Alexander’s pretty head opened in a bloody blossom of deep rose petals. Brain matter, like chunks of unsubstantial meat, splattered onto the wall over the bed, giving the ugly yellow and apricot abstract a new look. Bone sprayed all over like shards and splinters of a rotted old tree branch. Teeth pierced the wallpaper and became embedded in the plaster. An eyeball bounced hard against the headboard of the bed, finally landing at the toe of Kasper’s left boot.
But what came next was what Kasper always hated most of all. The body voided itself. That was much worse than a little blood and bone and brain. Kasper placed the gun on the bed beside the motionless body. He snatched up his coat and pulled it on, grimacing at the atrocity of the odor. He flipped up the collar and pulled it across his nose and mouth, a mockery of the Count himself.
Disgusted, he kicked the Deathwalker’s jean-clad leg hard. He heard an audible snap, but didn’t care. It’s not like Alexander could feel it now.
“Bloody, smelly bastard,” Kasper muttered.
He grabbed his gun and stepped out into a spray of green and pink neon light.
chapter thirty-one
Suddenly, Michael was looking into Susan’s blue eyes. A pang of fear and surprise gripped him, and he couldn’t think of anything to say or do. People passed behind her and in front of her, between them.
He fell into her gaze, and everything around her dissolved into bits of dust and fragments of memory. McCree was nowhere in sight, and Michael wasn’t sure if he was glad of this or not. Part of him wished for the confrontation, and for once, he was glad to have the weight of the gun at his side. Susan diverted her eyes. Above them glowed a sign that read The Pirate’s Chest—ridiculous name for a titty bar—the hideous neon red painted her face and hair bloody. Tonight, the streets were crowded, despite the hellishly cold weather. Behind her, his hand resting possessively on her back, was a very tall, older man who reminded Michael of a professor he had had back in med school. He appeared extremely out of place.
His heart pounding, Michael reached for her, but she drew back. God, he just wanted his hands on her, to have her with him. He wanted to rush her back home and put this past month behind them.
The look of surprise on Susan’s face transformed into one of complete blankness. Michael fingered the trigger of the riot gun beneath his coat and wondered where McCree was. Anger swelled to the surface, and before he could stop himself, he said, “Don’t act like you don’t see me!”
In an instant, the tall man planted himself firmly in front of Susan.
“Do you know this gentleman?” he asked her in a proper British accent.
Susan’s response was a kick to his gut. “No. I’ve never seen him before.” She didn’t raise her eyes to his again.
“If you value your life, step away,” the old man said in a tone that he might have used to mention rain in the air or offer a slice of pie. He then took Susan’s hand and led her away.
Michael watched them move on, still fingering the trigger of the gun hidden under his coat. When they were far enough away, he went after them, sticking to the doorways and the shadows of the buildings, out of sight.
After a few moments, McCree jogged by, apparently to catch up. Michael remained hidden, but the sight of McCree, the very man who had saved him from a potentially gruesome death only three weeks back, sent a rush of rage through him. Michael sighed, now gratefully aware of the weight of the gun tethered to his side. If he wanted, he could have simply taken the big man out in a spray of red, right on the crowded street.
But, no. He needed to keep his composure. Drawing attention to himself was not the answer, as Kasper had explained. It was merely a good way to get killed. Kasper was bat-shit crazy, but some of what he had offered was turning out to be very valid.
Besides, could he really do it?
The trio stopped walking for a moment, and McCree leaned over, pushed back Susan’s hair and whispered something against her ear. She laughed, the sound very far off and like that of a dream of some distant memory. It made Michael’s breath catch in his chest. As they began moving again, the older man relinquished his hold on her hand, seemingly reluctant to do so. McCree slipped his arm around her and pulled her closer to his side.
Susan glanced back. Was she looking for him?
They strolled on easily, the patter of conversation rising over the street sounds from time to time. Shortly, they stopped in front of a mammoth, old hotel.
