Hunted

by S W Vaughn

  Even Kendra didn't seem convinced that a career in undercover government agencies sounded like a trip to Disney World.

  "No. It doesn't.” Grace waited until Kendra looked at her. “Have you ever seen any of these kids who go out and become super spies? Any of them ever call, write postcards, drop in between missions to visit with their buddies?"

  "Of course not.” Kendra uttered a nervous laugh and glanced toward the door. “They don't have time for that sort of thing."

  "These people are killing them. Cutting them up. That's why they don't come back. When they turn eighteen, they die."

  "No!” Kendra shook her head for emphasis. “It's not like that. Grace, you have to stop believing these wild fantasies. It's only making things harder on you."

  "And you. Right, Kendra? My behavior reflects poorly on you."

  Anger tightened Kendra's eyes.

  "Don't worry,” Grace said before her mother could respond. “I'll be a good girl. Eat my vegetables, take my drugs. Stay chained up like an animal."

  "They wouldn't restrain you if you'd just cooperate,” Kendra hissed.

  The door opened. Lou walked in, concentrating on his keys. Kendra moved aside to let him unlock Grace. She sat up slowly, feeling lightheaded and dazed. How long did she have? A week, a day, a few hours? If she could just talk to Megan alone and find out if the girl had been brainwashed already, or just staged the explosion to avoid revealing what she really thought about Michael, as Grace hoped was the case. To do that, she'd have to get them to trust her.

  Without another word to Kendra, she followed Lou to the dining room. The others had already gathered and started filling their plates from the spread on the table. Cold cut sandwiches, a vegetable and dip tray, two kinds of soup. Grace's stomach growled loud enough to attract attention above the chatter.

  Megan greeted Grace as though yesterday had never happened. She hugged her, brought her to the table, filled her plate. Grace drank first, draining an eight-ounce glass of ice-choked water in less than a minute. She filled it again, tossed back half, and finally attacked the food. This time, she wouldn't talk to anyone until her stomach was full.

  No one else seemed inclined to converse anyway. They ate like it was a contest and the top prize was a million dollars and a trip to Aruba. Grace wondered whether the drug stimulated their appetites along with all the other delightful effects. Then again, it could be the mountain air—at least for the others. They were in the Adirondacks. For Grace, who hadn't been outside yet, the impetus was simple famine.

  Sated at last, the room filled with the staggered sounds of plates being pushed back. Only David and Ace kept eating. Grace regarded Megan warily, baffled at her apparent memory loss. She noticed dark circles under the girl's eyes and the deep-set, downturned corners of her mouth. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look awful."

  "Thanks a lot.” Megan tossed her a weak smile. “I'm just tired. Didn't sleep well last night. Hey, I'm really sorry about ... well, you know. Yesterday."

  "It's all right. Totally my fault.” Relief temporarily overshadowed her misgivings. “So, what's there to do around here?” Assuming the goons don't tie me down after lunch.

  "There's a pool,” Dawn said. “Sorry, I know you weren't asking me. Just thought I'd mention."

  Grace managed a grim smirk. “Sounds great. Where is it?"

  "Out behind the house. It's enclosed with solar panels. We can swim all winter when it gets here."

  "Nice. I don't have a suit, though."

  Bailey cut in with airy dismissal. “I've got an old one you can use. Too tight for me in a certain area, you know. But I'm sure it will be perfect for you.” She looked pointedly at Grace's chest.

  "Thanks.” At the edge of her vision, she caught Megan rolling her eyes. “I guess we can't spend all day in the pool though. What else is there?"

  "Video games,” David offered. “Good ones. Down in the basement."

  Dawn nudged him. “David could spend all day there. Ace, too."

  At the mention of his name, Ace looked up from his plate and grinned. “That's right. Video games promote good hand-eye coordination. Ask anybody."

  "Yeah, especially if you always win,” David grumbled.

  Ace laughed. “There's a reason they call me Ace. You think my mother named me that?” He reached across the table, but his hand fell short of the sandwich plate. “Hey, Grace. You wanna slide that over my way, please?"

