For you, came his unspoken reply.
The low, feral growl of the hunter emanated from his throat. Before her eyes, his body began to contort, shifting and spinning into a glowing haze. All of a sudden he burst apart, disgorging a hail of locusts. The size of a grown man's fist, the insects swarmed in a tornado-like vortex, an army of gauzy wings and sticky legs.
Julienne shrieked, blinded by the vicious bugs beating against her body, scratching her face, tangling in her hair. Deafened by their intense buzzing, she tried to escape the biting mouths piercing her skin, drawing blood. She stumbled like a woman afire, falling to the ground. Rolling over and over, she curled into a protective ball.
The locusts persisted, crawling all over her, feeling as though they were eating through her skin, devouring her eyeballs, penetrating her nose and mouth to suck the air out of her lungs.
A howling scream of sheer terror escaped her.
Then there was silence. She felt nothing. Heard nothing.
Julienne pushed herself up, looking quickly around. Seeing nothing, she climbed to her feet. "Where is it?"
A whispery voice in her head. Here.
"Oh, God." She slowly pivoted. Her heart thumped, raced, and she felt her blood flow through her veins, cold fear overtaking her more quickly with each passing second.
Naylor vaulted into the air, throwing himself onto her and knocking her back to the ground. He was stronger than she, but her fear added to her already unnatural strength and gave her the edge she needed.
She shoved him away, lifting and driving her knees into his chest as he came down on top of her. A gush of air ejected past his lips. She kicked out again, rolling to her feet and backing away. He made garbled sounds as he regained his momentum, rushing at her intent on a second full-body tackle and slamming her against the wall of the crypt. The back of her head smacked hard marble.
Groaning, Julienne lashed out, her flailing hands finding flesh. She desperately tore at his face and neck but had no effect. His hands circled her head, smashing her skull into the stone as if he were trying to crack it as one would an egg. Blackness flowed across her vision like an eclipse descending over the sun. She thought she heard her grandmother saying her name repeatedly; but as moments ticked by, the ghostly voice sounded further and further away, until stark silence raged in her ears.
Giving her head one final smash, Naylor stepped away, watching as she slid down the wall, panting and lightheaded, tremors coursing through her.
"Please…" She tried to speak, but the words died in her throat.
Naylor bent over, one hand gripping her thick hair. He yanked her to her feet. Wrenching back her head, he opened his mouth and dipped his head toward her vulnerable exposed throat. She could smell his wretched breath, feel the iciness on her skin.
Julienne caught the rush of quick motion as Morgan charged in, sweeping the creature off her. Dropping to the ground, hands rising protectively, she watched two bodies fall in a tangle of flailing limbs. Both acted and reacted in a blur super-human strength, speed and agility.
Naylor bucked, knocking Morgan aside and climbing to his feet. Fangs bared, snarling like a rabid wolf, the black man leapt forward, landing hard on Morgan. He slashed out with sharp fingernails at Morgan's throat, striking just under the jaw as Morgan turned his head to avoid the razor-like talons.
Cursing, Morgan retaliated viciously, bucking his body and wrapping one leg around the undead's neck. Slamming Naylor back into the ground, he reversed their positions, bringing his knees down heavily on Naylor's flailing arms and pinning them to the ground. He lifted his arms over his head, hands clasped around some object. In a sweeping arc, he drove the stake into Naylor's chest.
Comprehension colored Naylor's expression. He screamed in sheer rage, arching his back in agony. Morgan leapt to his feet when the vampire snorted, then gagged, as a gory exhalation of black blood gushed like a fountain from his mouth and nose.
Horrified, Julienne scrabbled back on hands and knees when Naylor climbed to his feet, stumbling a few steps before landing sprawled on his back. She could do little but stare in sheer disbelief. Every groan, every scream of pain from the creature tore at her heart like a razor. There seemed to be no oxygen in her lungs. Only coldness. Stark, frightening coldness.
