Oberon Boxed Set (Books 1-3) Welcome to Oberon

by P. G. Forte

  He smiled, and anguish screamed along her nerves. “Is that all the greeting I get now?” he asked, “You can do better than that, can’t you? How about a smile?”

  “Greeting? I, I...” She stared at him. He was insane. She was surprised by the thought, and shocked at her own reaction to it. Had he always been like this? She thought she knew insane. She thought she was insane, but this... this was more than simply crazy. This was evil.

  A shudder of something ran through her, some emotion she didn’t care to name, but whose presence she was grateful for, as it cracked the ice that encased her. “Where— What happened to you?”

  Something in her tone must have displeased him. He frowned. “Never mind that. Don’t ask questions. You don’t get to ask questions. You’ll do as you’re told.”

  “Where are they? What did you to with them?” she demanded.

  Fury and disbelief showed for just an instant in his eyes, to be replaced by a look Siobhan knew she’d remember for the rest of her life. Cold. Cruel. Calculating. He smiled at her.

  “Our daughters d’you mean? Well, they’re dead Siobhan. I killed them. But you knew that, didn’t you? Didn’t you hear the way they cried for you? As I dropped them overboard, as I held them there? Ah, but you should have seen them, sweetheart—flailing around with their eyes bulging wide, mouths opening and closing underwater like little fish. ‘Til they filled all up with water. And then they sank, Siobhan. Sank right down to the bottom. Like little stones. Like lifeless lumps of clay.”

  Siobhan’s eyes spasmed shut and a blackness so intense it didn’t even admit to the existence of light, seized hold of her. She hadn’t known a heart could break this way. Vaporized. Each atom ripped from its orbit. Each cell eviscerated.

  “You bastard.” Eyes open now, she glared at him.

  He frowned, his displeasure even more obvious, as he headed towards her. “That’s enough of that,” he snapped.

  Enough? Siobhan just stared. Oh, no. Not hardly.

  She waited until he came within range, and then she lashed out with her foot, catching him off guard, sweeping his legs out from under him. He crashed to the floor. But her foot slipped on the water that had dripped from her boots and she went down as well.

  He glared at her, enraged. Panic hit her as he grabbed for her. She scrambled out of his way, and he scrambled after her. She felt his hand close around her ankle, and she wrenched her foot free of the boot and made it to her feet. Unsteady, and awkward, she’d barely gone three feet before he was on her again. She landed a blow to his midsection that knocked the wind from his lungs, and then she grabbed the only thing she could reach, the box on the mantle piece, and threw it in his face.

  A cloud of ashes blinded him, he screamed in rage and tore at his eyes. Before he had the chance to recover, she kicked him again, knocking him off balance and sending him headfirst into the aquarium tank.

  She heard the crash of the glass, heard him roar in pain once more, heard the splash of water as two hundred gallons hit the floor, but she’d already reached the door by then. She tugged it open, forgetting about the chain in her hurry, until the door jerked to a stop. She was still struggling to unlatch it, when he got her; nearly snapping her neck in two as he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her roughly back against his chest.

  She felt the smooth, slivered sharpness of glass pressed against her throat; felt his hot breath on her cheek; heard the cold anger in his voice. “You’ll be sure to tell the girls I love them, won’t you, when you see them on the other side?” he asked, and for just one fraction of a second, she knew relief.

  Yes! The thought resonated, clear as a bell in the hollow space inside her. Yes, yes, yes, at last!

  For the space of one solitary heartbeat, she melted against him, catching him off guard as she relaxed in his embrace.

  And then, as though she’d been tarred and set alight, her rage ignited. Hate engulfed and all but consumed her; black, blistering, like an intimation of hell itself. She knew an instant of clarity when all her years of training came surging back to her. She felt her lips curl in an evil sneer. “Tell them yourself, you bastard.”

