Forsaken

by Leanna Ellis

  “You must be right.” Levi finally spoke, but his tone held a heavy dose of doubt. “It was a wild dog or predator of some kind.”

  She froze in place, even holding her breath, afraid of being discovered yet needing to find out what had happened.

  “I haven’t known of wolves in these parts.” Dat’s voice had more confidence. “Must be a wild dog, ja. Never seen anything like this, have you?”

  Levi’s answer was slow but definite. “Once.”

  What are they talking about? What had happened? And what are they trying to convince themselves of? Hannah inched closer.

  “A wild animal,” Dat said, “kills because it’s hungry. Nothing more. It is nature’s way. But we should lock the barn from now on at night.”

  “The barn door was secure.”

  Dat did not respond to Levi, and her ears strained.

  “Katie will grieve the lamb.”

  She sucked in a breath. Her heart quickened, racing and staggering and lurching, in an uneven rhythm.

  “It was her favorite.” Levi spoke again, heavily. “She bottle-fed it all spring and summer. Hannah will grieve too.” His understanding of her heart could not soothe the sudden ache.

  She thought of Snowflake gallivanting across the barnyard, kicking up its heels, rubbing its head against her hip. A cold numbness swept over her. Then a furry lump at the end of the barn snagged her attention. She hadn’t seen it there before, as shadows had darkened it, but now as the first light rose, the ghost of a moon still visible in the pale blue sky, the soft wooly coat became clearer as the wind stirred it. The back leg was bent, the tail limp. A sob caught in her throat, and she covered her mouth.

  “Some lessons are hard. Death is one. It is but a picture of the Lord’s Passover, ja?” Dat’s voice remained steady and calm, yet it only caused a trembling deep inside her. “They will both mourn, as we all should for the loss of something innocent. But acceptance is what makes our faith grow.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The kick came from Roc’s left, slammed into his hip, and sent him crashing against the table, which succumbed to the weight. Roc, along with stacks of books, hit the stone floor hard, but immediately he rolled onto his back. He once more aimed his gun at the priest, who now stood over him and kicked the gun out of his hand. The Glock sailed through the room and skittered across the floor.

  “I told you not to underestimate me.” Father Roberto aimed a weapon right back at Roc. It was a wooden stake, dark and intricately carved, and bearing a close resemblance to the one Anthony had given him in New Orleans. “Now, before I let you up, let’s get this straight. I didn’t kill any young Amish woman, vagrant, or teen in Louisiana or even JFK. I kill vampires. That’s it. And I have no remorse about that whatsoever. As far as I’m concerned, one less vampire in the world is a good thing.

  “And if you’re wondering how I know about those already dead…I have my own network of informants around the city and in the police department.”

  “Why should I believe you? Maybe you cracked your lid and think the ones you killed are vampires when they’re not.”

  The priest’s chin dipped, and he gave Roc a cutting look. “You shouldn’t believe me. Don’t believe anyone. Don’t trust anyone. Your blinders have not been removed; if they were, you would see there is evil in this world—more evil than you ever thought possible. So rule number one: don’t trust anyone. Because vampires will say anything, do anything. They have no souls. Haven’t you seen that in their eyes? The eye is the window to the soul. Theirs are black, am I right?”

  In his mind, Roc could see those black eyes of the one called Akiva…and the equally black eyes of the woman, and he remembered their chilling effect on him. Reluctantly, Roc gave a slight, grudging nod.

  “The bodies discovered…and I’m warning you there are probably more…didn’t have much blood left, did they?”

  Roc simply stared at this strange priest brandishing a stake like a Samurai warrior wielded a sword.

  “All right then.” He held out a hand toward Roc. “Truce?”

  With another unenthusiastic nod, Roc grabbed hold of the older man and felt himself hauled to his feet with more strength than he would have believed the priest had stored in his scrawny muscles.

  The priest flipped the stake in the air, caught it in the middle, aimed the sharp end at himself, and offered the thick handle to Roc. “Now, sit down and tell me what you have seen.”