Though only a few seconds passed, it seemed like hours to her shocked and benumbed mind. She watched Naylor clawing at his chest, trying to remove the source of agony. Unsuccessful, he beat arms and legs on the ground, wailing his anger in a frightening crescendo. In a final burst of strength, he lifted his hand, ripping at the air. He snarled a final time, a shudder streaming through his entire body.
Then he lay still. The length of pure white ash wood protruded starkly, marker of his doom.
Hearing footsteps, she cast her eyes up in time to see Morgan approach with an ease that reminded her of a male tiger armored in the pride of the kill. Bending, he lifted her to her feet; but instead of hugging her to him, offering solace and showing a bit of relief that she was alive, he stepped away.
"I hate these animals." His hand raked across his scratched neck as his gaze swept her. "You look all right. He did not harm you too badly."
A bit put off by his lack of concern, she nodded stupidly, wrapping her own arms around her body.
"W–what is it?" she managed stammer out.
"It is a nosferatu. It dies to rise again in another body, one newly deceased."
"It's not dead?"
"Not yet, just paralyzed."
Her gaze settled on the creature. "How does one kill the undead?"
"You need not see. I will take care of it." Drawing his dagger, he urged her away.
Without looking back, Julienne took a few stumbling steps through the cemetery. But she couldn't leave. She had to see what was going to happen. More than simply indulging morbid curiosity, she wanted to see how she might someday die herself. She slowly turned.
Thinking her gone, Morgan knelt beside the corpse and wrenched Naylor's head off the ground. A smooth motion of his knife brought it cleanly off in his hand. He let the head drop to the ground as more blood erupted from the decapitated body. Teeth gnashing together in a final bite, the lips were shredded by the uncontrolled spasms of the canines.
The corpse began to rapidly decay. Skin peeled from the skull, and the eyes rolled back into the sockets to fall into the brain cavity. Bone cracked and oozed thick pus, marrow blackening and disintegrating into a gummy residue.
In a moment, it was over. All that was left of the undead were some oily clothes, a grinning skull and the gold sigil that had hung around his neck.
Morgan prodded the skull. Through the socket of one eye emerged the long legs of a tarantula. As the hairy spider attempted to scurry away, he caught it. Opening his hand, he looked at the huge insect.
"Got you," he whispered. In his mind, he willed a hot spark. The spider burst into flames. He closed his fingers around its burning form. When he opened his hand, nothing except ashes remained. He scattered them to the night then picked up the amulet and pocketed it.
"Is it gone?" she whispered.
Startled by her voice, Morgan turned. "He will not walk this earth again."
He briefly pressed his fingers to his temple. The outward push of mental energy had momentarily dizzied him. Gathering his concentration, he brought his black boot down hard on the skull. It shattered into dust.
Danger over, he pounced.
"What the hell were you doing out here anyway?"
His tone did not set well with her. Pulling up her chin, she bit out defiantly, "I was looking for you."
Making a disgusted sound deep in his throat, he turned and walked away. Dawn peeked over the horizon as the waning moon began to set into the west. As far as he was concerned, his night was over.
Julienne trailed in his wake, trying to keep her mind free of fears, questions and doubts as they left the cemetery. He was still firmly entrenched in his best 'bastard' mode. Why did he always have to be so
hard and inflexible? Couldn't he see she'd had a close call? Didn't he care a bit that she'd had more than her wits frightened out of her?
No, she thought bitterly. He doesn't care a whit. It was as if he'd let the creature attack her.
She shot a quick glance at his back. Was it such a silly thought?
Drama queen.
You came out at night to a place where you had no business being and now you're blaming him for your close call.
Morgan did not stop to see if she was following. He took it for granted she would. Out of breath, she stepped over the low rail surrounding the saltillo terrace. She bumped into a wicker lawn chair and knocked it over. Ignoring it, she went through the French doors, into the welcoming light of the library.
