Blood Trouble

by Connie Suttle

  * * *

  Lissa's Journal

  I recognized what lay before me, only it was worse than I'd seen before. I was used to seeing the flayed bodies of Centaurs, Manticores and other creatures many thought were myth. These were humanoids, and all of them resembled raw meat. The children, however, if their bodies were large enough to survive the scouring sands, were so insubstantial it made me ill.

  "Norian," I whispered, "How could this happen?" I wanted to weep and there were no tears. I was drained. Empty. Somehow, those who'd attacked the Dark side were now attacking the worlds of Light.

  "Lissa, beloved, come walk with me." Belen appeared beside me while Norian continued his examination of bodies. Six of his agents and ten of Gavril's searched nearby, all of them looking for something they wouldn't find—evidence. The small community, located near Yigga Prison, housed many of the guards who worked at the maximum security facility. At least it had. All were dead, now, their homes blasted down by the fiercest winds, allowing the terrible sand and grit to destroy the lives inside.

  "Belen?" I blinked up at him. As usual, he was shining brightly, although he'd dampened it so I might look at him.

  "Lissa, this is certainly the beginning." He gazed around us. At leveled homes and devastated bodies.

  I understood what he said. All too clearly. It had been my suspicion, but I was too afraid to voice it aloud, as if saying it might make it real. It didn't need my words to make it real. It had already become real. The God Wars were upon us. "It'll only get worse, won't it?" I whispered.

  "If this is not stopped," Belen lowered his head as if in thought. "Either the opposing forces know something we don't, or evidence we do not have indicates that the three are now revealed."

  "You don't know who all three are, do you?" I shivered.

  "We know of the Mighty Hand—he has revealed himself to us, but he has placed himself behind a shield only the strongest might breach, and to my knowledge only the One might get past Strength's barrier. One other we have both felt," he nodded slightly to me. Neither of us was willing to speak Breanne's name aloud. She was in enough danger, I think, and I didn't want to add to that.

  "The other I cannot say, although we have seen evidence," Belen sighed. He hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say something else and then thought better of it.

  "I am afraid to say what I might think about this," Belen murmured instead. "It worries me that even the quietest voice might be heard if I speak my suspicions about this. Lissa, there's something you do not know," Belen continued.

  "What's that?"

  "I only removed the mind cloud from your son. The others—it had already been removed when I arrived to do it."

  "What?" I stared at Belen.

  "Someone quite powerful arrived before I did. I believe Gavin and Cheedas benefited from a visit from one of the others. At this time, I cannot say—am afraid to say—which it might have been."

  "I don't understand this," I rubbed my forehead.

  "Lissa, do not make yourself ill, I beg," Belen knelt next to me. "We must be strong and vigilant in the coming days. It is up to us to do what we can to protect innocents during these times. As much as we can, for as long as we can. We cannot say if our enemies are destroying these lives, attempting to draw one or more of the Three out. After all, if one of them falls or turns to the other side, all will be lost. More than one destroyed will only hasten our demise."

  "This is the flaw, isn't it?" I sighed.

  "Yes. This is the flaw," he agreed.

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  One of Bill's agents drove the medi-van. Bill sat in the passenger seat up front while I knelt in the empty space behind him, hoping we wouldn't be shot at while I gave instructions on how to get to the building where two prisoners were being held. The roads were filled with potholes and gaps where rockets or grenades had detonated. I wanted to shake my head, too—what good did it do to create anything if someone intended to come along and destroy it anyway?

  "Young woman, if you are misleading us," Bill turned in his seat to look into my eyes.

  "I'm not wrong," I said as the van shuddered—we'd driven over another huge crater in the road. What might I do to get Bill out of this if everything went sour? His life was safe in my hands—I'd protect him with everything I had. I still wasn't sure about the other five—they'd been giving me foul glances since they'd arrived. At least they were focused on their job and loyal to Bill.

