"Yes, you could say that."
"Then let's hope it was a bunny rabbit."
She looked over her shoulder again, searching the road behind them. She saw nothing but dark shadows and haunting mist, an ominous stillness. "Just in case it wasn't, I think you better drive faster."
He said nothing, but he hit the gas, and the truck leapt forward, its tires the only sound as they sped through the darkness. The trees were thick around them. The night was heavy. And she knew they weren't alone.
Chapter 8
Agonizing pain thundered through Tristan Hunter's skull.
He gripped his head, fighting against the searing agony. The invisible vice seemed to close tighter and tighter, unseen claws that could crush his head with ease. "Stop," he gasped, his voice hoarse from screaming as he hunched over.
His coffee cup lay on the floor, the pale brown liquid oozing across the wood, the china in shattered white fragments. The small safe house he'd discovered twelve months ago to protect him from Cicatrice was moldy and old, filled with anti-vampire paraphernalia that had stopped the ancient vampire from attacking him mentally...at first.
The protection had been lessening recently. Cicatrice's psychic attacks had become more and more violent and powerful. Tristan wasn't sure if Cicatrice was becoming stronger, if the protection was waning, or more ominously, if the anti-vampire wards were now affecting him and weakening him.
Cicatrice amped up the attack, and white light flashed through Tristan's mind. The master vampire flooded Tristan with images of haunted faces staring at death, bodies torn and bloodied, ripped apart by ruthless menace. Tristan knew he was seeing the victims that he was supposed to create, once he succumbed to the vampirism trying to take him.
"No!" The scream tore from his throat, a soundless shriek of agony that seemed to wrench his body in half as he fell to his knees.
His veins burned with acid, and his stomach felt like it was made of razor blades, sawing away at his intestines. He gasped and hunched over, fighting for each breath, struggling for control of his mind. The pain intensified in his brain, a brutal, vicious assault that was so relentless he wanted to rip off his own head to escape it.
You are not finished, Tristan.
The voice was like a sharp edged knife, and he flinched. Get away from me, you piece of shit.
You are mine.
Never! He shouted his denial, and then was blasted with pain so violent that he collapsed completely, screaming desperately. He squeezed his eyes shut, and flung himself sideways, rolling across the floor toward the fireplace. His back hit the stones that were covered in anti-vampire runes, and instantly, the pain crushing his mind lessened ever so slightly as the runes reacted to the part of Cicatrice that was trying to merge with him.
Tristan pressed his back tighter up against the carved stones, gasping for breath as cool relief flooded his body.
Your path is inevitable, Tristan Hunter. I cannot be denied. The voice scraped relentlessly through his mind.
Fuck you. Tristan dragged his hand above his head, and slammed his palm against the engraving on the top stone.
But this time, unlike every prior time, he didn't get a welcome relief as he pressed his palm to the ward. Pain sizzled through his hand and smoke rose from his charred flesh. Cold realization shot through him. He was losing his grip on his humanity and succumbing to the haunted beast within him. Once he became fully consumed by the vampire he was becoming, the wards would hurt him the way they did Cicatrice.
Soon his shelter would provide no relief. Soon, there would be no protection from Cicatrice at all. But right now, he was still going to claim his damned humanity. Grimly, he kept his hand on the powerful ward, refusing to succumb to the pain. His upper lip curled as he summoned the discipline not to break away from the rune meant to destroy what he was becoming.
He would not give up on his humanity that easily. If there was one sliver of it left that the ward could protect, he was going to give it that chance. So, even as his flesh burned and charred ash fell from his palm, he kept his hand pressed against the carved symbol, waiting for it to do its magic.
He fought to keep his grip on the carved stone. Cicatrice fought for control of his mind. Pain tore through him, and he felt like a thousand needles were plunged deep inside his brain, threading all the way through every cell in his head.
There are more to be resurrected. We are not finished!