The moon passed through a lace of smoky clouds, darkening the streets. There were no working street lamps in front of this place. Most had been broken out with rocks, as was the faded sign out front reading “New Charlestowne Inn.” Michael faded back into the shadows, but he was closer to Susan and her companions now. The snippets of their exchange rose in the air and became more animated.
“I’m not going in there,” the older man said.
McCree winked at Susan. “He’s afraid of rats.” He walked his fingers playfully up the older man’s chest. “And spiders.”
“So what?” the older man countered.
It sounded like three kids on a whim of double-dare.
“Well, I’m afraid of rats, too. But I’m still going in. I want to see,” Susan said, laughing.
Did she just scan the shadows and sidewalks again before vanishing into the darkness of the building?
“Bloody hell,” the old gentleman whispered.
“Find me, if you can,” Susan called from the gloom of the building.
The two men climbed the stairs leading up to the wide front porch of the New Charlestowne Inn, which was about as far from “new” as anything Michael had seen since leaving Hamilton. The floorboards groaned like a snoring giant under their steps. Michael moved out of the shadows and stood before the hotel. Did he want to chance finding Susan alone? Had she really issued some kind of veiled invitation? It was probably his imagination or else just wishful thinking. She had clearly changed. Worse, she appeared happy on McCree’s arm.
The white façade of the building was peeled away like old skin, and the windows stared down upon the street like blank eyes. The two-story inn looked more like a big country home than a beachfront hotel, except for the red and white candy-striped awning, torn and tattered as a homeless man’s coat, that ran the length of the porch and over each window. The green shingles of the roof had been ripped away in various hurricanes over the decades, leaving raw wood exposed, black and rotten.
After a moment, when he was certain that McCree and the old man were well inside, Michael crept onto the porch. He crouched in the thick darkness, waiting and gathering his courage. His heart thundered in his chest. This was stupid, but he prepared to go inside, anyway. He pulled the gun around in a position to fire, in case he actually needed to. He thumbed the safety off and slipped through the front door.
The darkness was as heavy as a blanket, and the stink of moldering wood and furniture was strong enough to make him sneeze. He fought the urge and breathed through his mouth instead until he became accustomed to it.
Michael could just make out the inky shape that scurried from behind the front desk before it circled behind him. Fingers wove hard through his hair, and another hand clamped over his mouth. Susan. He had no trouble recognizing the touch and sweet smell of her hand, so he was not as startled as he might have been otherwise. She guided him quickly into the small office just past the desk area, took away her hand and pushed him back against the wall.
“Shh.” She quietly shut the door, and then twisted the lock.
The moon decided to make an appearance and flooded the small, grungy window with yellow-blue light, illuminating Susan’s face. She stood before him, an angel, albeit an angry angel, with blue-glow skin and shining eyes. For a moment, Michael couldn’t move, he was so struck by her appearance. She had changed somehow, but just as on the morning they sat at their kitchen table, he couldn’t place his finger on exactly what it was that had changed.
Her movements were fluid, catlike. Her face was leaner th
an before, her high cheekbones more pronounced. There was a deadly elegance about her, and he was suddenly a little startled, after all.
Susan placed her finger to his lips and said, “Shh,” again. The heavy clonk of one set of footfalls could be heard overhead, but McCree was wearing sneakers. Still, the creaking floorboards indicated both men were now upstairs.
“Come out, you wicked thing!” one of them called.
Susan’s eyes bore into Michael’s. “How did you know where to find me?” she whispered.
“You talk in your sleep.”
“Well, you need to go.”
“Not without you, I’m not,” he answered. He looked at her a long moment. “God, you are so beautiful.”
He moved toward her and touched her hand, but she pulled away.
“Don’t, Michael.”
“Why did you do that to me on the street before?”
“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” Susan said.
“But you drew me here. I know you did,” he countered.