  Roc weighed the stake in his hand, a solid weapon that could do much damage, as he weighed his options. Father Roberto could be crazy, but then again so could he. Hell, he was insane for even considering vampires as a possibility. But how else could he explain what he’d seen? Picking up his wayward Glock and sliding it into his holster, he then righted the rickety chair and settled his bruised bones onto the wooden seat and began telling Roberto everything from the dead trick-or-treater to the Amish teens who’d met a woman who drank blood, to the incident in the alleyway, and finally the woods where Akiva had disappeared.

  The priest listened as if Roc were performing the Eucharist, leaning forward on the edge of the cot, hands clasped between his knees, shoulders hunched with concentration and acceptance. When Roc had finished and was still holding the stake, Roberto bowed his head and Roc wondered if he was praying or about to swing into action again. Finally, the older man looked up and met Roc’s gaze squarely. “Why do you care so much about all of this?”

  The question took Roc by surprise. He was a cop, and dead bodies didn’t set well with him, but he knew it was more than that. “What do you mean?”

  “You are not a police officer anymore, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why? Did you witness something? Know one of the victims?”

  Roc swallowed hard and he felt his heart form a solid stone in his chest. “What does it matter?”

  “It matters a lot. It is the line in the sand between trust and suspicion.” Roberto braced his hands against his knees and stood, no longer appearing as frail as he once had, but Roc could still see the weight of age on his shoulders and in the corner’s of his eyes. The priest paced in front of the cot, his hands clasped behind his back, and glanced at Roc, then back to the floor as if trying to decide. “My older sister…she was my connection to this evil. She was killed by one of them.”

  Silence wrapped around them, bound Roc to this man in a way he never could have imagined. Grief hung in the air like a noose, tightening about Roc’s throat.

  The priest met Roc’s gaze and gave a slightly awkward shrug as if he too were uncomfortable with the admission or memory. “This was a long time ago—fifty-seven years. I was but a boy. Maria was like a mother to me. We lived in Guatemala in a small village. That was my first encounter with these demonic creatures.”

  The man’s eyes held his family’s burden, and yet there was more in those depths, more than simple revenge, burning like a blue, electric flame.

  Roc swallowed back his reservation in asking the bizarre question that popped into his mind. “Was she…changed?”

  “You mean did she become one of them?” Roberto shook his head. “Blessed Mother of God, Maria died before my very eyes.” The tension around his mouth eased. “For that I am grateful. Even though it took me many years to come to that realization.”

  For the first time, Roc understood there might have been something worse than Emma’s death. He’d never imagined it possible, and he couldn’t say he was at this moment grateful…more relieved that there wasn’t some other horror he had to face and deal with. “So you saw it…your sister’s death…or did you see her after the fact?”

  The older man’s gaze drifted as if replaying the vision in his head. “I witnessed it all.” The old man’s throat contracted, and Roc couldn’t contain the emotions building inside him as once more the images of Emma assaulted him—the fear on her face, her sh
oe she’d kicked off in the struggle cast to the side, the blood on her hospital ID.

  “I could do nothing.” A strange tone entered Roberto’s voice, as if he were once again a child, trying to explain. “The beast…was too strong. After he flung me off, I cowered behind a kapok tree. And to this day, I do not understand why he did not kill me too.” The priest turned away from Roc.

  It felt as if he were in a confessional with all the guilt and pain surging to the surface, because this was expected, required, needed. “My wife…Emma…she was killed.” Roc stared at the frayed edge of an ancient textbook, the pages yellowed, the cover as scarred as his soul. “The same way.”

  “Recently?” Roberto’s tone turned practical and helped Roc suppress the painful memories and turbulent emotions beneath an icy demeanor.

  “Almost two years now.”

  “I am sorry.” Roberto sounded as if he had uttered those words many times for others to find comfort. But comfort was not what Roc was seeking. “So you are here for revenge. It is understandable. I must confess that is how I began too, but I believe the Lord will show you a new path for your life, Roc Girouard. A new way. A new hope.”

