose of fear, anger, and adrenaline staved off most of the sun’s effects. He squeezed the fabric clutched in his hands.
“Damn. Give me what she wore,” Delilah said, holding out her hand for the clothes. She took them from him, having to tug a little once in her palm to free them from him. She lifted them to her face and inhaled deeply. She chocked and coughed. “Smells like too much clove and musty damp.” She coughed again, dropping the silk fabric to the floor.
“Charon,” Brandon said. A
sinking feeling filled his chest. If she were with the Ferryman, how could he possibly get to her? How could anyone cross the river alive and return? Despair threatened to overtake him. A sharp slap across the face snapped him out of it.
He stood, swinging a fist in the direction of the offender out of instinct. A pale, sea-foam green hand with long, dark-green nails gripped his fist painfully. He stopped trying to put force behind the punch and let her hold his fist in midair for a few seconds.
“Sorry about that, lover boy, but I don’t have time for you to fall apart,” Delilah said, not sounding sorry in the slightest.
Brandon lowered his arm. He stared out the French doors at the night sky. “I wish we could call Aradia. She would know what to do,” he said wistfully.
“Well, that’s a little hard to do from our end. Unless you want to owe Diana, Goddess of the Moon, Queen of Witches, a favor, I suggest we think of another way. You know what her price would be, and I don’t think you would fare any better than you are right now,” Delilah said.
“You’re right. You know he took her across the river. There’s no way for us to get to her and get back without the very person who took her. I feel so helpless,” Brandon admitted. He covered his face with both hands.
It did not seem possible. He fought countless battles and beat the odds to survive the gladiatorial games in the Coliseum. He won his freedom and even found a way to beat death. For centuries, he answered to no one, save Hadrian. Nothing was beyond his grasp. No want went unfulfilled. Women, blood, money. Anything and everything was his to take for his pleasure, his use.
Now, when he wanted nothing more in the world but Sabrina, he seemed blocked at every turn. The sinking feeling in his chest turned to ache. Without her, a hole opened in his soul. Until she returned to fill it, he knew the hole would eat away at him.
“There has to be a way. I refuse to believe you don’t know a way. Think, damn it. I don’t care what it costs. I want my wife back,” Brandon snapped.
Delilah bit at her lip and stroked a finger along her chin. She took a deep breath and let it out in a huff. “Okay. Fine. I didn’t want to bring this up. You guys seemed to have enough on your plates, and Hadrian needed to go out of town suddenly. So, here goes. Camilla is dying.”
“But you gave her a vial of medication and went with Farrell to see her yesterday. She can’t be dying,” Brandon said. He denied Delilah’s prognosis. Over the centuries, he watched her perform miracles. He entrusted Sabrina’s safety to the demoness because her track record was spotless.
“I can only do so much. She’s going to die, and there’s no stopping it. The attack burned her lungs. The damage is more than I can repair. I’ve done all I can for her. She’s comfortable, for now,” Delilah said softly.
The yellow-green eyes gave him a pitied look. She sat down across from him and quietly patted his shoulder.
The lapse in conversation gave him time to process her words. Each time her chilly hand touched him, the bad news sank in, as if she were pounding the idea into his brain.
He took Camilla in when every other pack rejected her. He hired her when no one else wanted her in their territory. Underneath the crazy, obsessive wolf, he saw a loyal woman deeply committed to duty.
When Eleanor magically pulled the flaws from Camilla as payment of a debt, the werewolf became the best employee he had. She instantly found love and acceptance in Farrell. Watching the whirlwind romance thrilled everyone around the happy couple. Everyone felt especially glad for Camilla after her many years of suffering.
And now she lay dying after only six months of peace and love.
Guilt rushed his system. He felt guilt for having sent her as Sabrina’s bodyguard, and for exposing her to a danger he did not fully understand. Against humans and most supernaturals, Camilla made the perfect choice, but this was different. He sent her out against a powerful demonic force, and she paid the price.
Anger replaced the guilt. Charon attacked Sabrina in the parking deck. When his efforts failed, he attacked the people closest to her. It was not fair. Everyone else present had little or no need to breathe. For all her supernatural powers, Camilla was more human than the rest.
“Damn. Damn. Damn! Damn him to Hell!” Brandon yelled. He overturned the coffee table as he stood suddenly.
“Sabrina’s gone, Hadrian’s off doing whatever he’s doing, and now this. I can’t take anymore. Tell me you have a plan. If anyone knows how to get to the underworld, it’s you,” Brandon said, pacing the floor. He clenched his jaw, trying his best to hold back his temper.
“There is a way,” Delilah said. Her eyes followed his every move.
“And?”