Tristan reinforced his mental shields, but Cicatrice's grip on his mind was still tight. He could feel the pressure of the vampire as it tried to possess Tristan's will and force him to bend to his commands.
He didn't.
He just fucking hung in there, summoning the will to fight for another second. And then another. "Come on," he gritted out. "Come on!" By sheer force of will, Tristan twisted around, so he was facing the wall. His chest was pressed up against the carved stones, and the smell of his burning flesh was thick in the air. He scanned the wall, searching for another stone. He saw another, with a ward carved deep into the flesh of the rock.
With a roar, he hauled himself up and slammed his other hand down on it. The addition of the extra protection against his bare flesh sent shocks of agony ricocheting through him as the stone attacked him. Cicatrice howled with rage, and then he withdrew abruptly from Tristan's mind.
He was free.
Just for now, but free was free, a blessed relief.
Completely drained, Tristan released the rocks and slumped against the hearth, sprawled across the rocks as his mind became his own again, reclaimed by the carvings that protected the world from the darkest evil.
Jesus. And he'd thought resurrecting Jordyn had been a battle. Surviving an ancient vampire determined to possess him was…shit...he wasn't going to lie. It was a little tough.
With a low groan, he opened his eyes and gazed across the wooden floor that had become his sanctuary and his prison for the last twelve months. He'd stumbled across it when he was on the run from Cicatrice, and he'd been using it as his base ever since, always keeping it close enough to access if Cicatrice found him. Somehow, the magic in the house made it impossible for Cicatrice to track him, and whenever he walked in the door, the bloodlust in his own mind eased, and he could think like himself. Was it the runes? The bags of powder spread around? A magical protection woven into the boards? He didn't know what it was, but the haven was the only reason he hadn't succumbed to the lunatic's commands.
From what Tristan could gather, it was an old temple or shrine of sorts, created by a faction of extremists determined to rid the world of vampires. From each filthy, cracked window frame hung a cross. Lining the walls were racks with dozens and dozens of wooden stakes and the same number of bags of pale powder. Every inch of the exterior walls was covered in the same symbol that he'd just used against Cicatrice, the ancient symbol to protect against vampires. If he ever met any of the original creators, he'd have to tell them that the wards were pretty damned powerful.
Strength already beginning to return to his immortally-jacked-up body, Tristan shoved himself to a seated position. He wrapped his arms around his torso, unable to stop the shivering that had become an ever-present part of his existence. He could feel his ribs beneath his shirt, and his stomach churned from the coffee he'd been drinking in a pathetic attempt to cling to some remnant of humanity, before the attack by Cicatrice.
He stared grimly at the staked walls, dark knowledge settling deep inside him. He was out of time. The wards were becoming his enemy, and Cicatrice was becoming more ruthless by the day. The battle between them was coming, and Tristan had yet to figure out how the hell to defeat him.
Summoning the last remains of his energy, he stood up and trudged across the floor toward the wall. His legs were shaking, weakened by both the attack and the fact he hadn't eaten in weeks. No, not eaten. Fed.
Just the thought of feeding made hunger pulse through him, that dark and dangerous hunger that always started deep inside his soul and oozed through him
like an unstoppable plague, becoming stronger and stronger until he lost the ability to control it.
But not yet. He had a few more hours until it took him. Cicatrice's attack had stolen precious time from him. Before the attack, he'd had at least another few days. Now? Hours.
At first, he'd been able to go for months between feedings. Human food had still tasted good. He'd believed he had it under control. He'd been arrogant enough to actually think that he would not end up like the others. He'd broken into a couple blood banks and left cash in exchange for the bags of blood he'd taken, and then had busted ass searching for the man who had set him up and commissioned the resurrection of Cicatrice. That man had answers. That man would know how to stop the monster he'd released.
