by Sienna Skyy
Jamie brought her eyes back to the road ahead and felt a strange quickening in her pulse.
“Something’s wrong,” she said.
Next to her in the front passenger’s seat, Bedelia’s hands went to the armrests. “What is it, hon?”
Jamie scanned the road intently. “I . . . I don’t know. Something’s out of place. I can’t tell what.”
Everyone sat up straighter.
“It’s the cars, man!” Forte said from the far back. “Where’d all the cars go?”
“My God, you’re right,” Bruce said.
Jamie’s hands gripped the steering wheel. It was true. She couldn’t see a single headlight in either direction. As they rolled onto the bridge, the Hudson flowed in darkness hundreds of feet below, the black water catching ripples of reflected light. Her eyes scanned the rearview mirror.
“You thinking of doubling back?” Bruce said, reading her mind.
“It might be the only . . . my God, look!”
The road behind the van suddenly groaned and stretched backward, the bridge expanding so that the tollbooths seemed to fall back several miles. Doubling back was no longer an option.
“Gun it!” Bruce shouted.
She did.
Jamie floored the accelerator, centering the van among the empty lanes to allow as much room for error as possible. This bridge had always seemed invulnerable and vast. Now, with the speed maxed out—not exactly racecar velocity, but the van could haul when necessary—the bridge suddenly seemed puny and narrow.
The van zoomed across, the travelers inside barely breathing, and Jamie saw the exit for the Henry Hudson just ahead. She felt a sprout of hope. Perhaps they’d moved quickly enough to avoid whatever was about to happen. She inwardly congratulated herself for having become so attuned to clues, developing reflexes of steel acuity and—
The suspension cables moved. In the sharp-angled glow of the bridge’s spotlights, they shifted and folded into themselves, and then expanded, fanning out like butterflies. Shannon screamed.
The thing that had formed itself from the suspension cables now arched its spine, taking the build of a massive, braided-steel dragon, the scales of its back crisscrossing in the same latticework patterns of the bridge’s towers. It turned, bent, and leaped down into their path, fixating upon the van with predatory posture.
Jamie slammed on the brakes. The beast’s eyes were silver, lizardlike, and the size of Jet Skis.
The motor of the van hummed, its occupants too shocked to scream.
And the metallic dragon’s nose flared.
“I’m going out there,” Bedelia said.
Jamie looked at her.
“What?” Forte yelped. “That’s crazy!”
Bedelia turned to Jamie. “Listen to me, hon. I’m going to run out there to that thing. And when I do, you gun the van past it.”
Jamie couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
She shook her head. “No way, Bea.”
Jamie threw the gear into reverse, but she did not hit the gas. The lizard stepped forward, causing the bridge to quake. Jamie knew that the van could never muster enough speed to outrun the beast.
Bedelia’s hand went to the door handle.
“No!” Jamie flipped the automatic lock. “No, Bea, what’re you . . . just . . . no!”
Bedelia turned to her sharply. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve seen it in a dream, knew it from the first moment I hugged Bruce at the hospital. It’s what I’m meant to do and it’s okay. I’m proud. It’s okay, honey. I’ll be with my husband and my daughter and my sister.”
She flicked the lock, and then the door was open. She was out of the van before Jamie could reach out to stop her.
“Bea!”
But Bedelia was already running toward the ghastly lizard. Everyone in the van screamed, Emily in hysterics. Bedelia shot one look over her shoulder and met Jamie’s eyes. And in that instant she conveyed to Jamie how deeply she meant what she’d just said. That Jamie had to honor her instructions.
And then Bedelia turned. She ran straight for the dragon without so much as a pause.
Horrified, disbelieving, shaking, and weeping, Jamie obeyed. She threw the van back into drive and jammed her foot on the accelerator, following behind Bedelia just as the horrible, wretched beast stretched its massive jaws toward the gentle woman, its pupils narrowing to elliptical spikes as the silver lower lids rolled upward.