  "This is it," I said, pointing to the partially destroyed two-story building to our left. It had been my idea to haul the (now dead) captor with the chest wound in the back of the van, as if we were returning his body to his companions. I hoped in the ensuing confusion over how that might happen, we'd be able to overpower those who came to investigate our arrival. I didn't want to tip my hand (any more than necessary) on what I might be able to do.

  Six men carrying rifles surrounded the medi-van immediately, like cockroaches pouring from the walls, ready to devour whatever they might find. At least we were all dressed in Mercy Crossings uniforms—green shirts and camo fatigues with boots. Bill, in his wisdom, had seen to that.

  All of us scooted out of the van, our hands in the air. Our captors spoke Arabic, so I translated as Bill spoke, saying we'd brought the body back—our doctors hadn't been able to save him.

  The back door of the van was flung open and sure enough—the sheet covering the body was flung back and the dead man was examined.

  "Come—you will carry the dead inside," one of our captors ordered in Arabic. I translated for Bill, who nodded. He knew, just as I did, that we were about to be added to the two prisoners they already held.

  "Let's go," Bill ordered quietly.

  Two of Bill's agents carried the stretcher inside behind two rifle-toting renegades while Bill, the three remaining agents and I were waved inside behind them. We were led straight into the room where the two captive agents were. One of them was unconscious, his head bloody where he'd been hit with the butt of a rifle.

  They intended to do the same to me, too—they thought I was more than offensive, walking about with my head and face uncovered. When the butt of the gun was aimed at my head, I snatched it from my assailant's hands faster than he could see.

  After treating him to the same fate he'd intended for me, our other captors were handled exactly the same way. Except for one, that is. I was breathing hard, my claws at his throat faster than he could blink. Yes, he wet himself. Likely he'd never come as close to a vampire as he was now. That's when the shrieking winds hit.

  "What the hell?" Six agents' gazes swiveled from me to the windowless walls—if my guess was correct, we'd just been hit by a horrific sandstorm.

  I was forced to think faster than I'd ever been forced to think before. Gathering Bill, his agents and the two captives inside my mist, I raced toward the tents of Mercy Crossings. Those tents were never meant to survive any sandstorm, and would be torn apart by what screamed around us as I sped toward them.

  Chapter 5

  Breanne's Journal

  I never wanted to place compulsion on so many people again in my life. I was wrapped in a blanket, as were the others, while we stood inside a meeting room on a U.S. Naval destroyer. That Destroyer currently floated in international waters off the coast of Somalia. Everybody involved now believed we'd been rescued by helicopters and delivered to the ship while the city of Beledweyne was wiped away by a vicious sandstorm.

  "Breanne, may I speak with you in private?" Bill Jennings stood beside me and leaned in to whisper in my ear.

  "Sure." I nodded. He took my elbow, the ship's captain nodded at Bill and we were led away to a private room. The captain left us alone after getting us seated comfortably inside.

  "Breanne, what was that I saw earlier?" Bill lifted an eyebrow at me. We sat on opposite sides of a small, metal table.

  "Which time?" I asked.

  "I didn't even see you pull the gun away and hit that man," he sighed.


  "Someday, Bill," I reached across the table and smoothed a straying lock of hair off his forehead, "I'll let you remember that. For now, you have to forget. I'm sorry." His eyes went blank before he nodded.

  "You're interpreting skills are exceptional," Bill sighed when his eyes focused again. "Might it be possible for you to work with us again, sometime? When you're not busy with Mercy Crossings, that is?"

  "If you want," I agreed. "I'd be happy to work with you anytime, Director Jennings."

  "That would be wonderful," Bill sighed. "Want to come with me? I understand they have coffee and food for us in the galley."

  "Do they make anything vegetarian?"

  "If they don't, I'll order that they make something," Bill grinned for the first time. "I understand from spotty communications," he held a hand at my back while he ushered me out of the small meeting room, "that Beledweyne was razed behind us. If what the satellites are showing is correct, everybody in the city is dead, now."