  Nodding, Grace started for the plate. Her gaze fell on Ace's arm, and the thick band of scar tissue at his wrist, as though it had been slit repeatedly. She reacted with an involuntary gasp.

  Ace snapped a fist. He turned his hand over slowly and spread his fingers again. The marks went all the way around and thinned slightly at the back. Grace looked at him, an apology on her lips. “What?” he said, his tone no less cheerful than if they'd been discussing the weather. “Can't you reach it either? Don't strain yourself now. I can just stand up and get it.” He smiled, but the expression didn't quite reach his eyes.

  "I've got it.” Grace pushed the plate toward him. She wouldn't ask. Whatever had happened, Ace obviously didn't want to draw attention to it. She looked away, but not before she caught a glimpse of nearly identical scars around his opposite wrist. “So,” she said, more to distract herself than anything, “any other options?"

  "There's a weight room."

  Grace looked at Evan. The instant her eyes met his, he dropped his gaze. Probably a good thing, since she couldn't seem to stop staring at him. “Is that in the basement, too?” she asked.

  "Yeah.” He didn't look up again.

  Brief silence settled over them. Grace tried once more to sense something from Megan, anything to help explain what was going on. Useless. She was no more psychic than the chair she sat in. She pasted on a smile to hold back a flood of despair. “Who wants to go for a swim?"

  * * * *

  In battle, a wise general knows when to fall back and regroup.

  Lorin craved rest and indulgence in mindless pleasures. A vacation, the humans would call it. If nothing else, it would ease some of her frustration at the inability to locate the current object of her hunt. When she found that one, it would suffer for the inconvenience it had caused her.

  She also needed to restore her control over Silver. There had been too many minor mistakes, small acts that for her son constituted rebellion. A period of pain and isolation would erase his wayward behavior.

  After a brief, failed attempt to locate this SARET place the human Comp had mentioned under duress, Lorin ordered Silver to return them to his crypt. The stone closet she kept him in had been his design. Nothing she built could have contained him should he choose to escape. Of course, he had created this prison nearly three hundred years ago. He was stronger now. Her will alone kept him at bay. She doubted he was even aware that he could break free.

  "Open it.” Lorin gestured at the crypt.

  Silver moved the heavy stone door aside as though it weighed no more than paper. She pointed, and he stepped inside the space just large enough to hold him standing.

  "I'm going away for a while.” She reached in and straightened the manacles attached to the inside walls with short chains. “I still want that Nephil. You're to stay awake, keep searching for it.” Lorin locked the first manacle in place. She'd never allowed him to remain conscious when she left him here. She had no idea what his range was, how far away he could influence things. Probably pretty damned far. But she'd take the risk for the chance of finding her prey.

  Silver hadn't answered her. She hefted a loose manacle and swung it. A bone snapped. “Did you hear me?"

  "Yes, Lorin.” His voice shook.

  She secured his other wrist, and knelt to fasten his ankles in place. “Tell me when you find it. Do not contact me for any other reason. Understand?"

  "Yes, Lorin."

  Already, his blood drizzled down his hands and feet. The inside of the manacles bore razor-sharp barbs designed to keep him d
ebilitated. It didn't weaken him nearly enough, but the constant bleeding forced at least part of his power to remain occupied in replenishing his supply. Lorin stood and reached above him for the last restraint, a stiff leather collar outfitted with similar barbs. She pressed it into place around his neck, pulled it tight. His blood welled along the bottom edge and streaked down the hollow of his throat.

  "Find it, Silver. I want it dead."

  Yes, Lorin. With the collar constricting his windpipe, he could no longer speak.

  The final step in the restraint system particularly pleased Lorin. The thick iron stake, attached to the back of the door with a locking hinge, was the exact length of the crypt's depth from front to back. When the door was in place, the stake would be plunged through Silver's abdomen. He could not remove it himself. Unless, of course, he ripped the manacles free—and she feared that, given the choice, he could.

