* * *
Alexandra stepped into Sebastian’s arms and pressed her face to the soft mat of hair on his broad, powerful chest. Her hands did not quite meet as she wrapped them around his back in a strong hug. She purred seductively. Every bit the perfect male, yet so much more than a man, Sebastian fathered her three children. He destroyed each of them shortly after their birth.
“Is your appetite strong, this evening?” she asked. As usual, he wore only a loincloth. She reached behind it and stroked his member.
“I have examined the fetish you created for the stranger, Timothy Wilder.” His deep and melodic voice fluttered in her ears, almost hypnotically. Her heart skipped a beat and warmth spread through her guts.
“Oh, can’t we talk business afterwards?” She sounded legitimately disappointed.
“There is cause for concern.”
She dropped to her knees and unfastened the ties of his loincloth. “Concern?” she inquired simply. The cloth slipped to the ground.
As she leaned forward he seized her hair and pulled her roughly to her feet. She winced with pain, but did not cry out or try to stop him.
“Did you take the time to trace his bloodline?” he demanded of her.
“No,” she replied, wincing in pain.
“You must be more careful,” he said angrily. “He is of the lineage we have been seeking.”
“Your lineage?” she asked.
“Yes. Where is this man now?”
“With the priest,” she replied hastily. “Gretchen and the twins are taking care of the matter as we speak.”
“What?” he demanded. He released her hair and backhanded her, sending her sprawling across the altar. “He must not be killed! See to it!”
“Yes, of course,” she gasped. She concentrated, trying hard to contact Gretchen and the others. Their efforts distracted them, but with a little exertion she broke through. She conveyed Sebastian’s order and, after the briefest of protest, they agreed.
“It is done,” she said, getting to her feet once more. “Wilder will be unharmed.”
“Good. Capture him and take him to your house. He may produce the child we’re hoping for.”
“I will see to it, Sebastian,” she purred. She took his hand and caressed his fingertips with her lips and tongue. “Are you still angry with me?” she purred. She reached down and stroked the underside of his scrotum.
He ripped her shirt away, then her bra, and carried her over to the altar.
* * *
The twins raced down the stairs, hot on the heels of their quarry, while Gretchen worked over the priest with her dagger. Cassandra and Genevieve emerged on the porch in time to see Wilder disappear around the corner. They gave immediate chase, but with such a good lead they doubted they would catch up. They slowed further when their bare feet hit the asphalt street, where tiny rocks strewn across the surface bit into their soles.
They cleared the opposite curb when Alexandra’s telepathic orders came across. Their pace faltered and Wilder disappeared between two houses. They stopped at the sidewalk. In the murky darkness they watched his silhouette hop a fence into the next yard. On the other side he risked a very brief look back.
With his new lead, they never would have caught up with him anyway. Cassandra peeled off her jacket and draped it over her arm as they returned to the house.
They found Gretchen still hunched over the fallen priest, her chest heaving with exertion. The priest’s last breath escaped with a gurgle. She stood and retrieved a tissue from a box at the side of the desk and clamped it to her nose. A fine spray of blood covered her face and arms, mostly the result of opening the priest’s jugular. A narrow trickle of her own blood dripped from her nose. More blood had splashed onto her from the fervor with which she worked the priest over. Sticky clumps clung to her hair.
Her rage and nosebleed subsided quickly, and she wiped her dagger blade on the priest’s pant leg. The twins put their shoes back on and waited silently.
“Good thing Alexandra didn’t say anything about the priest,” Gretchen muttered.
Genevieve gave a thin smile. “What about the body?”
“And the house?” Cassandra added.
“We make an example of the priest,” Gretchen said bitterly. “I think I have just the thing…As for the house, we burn it to the ground. Find something that will burn and get it ready. I’m going to strip the priest.”
Twenty minutes later, their tasks completed, Gretchen picked up the phone and dialed the fire department. A tired voice came on after four rings. “There’s going to be a fire,” she said simply. “I don’t want to see a fire truck within a hundred yards of the place for half an hour.” She hung up the phone before the man could respond.
The twins dragged the priest’s naked body out of the house by his wrists and dropped him unceremoniously onto the lawn. Gretchen, still inside, ripped a few sheets from the large paper ink blotter and rolled them into a long tube. She set one end alight with her cigarette lighter. She then moved through the house with her makeshift torch, setting anything that would burn alight. The book pages and lamp oil the twins spread through the rooms caught quickly. She dropped the torch on the desk on her way out.
It did not take long for the fire to spread to the second floor. The trio watched the fire burn for a time. Gretchen left momentarily to retrieve a cigarette from her car. A half hour later they heard sirens rapidly approaching.
“Right on time,” Gretchen muttered. “Pick him up.” She waved vaguely toward the body and walked toward the church. The twins followed dutifully, dragging the priest through the grass. Gretchen’s magic made short work of the lock and they went straight inside. The fire trucks arrived just as she closed the doors.
The firemen moved swiftly and diligently, but a half-hour fire did far more damage than they could do anything about. An ambulance stood by but the paramedics leaned against their vehicle and smoked cigarettes. Nobody expected any survivors in this conflagration. They worked mostly to prevent its spread to neighboring homes.