  “I don’t know about that. But I’m ready to kill the SOBs.” He shifted his gaze toward Roberto to prove his intent. “Just show me how.”

  “It is not so easy, I’m afraid. But I believe in this case, the one you are hunting has some connection with the Amish community. I do not know why, but if we discover the reason, then maybe we can track this one and kill it. Before it kills any more.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The kitchen smelled of frying eggs and sizzling bacon, buttermilk biscuits and melting butter, tangy orange juice and hot coffee. The calendar nailed to the wall had already been turned to December. To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. The Amish adhered to the seasons, the changes, the life cycles that the Lord had prepared for them, planting and plucking up that which was planted in due course, and yet Hannah felt a resistance in her very soul concerning the time to mourn and a time to dance. Was it her time, as Rachel and Grace and Beth Ann had suggested to her so often? But to Hannah, the reasons to mourn kept piling up inside her, from Jacob to Grandma Ruth to this confusing loss of an innocent lamb, and moving beyond those reasons seemed an impossible task.

  She slipped off her cape and hung it on the peg beside the back door, averting her gaze from Mamm and Katie who were already bustling about the kitchen.

  “You were up early, Hannah.” Mamm cracked an egg into the frying pan. “Did you rest well last night?”

  Hannah nodded, slipping into the morning routine as quickly as possible, as she checked the puffy biscuits in the oven that were just beginning to brown.

  Katie walked into the kitchen from the pantry, her bare feet scuffing the wooden floor. “I made the biscuits all by myself.”

  “Looks like you did a fine job.”

  “You weren’t in your room when I searched for you.” An accusatory tone took hold of Katie’s voice.

  “I woke early.” Hannah set the metal pastry cutter into the sink. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me either. I got cold in the night.”

  “That’s because you left your window open.” Mamm shook her head at Katie then flipped an egg.

  Katie wrapped her arms around Hannah, forcing her to turn, and pressed her face against Hannah’s chest. “You’re cold now.”

  “Yes, silly. It’s cold outside.” Hannah rubbed a hand along her sister’s back, held her longer than usual. Today would not be easy when Katie learned of Snowflake, and she wished she could spare her the pain of grief. Finally, the younger girl squirmed away, and Hannah blinked back tears that threatened to spill over.

  “What’s wrong?” Katie stared up at her. “Are you crying?”

  Hannah fought for control over her emotions, blinked back the tears, and focused on cleaning the mess Katie had left on the counter from rolling out the biscuit dough. “I’m fine. Katie, can you fetch the butter and honey for the table?”

  Reluctantly, Katie went to the propane-powered refrigerator and retrieved the stick of butter. Hannah felt Mamm’s heavy gaze settle on her, but she focused on the window that looked out toward the barn, where she saw Dat and Levi headed her way, their cheeks bright red from the cold. Dat spoke to Levi, who then turned back toward the barn. Dat called out Levi’s name but to no avail.

  “You certainly had fun with all the flour this morning.” Hannah smiled at her little sister and scraped a patch of dried dough off the counter.

  The worry tightening Katie’s features relaxed into a smile, and she picked up a lump of dough and kneaded it in the palm of her hand, bits of flour sifting through her fingers onto the floor. Hannah wiped up a puddle of milk and rubbed, rubbed, rubbed at the crusty dough until Mamm came alongside Hannah and placed a hand on hers, stilled her movements. “Are you all right?” She touched Hannah’s cheek. “Are you feeling well?”

  She wanted to lean into Mamm’s warm hand, throw herself into her mother’s arms as she once did when she was Katie’s age. But no one could take away the grief or give her the answers she so desperately needed. “I’m fine, Mamm. Really.” But Katie soon wouldn’t be, and yet Hannah couldn’t tell her. It was something Dat would have to do. Pinpricks of tears stung the backs of her eyes. “I am well.”

  “Maybe she saw Levi last night.” Katie’s voice had a singsong quality.