“And it involves standing by and letting Thane Morse take Camilla. We can follow him. That’ll get us down there. The rest will be up to us,” Delilah said.
“Why can’t he just take us? Why do we need Camilla?”
What good is a god of death, if he can’t go to his own realm when he pleases, Brandon thought.
As if she read his mind, Delilah answered, “Oh, Peaches, Thane is the god of death, but he’s not the ruler of the underworld. He just delivers them. Charon ferries them across the River Styx, but only Dis Pater and Proserpina actually live there.” She seemed to want to be her usual flippant self, but she lacked the usual cool demeanor.
“I thought his powers came from the underworld,” Brandon thought aloud.
“They do, but he lives in a realm between the two worlds. My guess is that’s where Sabrina went when you drained her,” Delilah said. She sighed heavily. “That might have given the rest of the underworld a heads up there was something different about her. She should have gone directly to either the Elysian Fields or to the Gates of Inferno and been pulled back from there.”
“I don’t know why any of that makes a difference. She came back as a vampire.”
“Yes and no. No part of her was ever human. There was nothing for you to kill. You added to her earth-bound magic, remember? Nothing more.” Delilah’s tone remained calm and soothing.
“Fine. I disagree, but fine. The why really isn’t important right now. I need to get her back. I hate to use Camilla like this, but if it gives us a chance we wouldn’t otherwise have, I will,” Brandon relented.
It felt wrong. Camilla worked for him for years. To ask her for one final mission seemed unthinkable. What was he supposed to say? “Hey, Camilla, sorry to hear about your impending death. How about letting us hitch a ride to the underworld with you to save my wife?”
And what of Farrell? The poor man looked wretched last night. He obviously knows.
“I must be getting soft in my old age,” Brandon complained. “Ten years ago, I wouldn’t give a second thought about using a dying woman to get what I wanted. I find myself torn at using her death for personal gain.”
“You’re not using her. She is going one way or another, but Thane will come for her himself. She isn’t going to take you anywhere. She is just the rally point to meet up with Thane,” Delilah said more seriously.
“What makes you think he will agree to take us?”
“Charon has two things he wants, the scythe and Sabrina. He’ll take us,” Delilah assured him.
A weak knock on the entrance door nearly went unnoticed. Faintly, the knocking repeated. A raspy sob followed.
Delilah rushed to the door. She gave the knob a hard twist and jerked the door open. She skittered back several steps as Farrell fell into the room.
Bloody tears ran down his face. His pallor went beyond deathly pale. Clearly, the man missed several feedings recently. Dark bags under his eyes showed he had not slept. He still wore the same clothes Delilah cleaned and mended for him the previous night.
He tried to speak. Nothing but sobs came out. More fat tears rolled down his face, dripping on his blood-stained shirt. On the third attempt, he managed to barely whisper.
“She…she’s…leaving me,” Farrell chocked out between sobs.
Delilah pulled him up
off the floor, crushing him to her large breasts in a hug. After another moment, she smoothed his hair out of his face with one hand. “There, there. Get it all out,” she cooed.
Brandon made his way over to the small man. He took Farrell by the shoulders and tugged him away from Delilah’s embrace. Bending down enough to be eye to eye with the weasel-like man, he kept a stern face.
“What do you want, Farrell? Do you want sympathy, or do you want retribution?”
“Sir?”
The defeated look on Farrell’s face mirrored how Brandon felt inside. The task seemed monumental. No real plan meant little chance of success, but he had to try. It was the only way.
“We may not be able to save Camilla, but we can save Sabrina and get the bastard who did this,” Brandon said with determination.
“Will you and Camilla help us?” Delilah asked.
Farrell’s face hardened. The tears stopped flowing. His look of twisted agony turned to hatred and determination.
“Yes, sir. Just tell me what I have to do.”
Chapter 17
Sabrina looked around the small space. Other than getting back into bed and pulling the covers over her head like a small child, no hiding place presented itself. Without a door between the bedroom and the front space, her only option was to press against the wall beside the doorway and hope the visitor did not want to explore.
The rough-hewn wall needled her back. Shadows made for a lightweight and flexible garment, but they offered little in the way of protection. Another glance around reaffirmed no makeshift weapon lay nearby.
On the far wall, dark rainbows played. Sabrina cupped her hand over the pendant to stop the light show. The bezel hummed against her skin and started slowly heating up.
The door creaked and popped as it opened. There was the sound of shuffling as Charon moved. Clicking heels took a few steps inside the front room and stopped. The rustle of rough, woven fabric was not enough information to know what had happened.
“Get up, you stiff, old codger. He’s not here, and I don’t care if you hit your knees,” a girlish voice said.
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