by Tracy Tappan
“My, how atmospheric,” Raymond Parthen commented glibly from where he sat watching through the window of his plush limousine. “For all their shortcomings, the Vârcolac certainly know how to make an entrance.” He pulled on one leather glove, then another, the set a perfect match for his camel-hair coat. “Good call on your friend, my dear. The lawyer obviously passed on the particulars of this rendezvous as was required.” He glanced across at Mürk and Videön. “Gird your loins, lads, it’s time to negotiate—do not shoot anyone.”
The Topside Om Rău called Tëer—Gangrene Face—stayed behind the wheel of the limousine, a pistol on the seat beside him, while Mürk and Videön climbed out and positioned themselves on either side of the car, both armed with nasty-looking black rifles.
With a debonair smile, Raymond offered Marissa a gloved hand. “Shall we?”
A shiver flitted up Marissa’s spine. She made no move to take Raymond’s hand. The moment she stepped out of this limo, Dev’s life would be in danger. Raymond had no intention of negotiating. He was going to threaten the Vârcolac, and use her to do it, which meant Dev was going to go bananas, and that would probably get him killed. “Please, don’t do this,” she said again.
“Ever so sorry, my dear.” Raymond thrust open the limo door. “I must have Tonĩ returned to me, and you’re my trump card for achieving that end.”
She shrank back against the seat when he reached for her. “You don’t even know if Tonĩ can be useful to you,” she argued. “You’re hurting people for no good reason.”
His smile returned, frightening and chilling. “Perhaps I would like to be reunited with my long-lost daughter. Antoĩnetta has acquired some…interesting powers which require discussion.” He took Marissa by the arm and pulled her out onto the street next to him.
The moment her shoes touched the asphalt, tension heightened at the other end of the alley. Dev was the man furthest on the right. She recognized the shape of his silhouette, even though his body was shimmering closer to disappearing than the others, making it difficult for her to catch his eye to—to what? Silently beg him to stay calm when she knew that would be impossible in the face of what Raymond Parthen was about to do?
Videön hocked back and spit in the direction of the three Vârcolac.
No one at the far end of the alley moved, all three figures remaining inhumanly motionless.
Her stomach lurched. Maybe she’d go ahead and barf her guts out now that she wasn’t in the limo anymore, where puking probably wouldn’t have been appreciated by her refined, yet ruthless, captor.
“Let’s crack on with matters, lads,” Raymond said. “Is Tonĩ’s grotesque among you?”
Jaċken stepped into the white wedge of headlights cast by the limo, his upper lip curled into a sneer. “Here.”
“Ah, yes, there you are, old tosser.” Raymond ran his gaze over Jaċken and tutted. “Sixpence short of a shilling Tonĩ was, I say, to have chosen you for her husband. I still can’t fathom it. But that’s neither here nor there. Right, then. There’s to be an exchange, Vârcolac. A simple enough construct even for a man of your suspect intellectual capabilities.”
Jaċken’s sneer deepened, showing a glimpse of a fang. “Have I mentioned that Tonĩ and I won’t be visiting for Christmas, Dad?”
Raymond’s lids hooded. “We shall meet here tomorrow at the same time, at which point I’ll trade this lovely lady in my possession for Tonĩ. Understood?”
Jaċken didn’t answer, his eyes drilling into Tonĩ’s father. He never once glanced at Marissa.
Raymond paused, pretending to ruminate. “Now hold a moment…since we’re considering this exchange nonsense anyway, let’s just make this a two-for-two trade, shall we?”
Oh, God, here it comes. He’s actually going to do this. Marissa closed her eyes, the muscles along her throat growing taut as she wished herself anywhere but here. If only she’d made a different decision at any point along the way during the last eleven hours, she wouldn’t be in this pickle.
If only she hadn’t gotten into a huff about Natalie teaching the chef seminar and left the hotel.
If only she hadn’t called Candace while Detectives Waterson and Ramirez were at the morgue investigating her death. The Traveler’s cell phone had been nestled among her personal effects and the police had naturally run the incoming phone number. As soon as the name Marissa Bonaventure had popped up, they’d come for her.