Emily was shrieking in the back. Searing, anguished wailing. Tears streamed down Jamie’s face, and she must have been screaming as well. She couldn’t look at the creature, couldn’t see what it was doing to Bedelia as the van rocketed past. What Bea had done, the sacrifice she’d made, had given them all just enough time.
They started for the off-ramp. The bridge quaked beneath the wheels of the van. Jamie shot terrified eyes toward the rearview mirror and saw the lizard turning. Its tongue darted out, long and metallic like a playground slide, and forked at the end. In the split second it appeared, it gouged the pavement behind the van. Shannon screamed.
But it missed them. The seconds it had taken to do whatever it did to Bedelia had left it just far enough behind. The beast reared up, tried to make up the distance. When it lunged, though, it lurched sideways, getting tangled in the suspension cables that held the bridge taut.
“It’s falling!” Forte shouted.
The great tail of the beast whipped from the towers to the underbelly of the bridge and its massive black nails scraped at the web of cables. Two of them popped and the bridge groaned.
And then the giant lizard vanished. There came a vacuum of silence followed by a terrific, earth-shuddering splash from the Hudson River below.
Emily wailed, calling out Bedelia’s name.
Jamie wanted to wail as well. Wanted to beat her hands on the steering wheel over the unconscionable price Bea had paid for their freedom. But she knew there was only one way to honor her friend’s sacrifice.
She drove.
36
NEW YORK
ENERVATA HAD LEFT GLORIA in her room while he went to pour their Courvoisier. Now, as he approached her door with the glasses, he heard her voice whispering fervently. He paused without entering.
He’d only left her alone for a minute. If she were taking Sileny into her confidence, it would probably be best to let her have her moment. Though he didn’t like it, he had to trust that Sileny would guide her to him tonight.
Tonight.
He allowed for this privacy, a thing he would never have to do again, and replaced the Courvoisier and the glasses. He went instead to his wine storage room. Gloria disliked cognac, anyway. Tonight was not the night to attempt to expand her palate.
He ran his hand over a prized possession, a Château Lafite more than two hundred years old that, etched in the glass, bore Thomas Jefferson’s initials. Gloria would be delighted. But no . . .
The wine might prove so extravagant as to distract. Tonight must be flawless. And, perish the thought, but excellent cellaring or no, the likelihood of the Lafite surviving to be supremely quaffable was a distant . . .
He lifted his head, suddenly wondering how Hedon and Isolde were managing with the travelers. How many heads might they have collected while Enervata and Gloria enjoyed the Peking opera?
And then he returned his attention to the wine.
What else . . . A 1952 La Tâche. Perfect. He withdrew the bottle and exited the cool wine storage. He was surprised to see Isolde there, just as she was departing through the archway.
He frowned, annoyed. Gloria’s door was even open. Reckless canteshrike, what if she’d been spotted?
“Isolde, what the devil are you . . . ?”
She disappeared without paying heed to him.
Enervata’s fury burst within him. He thought to pursue her and kill her on the spot. If she had not disappeared like that, he would have.
He turned toward Gloria’s door, which remained open.
He paused. He looked down at
the bottle still in his hands. The La Tâche was a Romanée Conti. He’d already served her wine from that chateau once before. He wouldn’t want her to think him unimaginative. It would be better if he selected something else. In fact, perhaps he should forego Burgundy altogether and surprise her with an entirely different region. Bordeaux.
He returned to the climate-controlled storage and swept his gaze over the gorgeous collection.
Gloria was a woman of complex, delicate layers. A woman to be savored. Enervata bristled at the notion that an obtuse mortal might have ever enjoyed her before he did. He would torture Bruce for that before he killed him.
The 1989 Château Pétrus. Magnificent wine—a lovely Bordeaux from Pomerol. It would probably go for about five thousand dollars a bottle at auction. Perhaps a far cry from one of his other treasures, but as far as drinkability for such an important night, it was a desirable choice.
Oh, but he did so love La Tâche. No; let it be Pétrus.
They could have La Tâche tomorrow night.
“Bea saved us for a reason, tyke,” Forte was saying from the backseat, his arms wrapped around Shannon as he spoke to Emily.
