Shadow Rider

by Christine Feehan

  Lightning lit up the room and almost simultaneously, thunder boomed, shaking the house again. It was a huge, well-built house and shouldn't be shaking. The rain lashed at it and the wind shrieked and howled. Shadows lengthened and grew, throwing out strange-looking tubes from every direction. The tubes looked like arms reaching for him. Out of the shadow a knife appeared, the tip biting deep into his forearm.

  He screamed. Eloisa Ferraro was suddenly there. "You shouldn't have stabbed her, Barry," she said, and then she was gone again, as if she'd never been. As if she was a ghost. A fucking phantom.

  With an oath, he turned and ran toward the door, toward the safety of his men. Yanking the door open, he tripped over something heavy lying on the floor. He went down hard. Very hard. His body rolled and with a sob of frustration he pushed himself to his hands and knees, looking quickly around to see where his crew was, to see if any of them had witnessed this further humiliation.

  Marc sat on the floor across the doorway, his body tied in a web of intricate knots, his head drawn back at an impossible angle. It looked as if he'd struggled and the ropes around his neck had tightened until he'd strangled. The knots formed a strange, elaborate harness. Several feet from him, suspended from the ceiling by his wrists, was Jimmy. The knots formed what appeared to be long sleeves that went up his arms to his shoulders and formed a circle around his throat. Staring up in horror, Barry could see where Jimmy had held himself as long as possible, but then his strength gave out and he'd hung himself.

  Barry swore and crawled backward, scrambling fast. He'd heard of such knots, but he'd always associated them with erotic bondage. He'd gone to a demonstration once, but it was an art he didn't have the patience to learn. During the demonstration, he'd heard a bit of history and knew the knots had originally been used to restrain prisoners and sometimes torture them. He hadn't listened too closely because he was only interested in watching the naked woman get tied up.

  A shadow moved on the floor where the body swung and once again those strange feelers reached toward him like arms. A knife plunged into his thigh, a fist around the hilt. It emerged from the shadows just as the one before it.

  Then Ricco was there, shaking his head. "Shouldn't have touched her with a knife, Barry. You're not going to be in one piece by the end of this." Then he was gone.

  Gone. Disappeared. The knife was still in his leg, blood bubbling around the blade. Barry was afraid to pull it out, but it was grotesque there. He was losing his mind. There was no other explanation. Still, he was bleeding from two knife wounds, but shadows didn't come alive. That couldn't happen. Not in real life. Was he hallucinating?

  "George! Arnold!" He called out for the two men who had been with him the longest other than Del. Del was a great lawyer and he loved to indulge himself with women, but he wasn't as good at kicking ass as George and Arnold.

  No one answered him. Other than the howling wind and the sound of the piano, he couldn't hear a sound coming from any room. No one was coming to help him. He had to jerk the knife out of his leg on his own. Taking a deep breath, he wrapped his fingers firmly around the hilt and yanked hard. For a moment the world spun and was edged in black. The pain was excruciating, worse than when the blade had gone in.

  Barry dropped the knife and ripped his shirt to wrap the wound up. It hurt like hell but there were no signs of arterial bleeding. The stupid son of a bitch couldn't even find an artery. How stupid were the Ferraro brothers anyway? Bringing a knife to a gunfight? He tossed Ricco's knife away and then his own to pull his gun from its holster under his arm. He'd all but forgotten it. He didn't generally do any of the strong-arm stuff--those were his men's jobs--but he could if he had to. This was a case of if he wanted the job done right, he'd have to do it himself.

  Del. Del was close, in the next room. His lawyer didn't want any part of what was going to happen to Stefano. He didn't like getting his hands dirty. He claimed he was the law and he needed deniability, but he was a fucking coward. He liked to participate with the women. In fact, he was one of the worst, beating the crap out of them while he fucked them before going home to his wife and children. He especially liked young girls. Teens. More than once Barry's men had had to clean up his messes, but he was a damn good lawyer so Barry kept him around. This time, the bastard would use a gun.