* * *
For the second time that night Tim sprinted away, fueled by adrenaline and spurred on by his survival instinct. He ran the obstacle course of the back yards, hopping fences and hedgerows, dodging scattered toys and barking dogs, all to keep out of the streets. The two women, whom he now recognized as the twins from the diner, stopped chasing him, but decided it would be wise to put as much distance between himself and them as possible.
It did not take him long to get across town at the pace with which he ran. He looked up and down the street, then at the expanse of cornfield across from him. The far side of the field disappeared into the night. In the distance to his right, a solitary lamp burned in an upstairs window of the farmhouse. With a shrug he crossed the street and descended the small slope from the road into the field.
He pushed his way through row upon row of cornstalks, plodding through the soft earth with some difficulty. He stumbled into a small clear spot where several stalks got crushed. Figuring it had to be as good a place as any, he stopped to catch his breath. Unfortunately, thorough exhaustion got the best of him and he curled up on his side for a nap.
“Need…rest…” he grumbled. He closed his eyes for a moment and fell fast asleep.
Chapter Eight
Tim awoke with a start to the sound of a car passing in the distance. He sat up abruptly and blinked against the daylight, finding himself surrounded by dense rows of corn. It took only a moment to recall the events that brought him here. He did not intend to fall asleep, but exhaustion claimed him. He still clutched the revolver in his hand.
He slid it into his pocket and stood up to stretch, careful not to clear the tops of the corn stalks. If the car belonged to a search party looking for him, he certainly did not want to give himself away. Brushing dirt from his back, he looked around in an attempt to get his bearings. Last night he sprinted headlong into the field, and he had no way of telling how far into it he had gone. He spotted a la
rge footprint in the row behind him.
“So the road must be that way,” he mumbled to himself. He weighed his options.
He first considered making his way to the mountains where he could climb his way out of the valley. He did not really feel rested, but he felt in far better shape to try it now than he did last night. However, if they found him up there, he would be a sitting duck.
And even if he did make it out, the desert would be another problem. He would be easy to spot with no shelter, and he would also have to deal with the sun and a lack of water.
And all of the above assumed he made it past whatever Mike thought guarded the mountain pass.
He did his best to tune out the rustling of the wind blowing through the cornfield. The engine receded into the distance. Good. Keeping low, he moved for the road, doing his best not to show his path in the movement of the corn stalks. He hoped the soft breeze would camouflage the rest.
He decided his best bet would be to get his hands on a car. That would give him a better chance of getting out of the valley intact, and he would not have to hike through the hot desert. Even if they did find him and chase him down, he had a much better chance of escape.
A caw overhead broke his concentration. He looked up and spotted a pair of ravens circling over the field. In the distance came a screech of tires on pavement, followed by the roar of an engine. The sound swiftly came closer.
“Oh, shit.” Tim ran down one of the corn rows and in seconds passed the engine noise, planning to come out of the field behind the car. The ravens cawed a second time, and he looked over his shoulder to see they now followed him. He stopped abruptly and they followed suit, slowly circling overhead. He heard the car stop, then come back toward him.
He suddenly realized the driver somehow must be using the ravens as spotters. He pulled the revolver and fired it into the air. He missed the birds by a long shot, but the bang startled them and they broke off. When they circled back a few seconds later, they broadened their pattern.
The sound of the engine died. Car doors opened and slammed shut. Tim ran deeper into the field at top speed, using his left forearm to shield his face from the slashing leaves. He glanced over his shoulder to locate the ravens.
The birds swooped in low several yards behind him. He stopped and turned, again leveling the pistol. They broke off before he could pull the trigger. Without the sound of his own flight blocking the noise, he heard the rustle of his pursuers.
They seemed to be following his path. His stomach soured and cold sweat trickled down his face, the pistol still held out in front of him. He squeezed the trigger. It bucked in his hand. He fired again. In response he heard a woman’s sharp cry of alarm and several shouts of warning. He prayed he hit one as he broke into a run, this time cutting diagonally across the rows.
“It’s pointless to run!” one of the woman shouted after him. “You have nowhere to go!”
Tim ignored her. He angled sharply to his left, attempting to double back to the road and, ideally, steal their car.
A deafening screech behind him sent chills down his spine. The heavy beat of flapping wings followed an instant later, and he covered the back of his neck a split second before the raven struck. The bird’s talons snagged in the flesh of his hands, its wings slapped against both sides of his head. Holding back a scream, Tim reached out with his left hand and grabbed for it.
His fingers brushed across its breast and its beak stabbed into his palm. He in turn snatched at its face and his fist wrapped its head. He squeezed hard, preventing it from biting his hand, and hurled it to the ground. The impact stunned it and he took advantage of the opportunity to stomp on it with the heavy sole of his boot. He ground the bird into the earth, muffling the sound of its cries in the mud and breaking its wings and crushing its body.
“We don’t intend to hurt you!” the same woman called. “Just come on out and make this easy on yourself.” They were still behind him.