Emily buried her face in Bruce’s chest and he smoothed her hair, kissing the top of her head.
“I know,” Emily gulped. “I just . . . I loved her!”
“Shh,” Bruce soothed. “Shh, baby.”
The van slowed and then rolled into the curved driveway. Before them stood an ornate stone building with broad arches topped in scrolling, buttercream trim. Jamie turned, eyes solemn as she unbuckled her seat belt.
Bruce looked up at the pale expanse of stone and the great, foreboding entryway. He patted Emily’s hair. “You wait in the van, okay?”
Emily pulled back from him, fists to her eyes, and lifted her chin. “Don’t make me do that. We should stick together.”
“She’s right,” Jamie said. “You’ll need all four of us. Besides, it’s probably more dangerous to leave her in the van.”
Emily looked at Bruce with wide, blinking eyes. “I want to be brave for Bea. I want her to be proud of me.”
Gloria accepted her glass.
Enervata admired the long, flowing lines of the green dress spilling over her figure. “Was that Sileny I heard you speaking with earlier?”
Gloria tilted her head at him. “Sileny?” She set her glass down on the tray.
His brow creased at her untouched wine. “It’s a 1989 Pétrus. Very rare at this point.”
Gloria moved slowly, her body lithe and her back to him, the spill of chiffon flowing behind her so much like the feathered tail of the peacock in the tapestry. She stood before it now.
Perhaps he should have followed his instinct and poured the La Tâche after all.
She turned back to him, her expression intense. Tall, proud, and gilded. Her eyes shone; dark eyes, but with brilliant flecks of gold and emerald, not unlike the colors in . . .
“Those feathers,” he breathed.
Gloria stiffened. Her gaze swept to Enervata’s feet. He looked down.
No more than six inches from his shoe, curled, with their finer hairs swaying from the gentlest air currents, lay two silver feathers.
A black fog bank stole in about him. “Isolde?”
Gloria stepped forward. “The performance was amazing tonight, Aaron. I’d never experienced the Peking opera before.”
“What have you been doing in here?” He grabbed her wrist and yanked her.
She swayed under the force of his hand, a flicker of terror waving across her face. It excited him.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she gasped. “You . . . are you angry? You’re frightening me.”
He released her wrist, his pulse racing. Isolde. He would kill her now—kill that reckless canteshrike! He tried to calm himself.
“I must leave.” He said, gritting his teeth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“Really? Do you have to go?”
He struggled to deal with his fury. He had to tend to Isolde. Immediately.
But he couldn’t leave Gloria frightened and wondering. He looked down at her.
She was watching him closely, eyes wide, dark, and searching.
He looked toward the door. Why had Isolde been here? Did Gloria see her? He didn’t dare ask.
“Aaron, I . . .” She stopped.
Her words drew his attention fixedly upon her. He could smell her perfume. And beneath it, the scent of her skin. Warm and womanly, but uniquely Gloria. This creature had been squandered on a mortal whose olfactory senses were probably so obtuse he couldn’t smell that skin unless his nose was pressed to it. Enervata’s mouth watered to taste her now. Thoughts of Isolde drifted silently away.
Gloria extended her hand to the wine, moving ever so slowly. “Did you say this was Pétrus? Won’t you share a glass with me?”
She lowered her eyes. “Of course if you have business to attend to, I completely understand. It’s just that,” she raised her chin again, eyes meeting his. “Just that I’d rather not be alone tonight.”
Hedon. Bruce recognized the fat man from when they’d fallen into the crevasse in West Virginia. Hedon stood leering at the travelers in the cold marble reception. As Bruce paused in mid-stride, several other uniformed attendants filed in from a back room. Bruce guessed that they were something other than security guards.
Hedon’s grimacing face chilled Bruce’s blood. That man had snored through a monster truck massage.
“Steady, everyone,” Bruce said to his four.
“Join hands,” Jamie whispered.