  My shoulders drooped. I'd brought the sick and injured children with me, but there'd been no time to gather parents. All the children on board the ship were now orphans.

  "Breanne, we couldn't have saved them. There wasn't enough room on the helicopters."

  Bill only understood what my compulsion allowed him to understand. "Yeah," I placed an arm about his waist. He smiled—he didn't mind that one bit. "You're right, of course."

  "I am," he raised his hand from my back and dropped it on my shoulder. "Don't let this upset you. There's no way we might control a sandstorm."

  "Yeah," I repeated. Only I suspected this was no ordinary sandstorm. I just hadn't had time to attempt to analyze any of it—I'd been hard-pressed to save the lives I had. There was no other time available, unless I wanted to bend time. Somehow, I imagined that expending that much energy might be a mistake. Bill patted my shoulder, allowed his hand to drop and led me to the ship's galley.

  I spent two weeks aboard the ship, translating ill and injured children's words for Mercy Crossings. Bill and his agents (including the one with a head wound) were transported away by helicopter the day after I'd dropped them onto the ship. Eventually, we were transferred to another ship, which carried us to Egypt. From there, we were flown to London and then sent back to the U.S.

  I stayed two nights in New York, courtesy of the Joint NSA and Homeland Security Department. I was escorted to meetings, where they spoke every language to me that they had in their arsenal. I could always answer.

  Bill, who now had my private cellphone number, called me three times, explaining the tests they were putting me through. He was always nice to me, letting me know that he was clearing the way for me to work with him and his agents again. I told him I understood.

  Obviously, they were more than happy with me when they put me on a plane to San Francisco on the third day—the agency didn't have anyone else who could speak as many languages as I could. They didn't even dig too deeply into how that might be possible. I believe Bill had something to do with that, and I was glad. Mostly, I was glad to get away from such a bad experience in Somalia, and while I wasn't allowed to discuss what had happened there, I didn't really want to talk about it anyway.

  * * *

  "The signature disappeared from Le-Ath Veronis," his lieutenant bowed before him. "We have not been able to trace it since then, and it is our supposition that it has fled. Perhaps time has been altered to protect it."

  "I have already taken this into consideration." He allowed a small amount of violet light to escape his disguise. "I have already planted servants and traps throughout likely periods and places in the timeline—should anything appear, I will be informed."

  "Shall I continue my search, then?"

  "Of course. We must consider every possibility, and those possibilities include travel from here to there. We cannot guess at these reasons, yet. We only have supposition."

  "Then it will be as you command." The lieutenant nodded and disappeared.

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  Although it had been nearly a month since Beledweyne had been wiped off the map by the strangest of events, some news programs were still showing images of the devastation afterward. Only a few images of bodies were shown, and those were the least affected. Most of the bodies, I knew from reading some of Bill's highly placed agents, had the skin and much of the underlying muscle scoured away by a sandstorm like no other.

  Needless to say, I was looking forward to seeing Hank again. After arriving in New York, several undelivered messages appeared on my cellphone. The most recent text from Hank said he'd gotten the club open. Well, good for him. He'd opened ahead of schedule, and that was almost a miracle, considering he'd had to get the foundation cracks fixed in my absence.

  The trip from New York to San Francisco was tiring, with two stops and a layover in between. It was late when we landed, and I was nearly too tired to mist to the bottom door leading to my apartment. Wearily, I dropped my duffle and stared at the sign over the bar.

  No, we'd never talked about the name of the club, and heavy-metal music thumped inside as I blinked in exhausted confusion. Dom Bell's was spelled out in green neon above the door. As tired as I was, I only wanted a shower and sleep, but figured the music from the club would be vibrating my apartment. Lifting my duffle, I climbed the steps and unlocked the door.

  The floor between the club and my apartment turned out to be less substantial than I thought. There wasn't any way I could sleep like that; my bed was just about to vibrate across the room. I also had endless nights to look forward to the same thing. Had Hank known that, too, and conveniently forgotten to tell me?