It was deserted.
Glad to be inside, she collapsed into the nearest chair. She was a mess--grimy, stinking of sweat and lingering fear.
Closing and locking the library doors, Morgan lit a cigarette. "It is not safe outside these walls. When I am away, do not come looking for me again."
She stared, perusing him from head to foot. There was something different about him, something she at first had trouble putting her finger on. Then, it occurred to her that what he had regained was something he had not possessed for a very long time.
Control.
No longer trapped in endless boring days, enchained by mortal limitations, he was rich, cultured and had the whole of not one but two worlds at his fingertips. There was literally nowhere he could not go, nothing he could not do. It was a bit intimidating.
Check that, she thought. It's very intimidating.
She couldn't take her eyes off him. Booted feet planted slightly apart, cigarette clenched between his teeth, he was dressed in a black shirt, black straight-legged jeans and a calf-length black leather duster. God, but he looked good. Damn good. Why couldn't he have been an ugly man? It would have made it easier to stay mad at him.
Instead, all she thought about was how she wanted him to sweep her up into his arms.
Heat suffusing her body, Julienne became aware of his hard stare. Oh, my! How could she be fantasizing about having sex with him right at this moment? Where is my head?
She fanned herself with her hand, caught in an embarrassing hot flash. Was it warm in here? She swept her hands across her brow, wiping away the beads of perspiration on her skin. She was a young, healthy, twenty-four-year-old woman; and days without sex had her hormones jumping. She didn't realize that fear and rushing adrenaline were being re-channeled straight into her libido now that the danger was over.
"In case you've forgotten, asshole," she snapped, "people do worry about you."
The expression on his face said that he didn't care if she worried or not. He appeared to be thinking for a moment, then blew smoke through his nostrils and silently crossed to the bar.
When he took out a glass and a bottle, she caught the gist of his actions. He intended to ignore her.
Julienne made her own stare as sullen as she could manage. Through narrow eyes she watched him fill the glass. Straight scotch. He sat down on the lounge across from her and resumed his smoking. His insolent perusal shook her to the core, made doubly vexing because of that damned ever-present hint of a smirk lingering around the left corner of his mouth.
Ignore it. He's deliberately being a twit and he knows it.
Grasping for something more to say, she blurted out, "I'm sorry."
Morgan's stare remained darkly leaden. His skepticism was clearly evident. "About what?"
"What I said." Annoyingly, her heart pounded. Heat colored her cheeks bright pink. "The other night."
"What makes you think I care what you said?"
"Because you've been sulking like a spoiled brat. For Christ's sake, if I hurt your feelings, say something."
He drained his glass. "According to you, I do not have any."
Startled at the stab of pain his words evoked but refusing to show how they affected her, she looked at him levelly. Damn his self-centered, insensitive arrogance, the way he thought he could dictate people's feelings. She tried to ignore the fact that he knew how to push her buttons.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to recapture control. "Wonder whose fault that is? I've said I'm sorry once, but I won't say it again."
He stubbed out his cigarette. "I am not asking you to."
His scowl was fierce. He wasn't cutting her any slack at all.
She blinked, bristling, silently cursing his passive-aggressive stance. Oh, but he was good at manipulation. He knew every trick in the fucking book.
"Be that way, then!" she snapped. "I tried."
A long silence ensued, each stewing. Neither seemed able to reach out, break the ice.
We might as well miss by a mile as by the skin of our teeth, she thought. There are just no written steps to this dance we're doing.
"All we seem to do is make each other miserable," she finally said. "I can't say the right things to you, and you can't even clue me in on what's bothering you. My God, how far are we going to get if we can't even fight a little? That's part of a relationship, of growing together, something I'm getting the feeling you don't really want to do. You shut the door in my face every time I get the slightest bit close to you." She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. The next words were going to be hard to say, but they had to be spoken. "If you want to leave me, you might as well go ahead. You're good at using people, then walking away."