They hovered around Bruce and linked up, fingers hooking with other fingers, and they felt the same now-familiar shock they’d experienced in Bruce’s hospital room. But this time, there were no visions of leather-skinned Maculs. Just a tremendous, coursing, surge of power.
“Take their heads off!” Hedon shouted.
The guards lunged.
Gloria took Enervata’s hand, sitting him down on the chair at the vanity. It caused the tiny hairs to rise on his skin.
“There,” she murmured, handing him his glass.
He accepted the wine, but did not release her hand. He took it, turning her wrist so that her palm faced upward, and he smelled her skin.
And she let him. God, she accepted his touch. Basked in it. After he’d breathed in her scent, she lifted her fingers and combed them through his hair from his temple to the base of his skull.
Shannon screamed.
One of the guards hurled himself at Jamie but stopped just shy of her. Bruce’s fingers remained locked with Jamie’s. He wondered why the guard paused.
“Concentrate, everybody!” Bruce shouted. “Remember who you are.”
They continued to grip one another’s hands, terrified. Emily whimpered. Another guard leaped over the reception desk and plunged after her. Bruce gasped, wanting to lash out and strike him, but he held firm. Their only hope was the focus of their own minds and hearts.
“He can’t touch you, Emily!” Bruce shouted. “Because you’re pure and full of compassion. He’s evil and that makes him weak against you!”
He hoped the sentiment gave her strength. More important, he hoped to high heaven it was true.
The guard bellowed, his lips mere inches from Emily’s face, and the others crowded in too. A squat guard with an Edward G. Robinson frown pounced as if he were going to break Forte’s neck. They snarled and slashed at them, though their flesh never actually touched a single quester.
Hedon seemed the most dangerous by far. He roared, sour breath tangling into Bruce’s hair, and stamped his foot so hard it smashed the solid marble floor.
But strangely, as he loomed over Bruce, a trickle of blood slid from Hedon’s nose. Hedon blinked as he realized he was bleeding and took a step backward.
“We can stop them!” Bruce said. “Draw on everything you have. Remember why you’re here. Remember who you are.”
A guard drew out a hunting knife and thundered
at Emily. She stiffened, and Bruce gripped her hand. She squeezed her eyes shut. The guard took on a look of acid delight. He held the knife, drawing a slow trail in the air over Emily’s neck.
“Just keep concentrating. He can’t hurt you, Em!”
Bruce willed the power of his own soul at the guard.
The guard’s hand jerked back. He seemed stunned for a moment, but recovered quickly and feinted at Emily, sneering.
Bruce saw the fear in Emily’s eyes and he thought of the little girl tending to children in the park, tending to him in the hospital.
Bruce thundered, focusing the power in his mind and in his heart. His love for Emily, and Jamie and Forte and Shannon, for Bedelia and her sacrifice. His love for Gloria. Gloria was so close to him now, somewhere in this very building.
He released it on the guard.
Enervata slipped his fingers around the satin bow that bound the dress at Gloria’s shoulder. Gently, softly, slowly she swung her head and her hair moved to the side, over the shoulder that was already bare. He tugged, and the smooth green knot released, the bow pulling apart. A drift of satin and chiffon whispered down her back.
He ran his hand along the curve of her waist, feeling the tantalizing warmth through the fabric, and he found the zipper that lay hidden beneath the folds at her underarm. He pulled that free, too, and the dress opened to reveal her.
The surge of energy exploded from Bruce.
For just a moment, the guard’s sneer remained on his face. Then both he and his knife combusted in a putrid cloud of dust.
Hedon looked from left to right and took another step backward.
The guard with the Edward G. Robinson mouth lumbered sideways. He stopped and regained himself, then leered at Shannon.
“Focus, everybody!” Bruce shouted. “We’ll kill them all this way! Every last goat-smelling one of them!”
“Get this one here!” Forte shouted, glaring at the demon who was hovering over Shannon.
And five minds began bending with concentration. Edward G.’s hard-angled mouth clenched, and he writhed. The five watched him.
Hedon shrieked, “Stop this ninny hopscotching and spill these mortals’ blood!”