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  * * * *

  Chapter Thirty Five

  * * * *

  Dan stood in the nursery’s parking lot, his shoulders hunched against the storm, waiting while his dog went about its business. Wind tore at the hood of his jacket, and he could feel the rain, numbingly cold, as it soaked through his pants legs. It was some fun walking Mouth in this weather, he thought in disgust. He watched as the mutt nosed about in the weeds at the edge of the lot, clearly in no hurry to be finished. Yeah, some fun all right. But it was worth it. Anything was worth it, if it meant keeping Lucy safe.

  He looked at his watch, surprised to see that the morning had already slipped away. It was past lunchtime. He wondered why Lucy hadn’t come to get him. She usually never missed an opportunity to nag him about meals. But now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen her all day.

  Maybe she was busy with her bees, and lost track of the time herself? He turned to look in the direction of the shed where she kept her equipment, conscious of a vague shiver of unease. And then he froze, as his eyes took in another small detail. His car was gone.

  “Aw, jeez, babe, what in the hell are you up to now?” he muttered, still staring at the space where the Explorer had been parked, as though that would make it reappear. Pushing back his hood, he raked his hands through his hair, mindless of the rain that fell on his head now, and down the back of his neck.

  Damn. It wasn’t like her to go off without saying anything to him about it; especially not in the rain, and certainly not in his car. Not unless she didn’t want him to know where she was going, in which case it was exactly like her. And that could not be good.

  Whistling for the dog, Dan strode back to the shelter of the buildings. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in Lucy’s number. Then he waited, listening, as three times in a row, his calls were routed to her voice mail.

  Sighing in frustration he returned the phone to his pocket. Why wasn’t she answering her phone? That wasn’t like her under any circumstances. Unless... he’d pretty much blown her Valentine’s Day celebration last night. Maybe she wanted to try it again? Maybe she’d gone shopping to pick up more of whatever they’d need?

  Encouraged by this idea, he looked around for the dog. Mouth had gone back to digging up ground squirrel holes. Dan called to him again, frowning when the mud-covered dog trotted up beside him, wagging his tail. Great. So now, he’d have to wash the mutt. Even more fun.

  “C’mon,” he muttered, in disgust. As he headed off to the nearest greenhouse—and the nearest hose—Dan’s thoughts automatically returned to his wife. Wherever Lucy was, he just hoped she was keeping herself out of trouble.

  * * * *

  The rain had slowed by the time Ryan pulled the jeep into the Nature Center’s parking lot, but black clouds still moved ominously across the sky, and he could almost feel the storm gathering strength for its next assault. From the corner of his eye, he caught the glance Scout shot his way, her eyes wide and questioning.

  “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” he assured her. Sure, a pregnant lady wasn’t exactly wildlife, but a rescue center was a rescue center, right? And really the idea made perfect sense. Siobhan was practically a walking pharmacy and he had total confidence in her ability to think of some way in which to help Scout. Not to mention the fact that it gave him a perfect excuse to check up on her, and make sure she was all right.

  He pulled in next to the other jeep, registered the rental plates the other vehicle carried and felt a nasty, cold suspicion coagulate in his mind.

  Shit. He killed the engine quickly, and pocketed the keys. Scout’s eyes grew wider as he opened the glove compartment and removed his gun and cuffs, and her hand strayed protectively to her abdomen.

  “Look, just sit tight for a minute, okay?” he told her. “I’ll be right bac
k.”

  Everything was quiet, as he made his way around to the front of the building, his gun in his hand, there was nothing to mask his footsteps. For once, he would have welcomed the unsettling howl of the wind. But today, even the sea seemed shrouded in silence.

  Ryan climbed the steps to the porch as stealthily as possible. Refusing to consider the lack of logic in what he was doing, he tried the door. The knob turned easily in his hand, which wasn’t really a surprise. He pushed the door cautiously inward, catching his breath as it crunched loudly over something on the floor beneath it. And then the door stopped, held fast by the chain. He stared at it blankly for a moment, before his eyes were riveted by something red and shiny at his feet. Broken glass littered the bloody floor, and Ryan felt his heart stall.