If only Marissa hadn’t called Kimberly to get her released from the police station. The skilled lawyer had managed it, of course; Marissa had only been brought in for “questioning.” But not before Marissa’s name had been inputted into the SDPD system. Who knew that the Topside Om Rău had planted alerts in police computers, not just at hospitals? The Vârcolac hadn’t. She and Kimberly made it only two unconcerned blocks from the police station before they were nabbed by Raymond and his minions. Oh, and such a lovely trip down memory lane these last eleven hours had been, getting kidnapped again and hanging out with all of her old Topside Om Rău chums.
If only she’d never left Dev in the first place, but remained at home, in his arms and his bed.
“Tomorrow,” Raymond continued in an acid tone, “you’ll bring Tonĩ and my son, Alex, and we’ll exchange those two for this one”—he pointed at Marissa—“and…” He shifted his finger down to point at her belly, “that one.”
Marissa steeled herself for Dev’s reaction, the breath backing up in her lungs. But…
There was only silence.
A breeze twisted the smoky steam dancing around the booted feet of the Vârcolac into mini dervishes. Coat hems lifted and tendrils of hair stirred. Several brown autumn leaves skipped across the alley with a brittle rattle. Otherwise, nothing.
Raymond sighed, long-winded and full of exasperation. “You Vârcolac genuinely are a group of bumbling Monty Pythons, aren’t you? You can’t see how this could come about?” He adjusted the cuff of one of his expensive gloves. “I most certainly do. You see, my dear chaps, I’ve been learning all manner of fascinating tidbits about your breed from the Om Rău mother of my children, Ұavell. Apparently, when a Vârcolac’s mate goes into estrus, the bloke scents it on her and goes a bit barmy, doing the business with her constantly till she’s well and truly in a family way. This leaves little room for happy surprises, so I imagine you gents think I’m lying.” His voice slid into dark and silky realms. “Ah, but mistakes do happen, even in your world. Just to entertain ourselves, let’s pretend this lovely lady’s husband had relations with her right before she barred herself away from his unromantic attentions. She proceeds to ovulate while his giddy swimmers are still loitering about, and voilà!”
Out of the blackened shadows of the alley, a fiery light sparked.
Dev’s eyes.
Bile crawled up the back of Marissa’s throat. No, Dev, just keep thinking he’s lying.
“Still nothing from you fellows? Very well.” Raymond pulled out a hypodermic needle from his coat pocket and popped the plastic cap off with his thumb. “If I’m lying then this abortifacient won’t have any effect on the lady whatsoever.” He rammed the needle into Marissa’s arm.
She screamed.
A hair-raising howl tore out of Dev as he came flying down the length of the alley in one huge leap, trench coat flaring wide, legs cycling the air.
Cursing and shouting, Mürk and Videön yanked up their rifles and stumbled backward.
Dev landed hard several feet away, his eyes white lightning, twin killing fangs thrusting down from his upper jaw.
Raymond tensed, and a hot pulse of electricity ripped painfully through Marissa’s body.
“Stop!” she yelled at her husband. “Dev, please, don’t do anything. I am pregnant, it’s true. Mr. Parthen made me take a test to—”
Dev took a threatening step forward, air hissing viciously between teeth and fangs.
“Devid, no!” Tears began to fall down her face. God help her, Raymond’s thumb was still on the hypodermic plunger
. “I know every atom in your body wants to protect me and the baby right now, but the only way you can do that is to back away.”
“Listen to the girl,” Raymond cautioned, his voice cutting like diamonds over glass. “Don’t do anything foolish, and that includes your mate who has us in his rifle sights from atop that building over there. Bullets have little effect on me, Vârcolac. If you shoot, I’ll depress this plunger, and then your woman will be spilling claret onto the street before you can say Bob’s your uncle.”
Dev bellowed, his expression black hell.
Marissa choked on a quiet sob, her arm aching from the sharp pierce of the needle. “He’ll abort our baby if you don’t do as he says, Dev. He will.”
Jaċken and Sedge grabbed Dev by the shoulders.
“Enough discussion.” Raymond commanded. “We’ll meet here tomorrow, gentlemen. You comprehend the terms.” He moved back toward the open door of the limo.