  Barry pushed himself to move. He was shaking and that just pissed him off more. The door to Del's room was open and he stepped inside. Del had draped himself on the bed, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. The rain slammed against the window so hard the window rattled. Shadows played along the walls and across the bed.

  "Get up, you lazy fuck," Barry snapped, impatient with the way Del always chose to stay out of the muck with the rest of them.

  "He can't, Barry," Emmanuelle's soft voice said in his ear. She was right behind him. Close. He could feel her breath against his neck. "He's dead. So sorry. His neck broke when he tried to rape me."

  Before he could turn, before he could make a move, a hot blade sank into his side. Low. Between his ribs. Fire flashed through him. His breath left his body in a concentrated rush or he would have screamed the house down.

  "You shouldn't have stabbed Francesca, Barry. It was very stupid of you."

  The knife retreated and he spun, one hand clamped to the wound, the other clutching the gun. He whirled, cursing. Tears leaking out of his swollen eyes. There was no one there. Nothing but shadow. Breathing heavily he leaned against the wall, trying to think. The stab wound in his leg was the worst. Ricco had really nailed him. Eloisa barely scratched him. Emme's knife hurt, but really, how bad was it? He could still breathe. He had the gun. Fuck the damn Ferraro family.

  He just needed to rally his men. Denny and Si were in the poolroom. Lazy bastards. They were always clowning around, oblivious to what was happening around them. He'd shake them up. He paid them damn good money to do what he said. He hurried down the hall, dragging his leg, cursing every jarring step. He slammed his fist on the poolroom door and it sprang open.

  Denny was on the floor. He had marks across his face, as if he'd been caned. His pool stick was still clutched like a weapon in his hand. Si was on the table, the same marks on him, his pool stick broken. Barry's heart began to pound. Hard. He tasted terror for the first time in his life. The wind rose and drove the rain at the bank of windows. Outside the trees swayed macabrely, the shadows dancing through the window onto the walls and floors, even across Denny's face as if laughing at him.

  "Shouldn't have stuck that knife in her, you fuck," Giovanni said, and slammed a knife into Barry's good leg.

  Up high. In his thigh. Almost an identical wound to the one his brother Ricco had made. Barry screamed. He couldn't stop screaming as he fired the gun repeatedly at Giovanni. But Giovanni had vanished as if he'd never been. As if he wasn't human. A phantom. A ghost. Barry wiped his eyes with his gun hand and slumped against the wall. He had to get out of there. He could hire someone to kill Stefano and his entire family. Wipe them out. He would get satisfaction from that. He didn't need to see it done, just so long as it was done.

  He wrapped the wound on his leg and headed for the kitchen, intending to go out the back way. There was a car waiting outside. There was always a car. He'd sent Arnold and Harold out to hunt the women down. If he was lucky, they were still alive and they could get out with him. He stopped just outside the kitchen. There was no door, only an archway. The room seemed quiet--so quiet he could hear the piano. Fang stilled played. He was still alive. The music sounded better than it ever had--but bizarre, as if the drama unfolding in the house was nothing more than a theater play that he was stuck in the middle of.

  Arnold sat at the kitchen bar, a sandwich in front of him. There was a whole ham cut into thin slices on the bar beside the plate with the sandwich. Harold was against the wall behind the bar. Barry stepped inside and hurried to them. "Get up. We've got to get out of here. The Ferraro brothers are every . . ." He trailed off.

  Arnold was pinned to th
e chair by a series of knives, his eyes wide open and staring in horror. Harold was held to the wall by knives going from his belly to his chest. Barry staggered back, reaching for the archway to hold his trembling body up. He looked wildly around. There was no one. Only silence. The shadows played across the back door as if daring him to enter them. He shook his head, sobbing. No way was he going out that door, not with the shadows moving across it.

  "I like knives, Barry. Learned to cook in Europe when I was training there," Taviano said, his voice close to Barry's neck. "And to use knives for all kinds of purposes."

  Barry brought up the gun and Taviano slapped it away. Easily. So easily. Barry closed his eyes, knowing what was coming, trying to steel himself.