  Mamm looked toward Katie, and Hannah took the opportunity to move across the kitchen and set the table, shuttering her gaze as she gathered fig and cherry preserves from the pantry. But she heard Mamm scold Katie quietly.

  “Did you and Levi quarrel?” Mamm’s sudden closeness startled Hannah, but not as much as the question.

  She clunked the glass jars on the table. Did Mamm know she slipped out at night? Did she suspect it was to meet Levi? Other girls her age, Grace and Beth Ann, both went running around with their boyfriends; relationships of that sort were usually discreet and private. Feeling the pressure of Mamm’s presence, her question, Hannah gave a quick shake of the head.

  The back door opened, ending the questions, and a blast of cold swirled through the kitchen’s warmth. Dat stamped his feet and removed his outer coat.

  “Breakfast is nearly ready.” Mamm hurried to check the biscuits in the oven. “Daniel, the water is no longer hot. Is something wrong with the generator?”

  Hannah’s stomach flipped, and she moved quickly toward the back door. “I’ll go check the line.”

  But Dat blocked her path. Slowly, he hung his hat on the peg beside the door. “I’ll take care of it after breakfast.”

  “Dat!” Katie ran toward her father. “I made the biscuits today.”

  His gaze landed on his youngest daughter. Where there was usually a smile, today a tightness pinched the corners of his mouth. “You are a good helper.”

  Mamm’s smile was for her youngest, but worry darkened her gaze that trailed Hannah. “Idle hands are the devil’s play ground. Better be calling Levi.”

  “He’ll be along after his chores.” Dat’s voice sounded gruff.

  “The eggs and biscuits will be cold.” Mamm eyed me and tilted her head toward the door. “Let Hannah go hurry him along.”

  Before Dat could protest, Hannah rushed out the door.

  ***

  Hannah ducked her chin against the blustery wind and hurried toward the barn. The cold pricked her cheeks and made her nose run. She sniffed as she entered the barn, and the warmth of the animals embraced her. A cow lowed, then went back to munching hay. Hannah searched each stall, but it wasn’t until she came to the end where the tack hung on the wall that she came to a sudden halt.

  Levi stood shirtless, his torso bare. With his back partially turned, he didn’t notice her as he hung a shovel on a wall peg, then wrapped something up, making the
muscles in his arms and back ripple beneath his skin. Despite the chill in the air, a sheen of sweat covered his back. Hannah’s breath sounded harsh in her own ears, and she felt her heart tripping over itself.

  Then Levi turned around fast. Had she startled him? Heat rose up from her center, along her chest and neck, and seared her face. She caught only a wide expanse of skin, blond hair, flat-muscled stomach, which stirred another memory, before she shoved her gaze toward the floor. This was the body of a man, his strength obvious in the play of muscles, but Jacob, when she had seen him without a shirt, had been thinner, lankier, younger. Dark hairs had only just begun to sprout across his chest; the starkness of dark hair against pale skin had always intrigued her. But Levi…she felt a rush of heat as she’d never felt before.

  “Hannah? Is something wrong?”

  She shook her head but then nodded. Her gaze slid back toward him then skittered away. He didn’t rush to cover himself but held his shirt balled up in his hand and finally chucked it behind him. As the seconds stretched out, he reached for one of Dat’s coats and with slow deliberation, he tugged first one sleeve then the other on. But the coat had no button or fastening and so it gaped open, revealing his chest and belly, his muscles firm and toned.

  He moved toward her, and she dropped her gaze to his shoes. “What is it?”

  Something in his voice tugged at her and she glanced up and met his gaze. “Something happened here.”

  The corner of his mouth pinched and his lips flattened. “Snowflake died.”

  She blinked slowly, absorbing the news that she already had heard. “But what happened?”

  “An animal. A…predator of some sort.” His features twisted, and this time his gaze shifted sideways. She glimpsed pain in his eyes.

  “A predator?” She repeated as if she did not understand, yet she did.

  “Did your father tell Katie?”

  “No, not yet.”