He'd worked tirelessly, driving himself to exhaustion as he'd hunted for the man who had betrayed him and caused him to unleash such a terror onto the earth. But with each passing day, human food had become less palatable. The blood in the plastic bags had become less capable of diffusing the urge to hunt. The temple had provided less relief each time he walked inside. The bagged powder that had cleared his head so completely each time he sprinkled it on his skin had become less and less helpful. Night had become more energizing. Daytime had started to drain him. And the howling emptiness inside him had grown stronger and stronger.
Until the day he'd finally fed on a human being for the first time.
It had been beyond words. Horrifying. Intoxicating. And dangerous as hell, because the moment he'd tasted fresh blood, the warmth of its life-giving nourishment, he knew nothing else would ever suffice again.
He had crossed that line, and each time he fed, the hunger grew stronger. It was a need to kill his prey, not just feed on them.
Swearing, Tristan jerked his mind away from the thought, and the cravings it stirred up inside him. He had to focus. He had a mission, one that he had to accomplish before he became a monster that had to be hunted down and destroyed, just like Cicatrice.
Cicatrice.
He would never forget the moment he'd first seen Cicatrice's face when he erupted from the ground with a scream of ungodly hunger that even now made his hair stand on end. Tristan would never forget that look on the vampire's face. Pure evil. Pure hunger. And unadulterated triumph.
He'd had only a split second to see his face before Cicatrice had attacked. The next thing Tristan knew, he'd woken up beneath two tons of dirt, his throat barely healed from being torn apart, and a hunger for human blood screaming through his veins.
Not that there was any point in dwelling over it. He was what he was, and he had to focus on the actions he could take now to stop what he'd begun.
He reached the south wall of the cabin and set his palms over the carvings on the wood. Smoke immediately began to pour from his palms, and the smell of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils. He jerked his hands back, leaving burned handprints on the wooden wall. The wooden ones had never really worked before, even to keep Cicatrice out.
Apparently, he was getting more simpatico with his vampire side, as he'd feared. Time was running out for him.
He stepped back as the howling emptiness within him grew stronger, a gaping void that had been a part of him since that moment he'd first awoken, buried a hundred feet beneath the earth.
Tristan sank back into the chair he'd been sitting on and pressed his forehead to his hands, his mind swiftly calculating all the facts to figure out his next move. His muscles were taut, adrenaline hammering through him. Hunger gnawed ruthlessly at him, but he didn't move. He held himself still by sheer force of will, refusing to surrender to the monster trying to control him. The void within him was like a wasteland of emptiness, an untenable hollow so strong that what was left of his humanity could barely withstand its pull.
His jeans were caked with mud and blood, and his feet were bare. His shirt hung in tatters from his gaunt frame, all that was left of who he'd been before Cicatrice had sprung from the grave. His breath was rasping in his lungs, and his muscles ached. He ran his tongue over his sharp teeth, and that same hunger surged through him again.
Slowly, Tristan raised his head and looked at the mirror hanging on the wall between two carvings. His reflection was barely visible now, but there was no mistaking the paleness of his flesh and the gaunt shadows of his cheeks. His eyes were a bottomless black, haunted and tormented. He pressed his lips shut, but he knew full well the power of his incisors. He knew what it felt like to sink them into human flesh and feel the rush of power that flooded him.
He hadn't killed yet, but he'd come close. Last time, he almost hadn't been able to stop himself. Last time, a woman had almost died. For some reason, he could feed only on women. Never men. Never scum-sucking bastards who deserved to serve themselves up as a snack to a depraved monster. If that's who he fed on, he might even be okay with it.
But it wasn't. Females only, and never the same one twice. It was as if he were hunting for the right one, the one that would truly fill the emptiness inside him. Shit. He needed answers about who he was and what he was becoming, but the only vampire he knew wanted to possess his mind and turn him into his minion, so he wasn't going to invite him out for a beer and some guy time.
A minion. A vampire wanted to make him a minion. Really? This was his life? Unreal.
But real. Yeah...he was really looking forward to getting together with Cicatrice. Maybe they'd exchange a few laughs over some bourbon, do the male bonding thing, and then try to crush each other. A thousand-year-old vampire against one that was less than a year old. Brawn versus brain. Or...something like that.