“I did. To tell you that I don’t want to leave here. I knew you would just keep turning up, so I wanted to end this tonight.”
Michael clenched his jaw. He wanted to cry; he wanted to strike her for hurting him.
“Well, it hasn’t ended. Not like this.”
“I’m with Devin, now. That’s how I want it,” Susan whispered. “You need to go back to Hamilton. Alone.”
This was complete nonsense. “How did you decide that you no longer loved me overnight?” Michael snapped. Then, he took a deep breath. “I’ll fight for you, if that’s what I have to do.” The words spilled out, and he couldn’t stop them, no matter how ridiculous he sounded.
“Then, you’ll die for me,” Susan said.
“No.” Michael held up the shotgun. “At least, not alone.”
This time, it was Susan who looked afraid. “No, Michael. Please. I don’t want to see you get hurt, but I can’t allow you to hurt Devin, either.”
“So, you do love him.”
She dropped her eyes. “Yes. I do.”
Michael’s anger faded into despair. He lowered the gun and squeezed his eyes closed. “Fuck it, then. Fuck him, and fuck you.” How petty he sounded, but what did it matter, now?
“Susan?” McCree called. The footfalls were still overhead and directly above them at the moment.
“I need to go to him,” Susan said.
She moved toward the door, but Michael grabbed her hand. “Wait.”
He took her face in his hands and kissed her. He pinned her against the wall. She pushed him away, but half-heartedly. Her lips parted, and she sucked his tongue inside, greedily tasting him. She moved against him, and her mouth trailed down the side of his throat like hot silk. She lapped at his skin, the touch of her tongue maddening him. He pressed against her, his penis instantly like steel. He dropped his head back and closed his eyes.
“Oh, Susan.” Her hand slid over his chest and stomach to his groin. She massaged him through his pants.
Her mouth lingered against his neck, and he was vaguely aware of a sharp sting there. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was her hand on his cock and her firm, feverish body against his.
“Susan? Come on, dear. Where are you?” The older man’s voice sounded as though he was just outside the door.
Susan drew back and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I have to go. Devin will be able to tell.”
“Susan, wait.” He snatched a dull pencil from the desk. On a crumbling receipt, he jotted the number and street of the house where he was sleeping. He shoved it into the front pocket of her jeans, his fingers lingering desperately.
Susan pulled away and vanished through the door, leaving him in the murk of the dusty hotel office, his heart thundering in his chest, his balls ready to explode. He touched his neck where Susan’s exquisite lips had been and felt the warm stickiness there.
Black blood painted his fingers. “Damn.”
chapter thirty-two
Two nights later, Susan sat shoulder to shoulder with John Moses on the concrete bench in the side garden. All around, vines of jasmine and honeysuckle, both bare for coming winter, ensnared the bench, a birdbath and a thick live oak. It was difficult to believe the ugliness of an abandoned city lay just beyond the high brick walls.
It was chilly, and although the long wool coat was toasty, Susan pulled closer to John to absorb his warmth. Above them, the moon slipped in and out of a lace of wispy cloud. The breeze carried the briny scent from the Atlantic a mile away.
“It’s freezing,” Susan commented.
“This will keep us warm,” John told her, slipping a hand inside his own heavy coat. He brought out a silver flask, unscrewed the top and passed it to her. The flat side of the container caught glints of the moon and the few remaining streetlamps that rained down sickly, snot-colored light on the street just beyond the brick barrier.
Susan took a drink, and the cognac burned like gasoline in her throat. “Jesus,” she rasped as she quickly passed it back to John.
“But you’re warm now,” John said, smiling.
“Yes,” she agreed.
“Courvoisier Erte No. 2,” he went on. “It goes for over three thousand dollars a bottle. Devin found thirteen bottles in the cellar of a mansion near the salt marshes. Evidently, the owner had decided to leave and never return.” He winked. “We thought of moving over there, but instead we brought most of the valuables over here.”