  Well, there was one way to find out. I left my apartment, marched downstairs and stalked through the door of the club. I figured he was having a theme night—Goth seemed to be the order of the day with dyed-dark hair, heavy eyeliner, chains and collars everywhere. Hank wasn't behind the bar—someone I didn't recognize was. Just my luck to show up on Hank's night off.

  The bartender was short, with a round face and a shaved head. My anger rising as the song changed to something that sounded very close to the wailing of giant porcupines mating, I marched to the bar. The bartender offered a scathing glance and kept washing glasses.

  "Is Hank here?" I almost had to shout to make myself heard.

  "Who's asking?" His voice was gruffer than his expression.

  "Breanne Hayworth. You know, the one who owns half the place," I snapped. Well, I did. I didn't want to play that card, but it was either that or let the claws and fangs slide out. Discretion is always the better part of valor.

  "Oh. Master Bell said to watch for you. Didn't know when you might be back. He's in the back, presiding over a public flogging. Go on through." The bartender jerked his head toward the back room. Deciding that he was daft or I hadn't heard correctly because the pounding music was giving me a headache, I walked through the back door and straight into a medieval dungeon.

  I might have only felt ill if it hadn't been for the whip and handcuffs. Now I understood the club's name. A young woman was handcuffed to a thick, wooden post while a short, stocky male in black leather flogged her with a whip. I was horrified—she appeared to be enjoying herself. And there was Hank, standing to the side and dressed in black leather pants only, his well-muscled arms crossed over his chest as he watched the naked girl being smacked.

  I can't begin to describe the memories that flooded through me at the sight, and I almost vomited on the spot. Hank looked up, then, and saw me. Snapping his fingers, someone peeled away from the crowd and took his place as he stalked toward me. I turned and ran.

  * * *

  I don't know how long I walked the streets of San Francisco that night. Dawn was close when I finally wandered into a hotel near the wharf. I'd turned my cellphone off after Hank's third attempt to call me. I had nothing to say to him.

  Over and over, I berated myself for not reading him. For believing that everybody deserved a chance without me
knowing their entire history and having that prejudice stand against them. I was all kinds of a fool and I knew it.

  After I slept—if that were possible—I intended to find a real-estate agent and get another place to live. I was sick with the thought that I'd allowed Hank Bell access to me in the most intimate way possible. At least he'd only swatted me once. If he'd tried to hit me, he might have died.

  * * *

  "Terry, I need to buy a house. In a quiet neighborhood," I muttered as I dropped my gaze. I was more than tired, hadn't slept more than half an hour in an expensive hotel room, misted to my old apartment, cleaned up and dressed there and then went to my attorney's office.

  Terrence "Terry" Johnston looked as he always did, dressed in a white dress shirt, his tie loosened, and wearing nicely creased dress pants. His suit coat was draped over a coat rack in the corner of his office. Terry's dark-skinned fingers held a nice pen, which he tapped against the blotter on his walnut desk while deep-brown eyes studied me. Then he nodded. "I can see that you do," he agreed. "I've driven past the club a few times. Always seems to be crowded in the two weeks it's been open. I was worried you didn't know about it."

  "I didn't."

  "Want me to ask for your money back? In a nice way, of course."

  "Terry, I'm walking away. If you want to draw up papers telling Hank it's all his, then do it. I don't want anything to do with that." I shuddered at the images from the night before—it had been impossible to remove them from my memory.

  "Look, I'll keep that option open, in case you change your mind."

  "Terry, I trust you, but in this case," I shivered again. "I really don't want any part of that. Consider it a lesson learned."

  "A ninety-thousand-dollar lesson," Terry muttered.

  "Back to the house," I said.

  "How much do you want to spend?"

  "Not more than five or six million, but I want it private." At that moment, I almost didn't care how much it cost, I just wanted privacy, somewhere far away from Hank Bell.