Grimly, Tristan eyed the largest stake on the wall, a long, wooden one covered with ancient engravings. It bled power, the kind of old-world power that hummed when he neared it. The other wooden stakes were just pieces of wood. Useless against him. He'd jabbed a few through his hand just to test them, and the hole had closed up within moments.
But the center stake was different. He'd tried to touch it twice, but he hadn't even been able to get close enough to grip it. The power emanating from it was intense, and incredibly dangerous.
Would it be enough to take down Cicatrice?
Slowly, he stood up and walked over to it. He studied it for a moment, inspecting the carvings on it. He picked up one of the small sacks placed around the corners of the room and dumped the powdered contents out onto the floor. He wrapped the burlap around his hand as protection, then grasped the stake. Sparks leapt into his hand, and he steeled himself against the pain as he took it down. This stake was special, he knew. This stake would do the job.
He turned it over in his hand, his body tensing as the ancient weapon hummed louder. The vibration was just the right pitch to set his teeth on edge, and he knew that was intentional. It was a vampire stake. One designed to kill monsters like him.
Testing it, he turned it so the end of the stake hovered above his chest, over his heart. He angled it so the tip pointed directly at his heart. Pain exploded through him instantly, and he gasped. The stake fell from his hand, landing with a clatter on the floor. He went down on his knees, his hand pressed over his chest as he fought to stay conscious.
It took several minutes before he recovered enough to drag himself away from the stake. With each yard he put between himself and the weapon, the humming became less agitated and urgent, and the pain diminished.
When he finally reached the far side of the temple, he sat down, using the wooden wall to prop himself up. He realized his hand was still over his chest. Curious, he pulled it away to inspect the damage. A black burn mark in the shape of the vampire ward was seared into his chest.
Oh, hell, that couldn't be good. He leaned over, grabbing a fistful of dirt from the pile he'd brought inside. He packed it over the wound, and then closed his eyes. The mark began to tingle, and a healing warmth formed under the dirt.
Yeah, the things he'd figured out about himself over the last year: drink blood, heal with dirt, and stay away from enchanted wooden stakes. Not exactly what
he'd been hoping to learn when he'd embarked on his quest to find out what he was and where he came from.
As the dirt worked its magic, Tristan opened his eyes and studied the stake, which was still on the floor. It had marked him without even touching his flesh? What would it do if it were plunged into the heart of a vampire?
He had a good idea of the result. A part of him was tempted to shove the thing into his chest and not become the creature that was inexorably taking him over.
But that would be the easy out, the one that didn't take responsibility for the vampire making this town its hunting ground. And there was his brother to consider. If he used it on himself, Eric would die. But if he didn't use it, and he became like Cicatrice...how many would die because of him?
None. None. He was stronger than that. He was stronger. He had to find a way to stop Cicatrice, and himself. He knew it was time to confront Cicatrice. The longer he delayed, the tighter the grip his dark side would have on him.
It was time to become the hunter.
He dusted the dirt off his chest. The mark had faded only slightly. Shit. He didn't want to go beneath the earth to heal. If he were asleep underground, he would have no defense against Cicatrice.
It would have to wait.
He grabbed another of the gris-gris bags and dumped more powder out. Then he walked over to the stake and crouched next to it. It was humming again, and a faint, blood-red glow was emanating from it. He double-wrapped his hand in the first bag, and then picked up the stake. He dropped it into the second bag, and then tied it shut. The stake was still humming, and the bag was now glowing a faint red.
Shit. He was supposed to carry that around? It would burn his damned hip in a second.
He quickly inserted the bagged stake into the other bag, and tied that as well. The humming was much less, and the bag was barely red. It took two more bags before it was finally quiet. The floor of the shed was covered in the gray powder that he'd dumped out, and his jaw hurt from tensing against the humming, but it was secure.
Not Quite Dead (A NightHunter Novel) Page 10