“You didn’t feel that was wrong?”
“Your police officer is showing, my dear.” He passed the flask back to her. “Right and wrong become grayer as the years pass. Besides, it belonged to a politician. A corrupt one at that,” he added, dismissing her concern.
A pair of stern-looking men entered the gate and headed toward the house. They nodded to acknowledge John, who offered a hearty toast with his flask. Devin greeted them at the door, and they all vanished inside the warmth of the house. Susan didn’t know exactly why these, or the four or five other Deathwalkers who had arrived moments before, were there. John had briefly mentioned earlier that other Deathwalkers were seeking Devin’s advice regarding the numerous killings of late. She had heard the name Jacobsen mentioned, which was odd. That was also the name she had snatched from Michael’s thoughts the other night. Apparently, this Jacobsen had been hunting them down, and now she, Devin and all like them were in danger.
Frankly, she felt no fear of this so-called vampire hunter. Devin would protect her, if she even needed protection. Still, it was interesting that one man was creating such a stir.
“So this guy, Jacobsen, you know him?” she asked.
“I know of him. His handiwork was what brought Devin to us.”
Susan took a longer, bolder drink of the cognac. She was beginning to feel quite warm, now. Her limbs loosened and her shoulders relaxed slightly. She couldn’t recall being this relaxed since coming to Charlestowne, despite the looming threat of someone named Jacobsen.
“When was this?”
“1942. In the midst of the Great War.”
She laughed. “’42? How old are you, John?”
“I have no idea, really. Do you? I was fifty-one when I was. But how do you determine age for someone like me? Or like you were, before? Halfings,” he chuckled softly. “Halfway to immortality.”
He appeared to have only aged ten or fifteen years since he had been bitten.
“I didn’t know I wasn’t aging,” she said. “I just thought I was lucky. Good skin, you know.” She shrugged.
“It was my beloved Lillian who discovered Devin cowering in our barn. He later told her that he had been held and tortured for twenty-eight days. He knew the passing days by the way the sun filtered through the cracks in the doorway of his torture chamber.
“Pitiful thing, he was. A beaten puppy. No human could have endured what he had and lived. His feet had been fractured, pounded with a hammer and worse; the Achilles tendons had been severed almost clean throu
gh. I can only imagine how he managed to get away, crawling like a child through the sticky, muddy fields and woods. His body was a rainbow of bruises. He was cut. He had been burned in places. But Lillian loved him from the time she set her eyes on him. She assumed he was an injured soldier, and our own son had been killed somewhere in Italy only a year before.”
“Didn’t that hurt you, your wife being so taken with another man?”
John sighed, pondering this a moment. “I don’t know, really. Looking back, I suppose not. He was helpless, and he was beautiful. Besides, Lillian had a tender heart. It was not a sexual attraction. At least, not at first. I don’t care to dwell on how things progressed. Neither of us had any understanding of what exactly Devin was at the time.”
John looked at Susan a moment. She picked up a deep pain inside his thoughts. She had determined that slipping into John’s thoughts was off-limits, but sometimes the mind reading was an accidental thing.
“You regret it,” she whispered.
“Sometimes. But you must understand, Jacobsen was involved with the SS, so there was no other choice but to fight and protect Devin. The Nazi thinking, strange as it might have been, was to create a squadron of superhuman soldiers, thus creating the new ideology of a master race. Deathwalkers, as you now know, are close to indestructible, and Jacobsen used his vast knowledge as a bargaining tool. He apparently rose quickly in the ranks to become Himmler’s right-hand man.
“Devin escaped—something Jacobsen could not deal with. He abandoned the Third Reich, and finding and killing Devin, and all like him, including my dear Lillian, became his purpose for living.
“We came here because we were confident Kasper would not find us. Years, even decades passed, and then suddenly, a couple of months ago, he showed up. Devin would hear nothing of leaving here until he had you.”
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