  Silver's eyes didn't leave hers while she maneuvered the stone door back into position. It unnerved her. He'd never stared at her for so long before. She considered punishing him for insolence, but pleasure and rest spoke louder at the moment. She'd torment Silver later.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 19

  Grace spent the day creating a mental map of the house and trying to talk to Megan alone. She accomplished the first task and failed at the second. By the time Lou and Kyle escorted her to her room, she hadn't managed to discuss anything more pressing than the length of time it took for their fingertips to wrinkle in the pool.

  At least her show of cooperation seemed to be getting her somewhere. Instead of hooking her up to the IV, the resident pseudo-nurse gave her an injection of the stuff. The thugs didn't cuff her to the bed, but one of them stood guard outside her door. If she'd been feeling generous, she would have told them it wasn't necessary. She was too exhausted to escape.

  Grace slept. And dreamed.

  Night again. The moon peered through the canopy, winking above waving leaves. Its beams pattered down like silver rain. She'd reached the edge of the ravine at last. Two or three paces would carry her over the side.

  Eagerly, she moved forward only to smack into something solid that wasn't there.

  She waved a hand in the air. Her fingers bumped nothing and went no further. She patted a palm against the invisible obstruction. Banged on it. Solid air like a glass wall with no reflective glare. No! It wasn't fair. She kicked, pounded, threw herself against the barrier. It didn't yield to her efforts.

  She stopped and stared into the chasm. Though it was night, she had no trouble seeing everything in vivid detail. The opposite bank stood fifteen, maybe twenty feet away. Steep walls descended to a floor thirty feet below, only slightly narrower than the rift. In at least three places, using vines and tree roots and stones embedded like natural steps, descent would be difficult, but not impossible.

  Rock, varying in size from pebbles to boulders, cut a swath through the center of the ravine floor. There must have been a stream or a river here once. Soft moss padded the ground on either side of the stone vein. Almost directly below lay a deadfall, the jumbled bleached bones of trees past. Clumps of bushes with tiny, tear-shaped leaves formed a patchwork on the ground. Blueberry bushes. She could practically taste them.

  A touch of symmetry in the asymmetrical landscape caught her eye. Far to her right stood a structure that nature had not created. Something rectangular and stone, draped in vines and embedded in the earthen wall. A house? Her heart beat faster. Was this where her father lived?

  It was hard to get a sense of proportion from here. Placing both hands on the unseen barrier, she slid sideways toward the structure, hoping for an end to the wall. As she drew closer, the light faded and plunged her into blackness.

  She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Bands of pain encircled her wrists and ankles, crushed her throat. Something warm and wet trickled down her hands. It felt like blood.

  She woke with a snap, ejected from the dream like a cannonball. A sticky substance coated her palms. She fumbled for the lamp beside the bed, switched it on, and bit back a scream at the sight of the silver streaks on her hands.

  Instinctively she decided not to let anyone see the shimmering liquid. That ruled out cleaning her hands on the sheet or her clothing. No tissues or paper towels presented themselves. She pinched the hem of her shirt between her fingertips, drew the material up, and wiped the stuff on her stomach. She'd ask to use a bathroom and wash it off there.

  A few faint smears remained in the lines of her palms. She spat on her hands and rubbed them together. The substance faded and disappeared.

  Grace hauled herself upright. No sooner had her feet touched the floor, than the door opened and Lou stopped short. “Er. Guess you're up. They're havin’ breakfast in a few minutes."

  "Thank you.” Grace smoothed her shirt. “Is there a bathroom close by I can use? I really have to go."

  "Yeah, next door down. Go on, I'll wait."

  Lou moved back, and Grace walked by him with a nod. In the bathroom, she relieved herself and wiped her skin down with moistened wads of toilet paper, then flushed the mess. Lou escorted her downstairs. She was second to arrive, behind Evan. Again, his perfection struck her: ruler-straight cornrows, not a hair out of place, even first thing in the morning. No freckles marred his skin. Every feature perfectly symmetrical. Only his eyes hinted at humanity—guarded pools, hiding secrets in their depths.