“Keep yelling bitch,” he muttered. He ran further, still making his way back toward the road, praying he did not get turned around during the fight with the bird. He examined his wounded hands as he ran. The long scratches bled profusely, but fortunately they did not look too serious.
The second raven swooped down in front of him, screeching as it dived.
“This way!” someone shouted behind him.
The raven, like its fellow, came in talons first, reaching for Tim’s eyes. With a well-timed swing Tim managed to bat it aside with the revolver. It crashed into a corn stalk and bounced to the ground, landing on its back. He let the bird lie and broke into a run.
The end of the cornfield came abruptly, and he just barely stopped short before tumbling headlong into the open. He crouched low at the edge, peering out between the leaves. The ladies’ car, an older gray Monte Carlo, parked off to his left about twenty yards. A woman stood on the roof, shielding the morning sunlight from her eyes as she peered out over the cornfield.
Behind him he heard the rustling of the corn coming closer. “Come out come out wherever you are!” one of them called in a taunting, singsong voice.
Tim sized up the woman on the car. She could not be very old, probably late twenties. Short and slight of build, she wore light and colorful summer clothing with white canvas slip-on shoes. That combination probably resulted in her staying behind with the car. He pictured her getting her little daughters ready for school and handing them their sack lunches in exchange for a kiss when she got the phone call to come find the escaped heathen, Timothy Wilder. As he watched, she leaned up on tiptoe, then dropped back down to her heels and jammed a fist into her hip in frustration.
Apparently she lost track of him. She turned her head the opposite direction, the hand shielding her eyes also blinding her to Tim’s approach. He moved on her quickly, revolver extended before him and pointed at her head. She turned to see him and gasped sharply, nearly stumbling off the roof.
“Quiet!” he hissed. “Come down from there. This side of the car.”
She did as he said, hopping down quietly, arms at her sides. She glared maliciously, eyes flickering from him to the field and back.
“Where’re the keys?” he demanded, moving closer but staying out of her reach. Despite her size, he was not taking any chances.
“Fuck you,” she spat.
He lunged forward and smacked her across the face with the pistol, then stepped back out of reach. “That’s not very ladylike, and I’m not in a gentlemanly mood. Now where are the fucking keys?”
She raised a hand to her stinging cheek, snarling. “Janet has them. In the field.”
Tim cursed. A high school friend once taught him how to hotwire a car, but that was a long time ago and he would need time to get it done.
“Oh, Timothy? Where are you?” the woman in the field called. He chanced a glance and barely made out the tops of three women’s heads moving through the field. They still moved away from road, searching, and he bet they were far enough that he could get take a stab at the car. That just left the woman before him…
“What’re you going to do?” the woman asked. “Run? You won’t get far. Give me the gun.”
He looked at her, fidgeting nervously.
“Come now, just hand it over.” He noticed her eyes then, deep green and sparkling. She extended a soft hand. “Come on. Just place it right here.”
He glanced at the pistol, then looked back into her eyes. He saw warmth there, and soothing calmness. He could lose himself there forever. He lowered the pistol, then held it out toward her.
“That’s right. Hand it over.” She moved forward, the revolver hovering just out of her reach.
“C’mon you bastard!” another woman in the field shouted. “I don’t have the patience for this shit!”
Tim shook off the mild hypnosis and stepped back.
The woman lunged.
Tim caught her and turned, redirecting her momentum and sending her flying past him. She hit the asphalt hard and rolled, then
scrambled backward in a crab walk. “He’s here! At the car!” she shouted.
Tim aimed and fired, his bullet tearing through the fallen woman’s kneecap. She screamed in pain, clutching at the crippled limb. Tim jumped into the car and discovered a ring of keys dangling from the ignition switch. “She lied! Ha-ha!”
Ahead, the women broke from the field. They looked first at their crippled friend, then spotted Tim in the car. “Stop!” the woman in the lead cried.
Tim twisted the keys. The engine turned over with a roar as he slammed the accelerator. He shifted to reverse and looked back over his shoulder. The car flew backward and he shifted to drive and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The tires screeched and smoked as he wrenched the wheel and cruised down a perpendicular street.
He looked in the rearview mirror saw the fallen woman still in the street, still screaming. Two women attended to her while a third stood in the intersection, helplessly watching him get away. He stuck his arm out the window and flipped her the bird before turning down another street.
Now all he had to do was remember how to get back to the road out of town.
Suddenly he remembered Father Mike. For all he knew witches killed him, but what if they did not? Although he could be held partially responsible for getting him into this mess, Tim found he could not abandon the man with a clear conscience. With any luck the priest would be at home, and Tim would simply be able to pick him up and get him out of town. At worst he would lose perhaps five or ten minutes.
His decision made he steered for the church, eyes alert for any sign of recognition and/or pursuit. He passed one woman jogging along the street. She stared at him as he passed, and he watched her out of the corner of his eye. Once past her, he continued to watch her in the rearview mirror. She continued straight on down the street and her pace never faltered.
Deadliest of the Species Page 11