She stepped carefully along with him, very aware of the dangerous needle still in her arm.
Dev stalked their every movement with predatory eyes, his face a mask of chiseled fury. She’d never seen her husband with so much wrath and hatred on his face; she hadn’t even known he was capable of it.
“Just go get Tonĩ,” she whispered to him. “She’ll know what to do.”
Raymond pushed Marissa into the limo, removing the needle as he did, and closed the door.
Mürk and Videön climbed in after them, and then the limousine lurched into motion.
Twisting in her seat, Marissa looked out the rear window, watching Dev break free from Jaċken and Sedge and race down the street after them.
The limousine’s tires smoked, sending up the stench of burnt rubber as Tëer took off.
Dev threw back his head and howled, the cords in his neck striated, his forearms knotted. Streetlights popped apart overhead like Fourth of July fireworks, and the limo swerved crazily as glass rained down onto the hood, the roof, the street. The road soon looked carpeted with chunky ice.
Raymond relaxed back in his seat and peeled off his leather gloves. One of his blond eyebrows twitched. “Impressive.”
Chapter Forty-four
Wind rushed down the length of the alley, bullying paper trash out of dumpsters and whirling the bits of litter around each other in what looked like a bizarre mating ritual. It also buffeted the stench of human waste and decay at their group, odors they all would’ve preferred to have left un-smelled. Behind him, Dev sensed Breen and Kasson tense. Those two rarely came topside—they couldn’t handle the scents—but both would’ve leveled anyone who’d dared suggest they stay behind. Every swinging dick was needed in the field for this.
Dev narrowed his gaze on the end of the alley, his eyes feeling packed in hot sand from how long they’d been ignited, and he had the worst headache of his life from the number of hours his fangs had been elongated. Twenty-three long hours, to be exact, that he’d been stewing in worry and hatred, his internal radar a constant, annoying ping.
Last night, in this very alley, he’d felt like a stick shift some first timer had been trying to learn how to drive, lurching forward, then stalling out, gears grinding, whining, screaming, his body racing forward again, then crashing to a stop. He’d never wanted anything more than to jump Parthen’s shit and get his wife back, but…fuck, Parthen’s thumb had never wavered from that hypo plunger. One push of that evil fucking thumb, and Dev would’ve lost the chance to meet the little being who even now was struggling to grow big enough to come into this world. He would’ve likewise deprived his wife of the same precious opportunity, and with Marissa crying and begging him to “back off,” what was he supposed to do? She never would’ve forgiven him if he’d blown it. Would he have forgiven himself? The whole hosed-up situation had firmly wedged his balls between a rock and a hard place.
The wind made a funny keening sound in the fire escapes above as Jaċken quietly directed the rest of the warriors around to the other end of the alley, where they’d take up various flanking positions around Parthen. Only Jaċken, Dev, and Sedge would remain at this end, same as last night. Boots rang out on the asphalt as the men took off en masse, ammunition rattling, and flashbang grenades clanking softly together.
Flashbangs, or stun grenades, emitted a deafening explosion and a blinding white light upon detonation. The plan was to use the shocking pyrotechnics to create the necessary chaos and confusion among Parthen and his men in order to extract Marissa. At least that was the plan. Unfortunately, there were holes in it large enough to drive a truck through. First off, if they couldn’t get Marissa far enough away from Parthen, she’d get caught up in the explosion, and while flashbangs were designed to stun, not injure, who knew what kind of effect something so jarring would have on a pregnant woman? The second cold, hard truth was that if the warriors could’ve fought their way out of this, they already would have. Pretty much as long as Raymond could threaten to kill Marissa and Dev’s baby, then that assface had them over a barrel.
What alternative did they have, though, other than to fight? Ask a pregnant Tonĩ to come topside for a sit-down with a father who kept abortifacients lying around like English fucking tea and who considered Jaċken’s unborn child not much better than insect shit? Tonĩ would’ve done it—if she could’ve gotten past Jaċken—but, no. As much as Dev wanted Marissa back, he couldn’t even consider such a thing.