  "I gave them a little demonstration, but they weren't impressed, or at least they didn't say so. You know you shouldn't have stabbed her. She's ours. Dumb, Barry, but then you always were a dumb prick."

  The knife went in on the other side, in the same spot where Emmanuelle had stuck him. He knew there was no sense in looking for Taviano. He'd disappeared, just as all the other Ferraros had disappeared. Like ghosts. Barry stayed very still, leaning against the archway, sobbing. He had no idea how long he stayed there, blood running down his clothes, his mind uncomprehending.

  This couldn't really be happening to him. He always won. He was always in control. Now he was staggering through this mausoleum, bleeding from multiple stab wounds, his men dead inside.

  The sound of the piano penetrated through the lashing rain and shrieking wind. Lightning still lit up the sky, as if the storm stayed crouched over the estate he'd rented. Fucking Ferraro family. Think they own Chicago. He pushed off the wall and stumbled down the hall toward the great room and the sound of the piano. Fang was still playing, seemingly unaware of the deaths taking place around him. More, the concerto he played was intricate, difficult, something Barry wouldn't have thought in Fang's repertoire. Barry had gone to several concerts with his mother and heard the greatest pianists in the world play. Fang wasn't one of them, yet his playing now was superb. The beautiful music sounded so incongruous as a backdrop for the ugliness happening inside the house.

  Barry burst into the great room and the first thing he saw was George. The man was lying beside the piano bench, his neck at an odd angle, his eyes open and staring in horror. Fang was facedown, just on the other side of the piano. The man playing was Vittorio Ferraro. He turned suddenly, one hand lifting from the keys. In one movement he picked up the small throwing knife, turned and flung it at Barry, all the while his other hand still played. Then his second hand joined, even before the knife sank into Barry's shoulder.

  "Shouldn't have stabbed her, Anthon," Vittorio said, and dismissed him, keeping his back to him as he played the concerto.

  Dismissed him. As if he were of no consequence. It was humiliating. If he'd still had his gun he'd have killed the son of a bitch. The knife barely hurt, not with the wounds in his thighs throbbing and burning. Not one knife had touched a vital spot. Not one . . .

  Barry looked around him, his heart pounding hard. He felt hands on either side of his head. Almost gentle.

  "You're dead, Barry. Justice is served." Stefano broke Barry Anthon's neck. He stepped back, dropping the body to the floor. "Did you call Sal? He'll need to really clean this place."

  "It's done. Get your woman and let's go home."

  Stefano nodded and went back to get Francesca. He stepped into the portal where she was waiting for him with Emme. Emme had wrapped up the wound in Francesca's thigh, but Stefano lifted her into his arms. "Put your arms around my neck and your face into my shoulder, bambina. Keep your eyes closed. I don't want you to see any of this."

  "Okay," she agreed softly.

  "It's over, Francesca--he's dead. He'll never hurt another woman."

  "Thank you, Stefano. All of you. Let's go home."

  Stefano stepped into the next shadow and took his woman home.

  EPILOGUE

  Stefano stood at the altar, his heart pounding. He had never really believed this day would come. He glanced at his brothers and saw the same look on their faces that he knew was on his own. Disbelief. Awe. Raw hope. They were shadow riders, men and women with responsibilities that didn't allow them to choose what they wanted. Finding someone who could love them, someone willing to share their lives, was rare and nearly impossible to believe could be true.

  But there she was. Francesca. His woman. Walking toward him, looking like a vision, too beautiful and ethereal to be real. Dressed in white lace, her gown clinging to her figure, showing her curves and that ridiculously small waist he liked to put his hands on. Her hair was down, just as he'd requested, when his mother and sister were insistent on her putting it up. She'd done that for him, argued and won just to please him. Her veil was intricate lace surrounding her face. She was on Pietro's arm.

  Emilio and Enzo had vied for the privilege of walking her down the aisle to him, but Pietro had asked, and in the end they decided that she needed family of sorts. Joanna stood up for her. Enrica and Emme as well. Enrica's concussion hadn't kept her out of the wedding party. Stefano couldn't see them. Only Francesca. Only his woman, walking toward him, giving not only him, but his brothers and sister the promise of a future.