  No! Denial thundered in his mind. “Siobhan?” he called her name loudly, training and caution forgotten in a fit of panic, as he pounded on the door. “Are you in there? Open the door!”

  His next instinct was to try and kick the door open, and he barely stopped himself in time, substituting his shoulder for his injured leg at the last minute.

  He’d lost count of the number of times he’d slammed his body against the door, five times maybe, or six, when he heard the sound of hurried footsteps.

  “Ryan? Jeez, what are you doing? Hold on a minute. Stop, before you break something!”

  Break what, he wondered? Was it him she was worried about, or her God damned door? He waited impatiently while she closed the door, glass crunching beneath it once again, and then he heard her unlatch the chain.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked again, when she’d pulled the door open. Her hair was disheveled and a small, worried frown creased her forehead. She seemed aggravated and distracted and the look in her storm-colored eyes was bleak.

  Ryan couldn’t stop himself from staring at the dried blood that extended from the cut on her throat, running down her neck to form a large, dark patch on the front of her navy top. “What happened?”

  She dropped her gaze from his face as her hand strayed to her throat. “I, I cut myself,” she said, raising her eyes again, begging him to believe her.

  But there was no way he could do that. He reached one hand up and gently turned her chin to the side, tracing over the cut with his thumb. It was just a scratch, he realized, relaxing a little. She’d been lucky.

  “Where is he?” he asked with a tired sigh, as he dropped his hand to his side.

  She looked away again. “Ah, it was never gonna work anyway,” she muttered as she pulled the door open wider and motioned him in with her head. “C’mon in. He’s in the back.”

  Ryan stepped inside, his eyes scanned the room. One of the display cases lay broken and turned on its side, its contents tumbled on the floor. Glass was everywhere, and a swath of blood the width of a man, trailed across the room.

  “Jesus, Siobhan, what the hell went on here?” he demanded, turning to her once more. “Did he hurt you? Are you okay?”

  She looked at him sadly. “Yes, Ryan, I’m fine.”

  He cast her one, last doubtful look and then headed towards the back.

  “Careful with your leg. There’s a lot of water on the floor, I wouldn’t want you to slip,” she called, as she hurried after him.

  The infirmary door was ajar. Ryan inched it open slowly, and then let it swing wide as he took in the sight before him. A man, bloody about the head and face and badly bruised, lay unconscious on one of the tables. Ryan couldn’t help but notice that the restraints that held him down had been tightened to the point of viciousness.

  Jesus, how the hell had she gotten him up there, Ryan wondered, in the moment before he remembered the table’s pneumatic lift.

  He turned back to Siobhan, who was standing several steps behind him, eyeing him warily.

  “Is he dead?” he asked.

  She shrugged, as though the question held no interest for her. “Why don’t you go see for yourself?”

  Ryan hurried down the stairs, and over to the table. He was aware of Siobhan, following him slowly down the stairs, and then moving the other way, back towards the supply cabinets on the far wall.

  He studied the man curiously. So, this was her husband. His head had been cut in several places and his fair hair was matted with blood. A small trickle still flowed from his broken nose, as well.

  His hands were gloved, his shirt was ripped and stained with blood, and beneath the bruises, his face was unnaturally pale. But he was still alive.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Ryan shoved his gun into the waistband at the back of his pants, and turned to Siobhan. “What the hell happened here?” he asked again, “And what did you do to him?”

  And then he stopped dead, stunned to find himself once again facing down a gun, aimed directly at his chest. For the second time in six months.

  He didn’t even think to go for his own gun, as he raised both hands in a gesture of supplication. “Siobhan, honey, put the gun down before—”

  But he got no further. His ears didn’t even register the sound of the shot, but his body sure as hell felt it. A bright yellow dart blossomed in the center of his chest, red streamers appeared beneath it, soaking through his shirt. He stared at it, and then at her, still not believing what had happened. “Siobhan?”

  “I’m sorry, Ryan,” she said as tears poured unchecked down her face. “I just— I just couldn’t think of any other way.”