Headlights swept into the alley, and tension pounded through Dev, tangling his organs together. He would spend a week hand-washing a homeless man’s crusted-over skivvies, or whatever other community service work needed doing, if he could just get his wife out of this unharmed. Please…
Jaċken, Sedge, and he stepped forward as the limo pulled to a stop. The passenger side door opened, expelling dick-smackers Mürk and Videön, both armed with AKs. Then the back door swung wide, and out came Douchebag-Hall-of-Famer, Raymond Parthen. He dragged Marissa out with him, another fucking syringe stabbed into her arm, but this time, a gunny sack had also been pulled over her head.
Dev clamped his jaw so hard he ran the risk of eating his own teeth. What the hell was that about? Was this just Parthen’s fun way of making things more frightening for Marissa or had she been beaten? His nostrils flared into tight ridges. He could smell his wife’s terror, and—“Shit,” he hissed. “Parthen has done something to her. Her scent is different.” What drugs had he mainlined into her? Glaring at the hypodermic needle, Dev sucked in a couple of hot, quick breaths between his teeth. Was their baby all right? An insidious dread twisted through his bowels. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this afraid.
“Good evening, chaps,” Parthen said. “All of you,” he added in that knowing smug way that set Dev’s teeth on edge. “Where is my beloved Tonĩ?”
Jaċken gestured behind a building. “She’s back here,” he lied.
“And Alex?”
“He’ll have to come by next time.”
A little bit of lying, a little bit of truth-telling: Jaċken had to play a shrewd chess match with the elegant Mr. Douche-Bucket.
“That wasn’t the arrangement,” Parthen returned.
“Couldn’t be avoided.”
Parthen paused. “Bring Tonĩ forth.”
“Send our woman down first.”
Parthen sniffed. “Your men in hiding will surely think that gives them license to shoot at my lads.”
Jaċken shrugged. “We can stand here all night.”
“I will happily do so,” Parthen countered, “rather than be made a fool. Have Tonĩ step into the open, and I might consider releasing your woman.”
Jaċken laughed darkly. “So you can use your powers on her? I’m not stupid, either, Parthen. Any discussion you have with Tonĩ will be in my presence, and only after you’ve released our woman.”
Parthen’s lips pulled back into something only a generous person would’ve called a smile. “I do believe you’ve forgotten who has the true negotiating power here, Vârcolac.” He pulled Marissa closer to
his side. “It would be regretful if your bullheadedness forced me to use this abortifacient. Such theatrics are ever distasteful.”
A long, low growl rumbled out of Dev. Here was that thorny crux he was half out of his mind about.
Jaċken paused. On an underbreath to Dev, he said, “We’re going to have to do this.”
Dev locked rigid. He didn’t see another choice, either, but…something about this…
“All right,” Jaċken told Parthen. “I’ll let you see Tonĩ.” Jaċken leaned toward the back of the building. “Tonĩ—” he called out, and a second later two flashbang grenades arced through the air.
Dev followed their path, breathing heavily, a cold, nasty sensation wrapping around the back of his neck, like someone was holding a palmful of icy slime there. This isn’t right.
He leapt into a run.
The flashbangs landed near the limo, and Dev threw an arm over his face as—wa-boom!—they detonated with an ear-shattering explosion and filled the alley with white lightning. He was thrown onto his back and sent skidding for several feet, vaguely thanking fuck for his thick trench coat. Before he’d even come to a stop, he was back on his feet and racing for Marissa.
She was face-down on the ground!
The rear end of the limo had been knocked helter-skelter; Videön was painting the hood and Mürk was just finishing up banging his head against the wheel well, his eyeballs doing loop de loops.
Parthen stood like a god rising out of the smoke, unmoved from his original spot, his face a mask of icy rage. Bullets zinged out from the warriors in hiding. Parthen tossed the hypodermic needle aside with a flick of his wrist, said something to Videön, then got back in his limousine.
Videön jumped off the hood with a snarl and aimed his AK-47 assault rifle at Marissa.
“No!” Dev bellowed. He increased his speed beyond normal endurance, but… Too far. He panted, desperate, panicked. He wouldn’t be able to reach her in time… Horror slid the world out of focus as a grey puff spouted from the AK’s muzzle, a report rang out, then a jet of blood leapt from of the back of Marissa’s head.