  The church was overflowing. Family. Cousins from New York and San Francisco. The branch in Los Angeles had drawn the short straw and had to stay away. The entire neighborhood, everyone in their village, had been invited, and most came. He'd even spotted Dina, wearing Francesca's coat, seated at the back of the church.

  Nicoletta made her first public appearance with Lucia and Amo, sitting between them, looking pale and a little frightened, but she was there. Still, Stefano could only really see his woman. He took the steps down to her, took her hand from Pietro and tugged until she was beside him, right where she was meant to be.

  They turned together and faced the priest, his heart swelling with joy as he said his vows to love and cherish her. He would . . . for all time.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from the next Carpathian novel by Christine Feehan,

  DARK CAROUSEL

  Available August 2016 from Berkley Books

  Charlotte Vintage pushed the stray tendrils of dark auburn hair curling around her face back behind her shoulders and leaned toward her best friend, Genevieve Marten. Icy fingers of unease continually crept down her spine. There was no relaxing, even with a drink in front of her and the pounding beat of the music calling to her.

  "We know they followed us here, Genevieve," she whispered behind her hand. Whispering in the dance club with the music drumming out a wild rhythm wasn't easy, but she managed. They had accomplished what they'd set out to do, but now that they had drawn their three stalkers out into the open, what were they going to do?

  "We must have been crazy, thinking we could do this, Genevieve. Because we have no business exposing ourselves to this kind of danger." Mostly Charlotte didn't think she should have exposed Genevieve to the danger. At least not both of them together. Not when they had a three-year-old to consider.

  She made a slow perusal of the club, trying to take in every detail. The Palace was the hottest dance club in the city. Everyone who was anyone went there. In spite of the fact that it was four stories high, every single story was packed with bodies, as well as the basement underground club. Men tried to catch her eye continuously. She wasn't going to pretend she didn't know Genevieve was beautiful, or that she wasn't so hard on the eyes either. The pair of them together drew attention everywhere they went--which was a bad thing.

  "We're acting like normal women for a change," Genevieve said a little defiantly. "I'm tired of hiding. We needed to get out of the house. You needed to get out of the house. You work all the time. Honestly, Charlie, we're going to grow old hiding away. What good has it done us? We're not any closer to finding out who is doing this to us."

  "I can't afford to be bait," Charlotte pointed out. "And I don't like you being bait either. Certai
nly not both of us together when we have to look after Lourdes. She can't lose everyone in her life. It goes against everything in me to hide away, but I've got to consider what would happen to Lourdes if I was killed. They already murdered her father. She has no mother. I'm all she's got." When Genevieve sent her a look she hastily amended, "We're all she's got."

  Charlotte wasn't the hide-from-an-enemy type any more than Genevieve was. They'd met in France, both studying art. Genevieve painted and she was good. More than good. Already her landscapes and portraits were beginning to be sought after by collectors. Charlotte restored old paintings as well as old carvings. Her specialty and greatest passion was restoring old carousels.

  Genevieve was French. She was tall with long, glossy dark hair and large green eyes. Not just green, but deep forest green. Startling green. She had the figure of a model, and in fact had had several major agencies try to convince her to sign with them. She was independently wealthy, having inherited from her parents and both sets of grandparents.

  Genevieve's maternal grandmother had raised her. A few months earlier, that grandmother, her last living relative, had been brutally murdered. Several weeks later, a man Genevieve had been dating was murdered in the same way. His blood had been drained from his body and his throat had been torn out. Charlotte's mentor, the man she was apprenticing under, was murdered a week after that.

  Twice, when they were together, the two women had become aware that someone had tried to enter their house late at night. They'd locked all windows and doors, but whoever was after them had been persistent, rattling the glass, shaking the heavy doors, terrorizing them. The police had been called. Two officers were found dead in the courtyard, both with their blood drained and their throats torn out.