There. She'd thrown down the gauntlet. Let him say he did not love her and walk off. Though it would hurt, he could go. She would survive.
The cold dissipated a bit. His expression softened. "I am here because I want to be, not because I have to be."
She warmed at his words. At least he thought enough of her to say them.
"Really?" There was no battle won in this mutual surrender, but it was enough to satisfy her. Hope seeded her foolish heart.
"Really." He either had a hitch in his throat, or she was getting to him.
Morgan rose to refill his glass, bringing the bottle back with him. For the first time she noticed how drawn and gaunt he looked. He was unshaven and had a long, jagged cut under his jaw, pale skin, dark circles rimming his eyes. He had about as much life in him as a corpse thirty days deceased.
He'd been driving himself hard, allowing little time for rest. The effects were undeniably beginning to manifest.
She made a decision.
Enough of his macho bullshit. I have to take care of this man or he'll kill himself with booze and exhaustion.
Getting up, she walked over to him. Realizing what she was up to, he pulled a face and tried to wave her away. She refused to back off. Taking his drink from his hand, she set it on the end table. He put his hands up as if to block her, but she gently parted them, then sat down, straddling his lap so she was facing him. She felt secure settled against his hard, lean body. Safe. She could feel him momentarily stiffen, then relax.
Bending forward, she briefly touched her lips to his. Her blood heated when their kiss deepened. Her brain grew pleasantly foggy. Closing her eyes for a moment, she took another step onto the shaky bridge that was her love for this man. As though blown by a strong wind, it quivered under her feet but remained secure.
When their kiss broke, she smoothed his hair away from his face. She ran her thumbs over his cheekbones before beginning to massage his temples in slow, firm circles.
"Headache?" She wanted to offer him her strength, show him he was not alone and did not have to guard his weaknesses from her.
It was becoming easier to accept the fact that her lover was the owner of a life centered around deceptions carefully staged to conceal the violence and pain enveloping him. In the midst of it all, somehow he managed to preserve his fragile sanity. His mood swings were sudden and drastic, and he often struck out without thinking of the damage he might do to others or himself.
For her part, she was coming to realize she must be the balance in his life, the stability aroun
d which he could center himself. She dared to argue with him, challenge his irrational behavior with reason. Though frightened of the world he had pulled her into, she realized she could not let him totally dominate and stifle her. She must be strong, meet his inconsistencies with firm reactions of sense and sanity, the light to his darkness, the calm to his storm.
The responsibility of keeping him intact was daunting. She realized for the first time the stresses he must have put on people who cared for him in the past. Sometimes, she wished she could have known him in that life, known him as a mortal before the occult claimed such a large part of his existence.
He closed his eyes. "A little bit."
She cradled his face in her hands, savoring the texture of his unshaven skin, the hard muscles playing under her palms. "You need to get some sleep. You remember sleep? Get into bed, snuggle up to a pillow?"
Eyes immediately opened; that dark stare lanced through her.
"Forget it." His tone grew gruff, warning her to back off.
Straightening her shoulders, she shook her head. "You're not fooling me. You only drink when those headaches start." She offered a brief smile. "I'm not stupid or blind, you know."
His eyes momentarily narrowed, angst-ridden as undesirable thoughts passed through his head. Pain was slowly eroding his strong, highly intelligent brain. She knew he was fighting. And winning. But he would not always win, and that frightened her.
He caught her hands and lowered them. "I will be all right."
She pulled free, pinning him down under a hard stare. "Will you?"
He reached for his glass. "I am fine." His clipped tone told her he did not wish to discuss the matter further. "Just have to get used to slaying dragons again."
"I felt that you've been out hunting them."
"Yes."
"Where?"
"On the Sclydian side, as much as possible."
"But they're coming here, too," she said. "Sometimes I get the feeling we're being spied on. Closely."
"Many eyes watch."
Descent of Demons Page 34