  "Hey.” She slid into a seat across from him and surveyed the table. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, toast, a fruit tray and two kinds of juice. Every meal they'd been served was practically a banquet. Like they were pigs being fattened for slaughter. She'd never gained excess weight no matter what or how much she ate, and she assumed it was the same for the others. A fringe benefit to being a freak.

  Evan didn't look up. “Hey."

  Grace poured a glass of grape juice and offered the pitcher to Evan. He shook his head. With a shrug, she put it down and reached for the toast. “I never got to thank you for sticking up for me,” she said. “So ... thank you."

  "Bailey's a drip.” His features clouded for an instant. He blinked a few times and helped himself to some sausage links.

  When he said nothing further, Grace decided to try a little covert investigation. “Do you like it here?” she asked.

  "I guess. Better than ... before.” His eyes unfocused, returned. “Michael takes care of us."

  Grace refrained from exhibiting her disgust. “What was before?"

  "My mom ditched me on the street when I was ten. Said I creeped her out. When all the weird stuff started happening, Michael found me and brought me here.” Evan looked startled, as though he hadn't meant to say that aloud.

  Grace felt as shocked as he looked. Nothing here made sense. Michael took Evan in, but he'd basically kidnapped Megan. And her. Yesterday, she'd gotten the general impression that all the kids adored him. Megan wasn't even mad at him any more. But he was drugging them, and killing them at eighteen. Wasn't he?

  Dawn's voice floated in from the vestibule. “David! Stop messing with that."

  "I'm not gonna hurt it.” A loud crash sounded. “Oops."

  "Don't tell them about that, okay?” Evan muttered, slouching in his chair. “They don't know."

  "I won't."

  Dawn flounced in, trailed by a red-faced David. “He broke that statue thing out there,” she announced. “Dope!"

  David scooted into a chair and grinned. “Prove it. I'm not even near it."

  "You're impossible."

  "You're annoying."

  "David!"

  Ignoring his sister, David piled food onto his plate. Dawn heaved a sigh and sat down next to him. “Good morning, Grace. Evan."

  "Good morning,” Grace replied. Evan nodded, lost to the world again.

  Within five minutes, they'd all trooped in for the feast. Grace pushed her concerns aside and tried to enjoy the company sure that one way or another it wouldn't last long.

 
; * * * *

  Afternoon arrived under gray skies and a halfhearted drizzle of rain accompanied by intermittent thunder of the distant, throat-clearing variety. The house huddled beneath the gloomy blanket, subdued and drowsy.

  Grace helped herself to a can of soda from the refrigerator and headed for the stairs hoping to find Megan in her room. Before she reached the main room, the girl's muted voice drifted from the open basement door. She changed course and started down.

  In the central den, the backs of two heads hovered above the couch: one strawberry blond, one blue. Pulsating low-volume music mingled with thumps and grunts in a stream of sound from the television on which two colorful characters smacked each other around.

  "Hey! That's cheating!” David leaned forward and pummeled the controller in his hands.

  "It's not cheating if I don't know what I'm doing.” Laughing, Megan pushed buttons with more restraint. “Isn't there a move list or something?"

  "Yeah. Hit pause."

  The characters froze and a chart appeared superimposed over the image on the screen. Grace took the opportunity to announce her presence. “Hey, guys."

  Megan turned with a ready smile. “Hi, Grace. Is it still raining out there?"

  "More or less.” Grace nodded at the game. “Having fun?"

  "I sure am. I'm kicking her butt,” David said.

  Megan huffed. “Yeah, right.” She peered at the screen. “Geez, this guy is pathetic! Doesn't he have any good moves?"

  "No. You should've stuck with the girl."

  "She was boring.” Megan pushed a button and the chart scrolled up. “Lame. Next time I'm using your guy.” She glanced at Grace and said, “I'm almost done here. Just going to finish this fight."

  "Aw, c'mon, Megan! One more? It's boring by myself."

  "No way. We already played like fifty games."

  "Nuh-uh! Only thirty-three. And a half."

  "Thirty-four is my daily limit. If I play thirty-five, I'll explode."