  Ryan took one step in her direction before he felt his legs go numb, and then they would no longer hold him up. He slumped to the floor, not feeling its hardness even as it knocked what was left of the wind from his lungs. His head smacked against the metal base of the table, and his eyes rolled back, and he knew no more.

  * * * *

  Sam peered through narrowed eyes at the diluvial landscape that surrounded them. The choppy water was still rising, but he was grateful that the rain had stopped falling—at least for a little while. It made the job he was trying to do marginally easier.

  “Left,” he murmured cautiously, and then, “No, wait!” He peered around again, mindful of the tension that poured in waves from Nick, but doing his best to ignore it. He wished the other man would give him a break. When had he ever claimed to be a psychic after all? “Yeah, go left, just a bit. Right here,” he said, with more certainty this time.

  “Well, which is it?” Nick snapped. “Make up your mind. Am I goin’ left or right?”

  “What?” Sam frowned. Hadn’t he just said— Shit. “Sorry. You’re gonna go left. Not too far. Just... okay, turn here.” he repeated, more carefully. “Now straighten up a bit.”

  The Suburban plowed slowly forward, Sam listened to the sound of the water lapping against the wheel wells, and tried to put aside his own irritation, and concentrate on remembering what the Canyon had looked like in the Fall.

  That was when he’d first come here, and he’d been entranced by each curve of the road. Each curve, each dip, each twist of every mile of it: the most beautiful place he’d ever seen.

  It still was.

  “Wait, not so sharp, I think you need to straighten out a little more,” he cautioned. The Suburban’s tires rocked for a moment, as they ran over something that lay submerged on the road.

  Nick swore softly as the wheel jerked in his hand.

  Damn, that was close. Sam shoved his hand into his jacket pocket. His fingers closed around the soft velvet of the jeweler’s box.

  His hand tingled as he tightened it around the box, and he could almost hear Marsha’s laughter echo in his mind. He tried to picture her smile. Or her eyes; the way she’d looked at him last night, her love for him glowing in their emerald depths.

  “Oh, Sam.” Her voice in his head was a whisper, just slightly wistful, and he felt a deep longing stir inside him. The possibility that he might very well die today, and never see her again was intolerable.

  I could use a little help here, angel, he thought. He felt a warm, peacefulness steal over him, relaxing him, strengt
hening him. He let his eyes drift shut. Shit, what the hell was he doing? Sam’s eyes flew open once again, and he almost gasped in surprise.

  The water hadn’t disappeared, exactly, but it was as if his brain had superimposed another picture of the canyon on top of the one his eyes were showing him. He could see the road beneath the waves clearly, as if the day was as dry and bright and beautiful as it had been last September.

  It looked the way it had the very first morning they’d driven through it together. The day he first realized he was in love with her, and wanted to spend the rest of his life making her happy. The day that—

  “Which way?” Nick’s voice, terse and impatient cut through Sam’s memories.

  “That way.” Sam nodded towards the road in front of them, remembering how sweet the pink blooms of thistle had smelled. How they’d shone in the sunlight, how they’d swayed in the wind. “Straight for about a hundred more feet and then there’s a dip. When you come out of that, bear left again, and then right.”

  Nick glanced at him, his eyes narrowed in appraisal. “How much of a dip, would you say?”

  Sam considered for a moment, mentally measuring the Suburban’s wheels against the height of the weeds. “It’ll be pretty close, but I think we can make it.”

  “You’re not exactly overwhelming me with confidence here, Sam,” Nick observed, dryly.

  Sam thought about it for a moment. “Well, maybe if you floor it, the momentum will carry us through,” he suggested.

  An answering gleam of amusement shone briefly in Nick’s eyes. “Yeah, maybe. And maybe it’ll carry us right off the road, as well. How soon after the dip do I bear left?”

  Once again, Sam studied the terrain. The odd double vision still glimmering, mirage-like, in his mind. “You’ve got room,” he said at last. There’s a kind of a bump in the road, three-quarters of the way up the rise. Start your turn right after that.”