by Anne Frasier
"W-where are we?"
"In the church."
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm supposed to watch you. Make sure you don't scream or try to get away."
"Where's Alba?"
"Don't know."
"Is there anybody else around?"
"Don't know that either."
Maybe he wasn't really one of them. Maybe he was just an opportunist. "We have to get out of here."
That suggestion was met with a long silence. "Didn't you hear what I just said?" he finally asked. "I'm here to watch you. To make sure you don't get away."
A chain had been wrapped around them both, binding them together. "You're a prisoner too."
"Temporarily. This is a test. A test I'm going to pass."
She thought about the boy she'd known, and tried to connect him to this stranger.
You couldn't trust anybody. She felt like such a fool. She'd actually daydreamed about him. She went out of her way to avoid that conventional, mainstream crap, yet she'd daydreamed about him.
"You drank my blood," she said. "Do you realize how sick that is?"
"Depends on your perspective."
"Do you really think you're a vampire? Because you drank my blood?"
"Not yet. I'm not one yet."
"Vampires don't exist."
"Do you believe in God?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Do you have proof He exists?"
Alba's betrayal had hurt, but Graham's betrayal hurt more. "I was good to you. I helped you. I defended you. I taught you to knit." Her voice broke.
"It's nothing personal."
"You stink."
Behind her, he shifted. He touched her hair.
"You smell good."
"Vampires don't exist."
"Did you forget? My dad's a vampire. That makes me a vampire's son."
She wished she could see him. Wished she could look into his eyes. Maybe then she could reason with him. Maybe she'd be able to tell if he believed what he said.
"They're going to kill me. You know that, don't you?"
"Haven't you ever wished you were dead?"
She didn't answer.
"Everybody does at some time or another. I know you have. Alba will be doing you a favor, if you really think about it."
The air in the room was cold, but she suddenly realized he was putting off a lot of heat. It radiated from him. And his voice was strange, kind of fervent and slurred at the same time.
She lifted her bound wrists to her mouth and began chewing the duct tape. Once she got a good rip going, it was easier.
"Stop that," he said.
With her teeth, she tore a narrow strip free. She spit it out, then wiggled her hands, finally pulling them apart. Her muscles were cramped, and at first she couldn't control her arms. Finally, with a slow, awkward movement, she raised one hand behind her—to touch Graham's temple.
"You're burning up."
She ran a hand down the side of his face.
She could feel whiskers, and once again she had the sensation that this wasn't Graham, that this was a different person, someone she didn't know. His jaw was sharp, his cheekbones pronounced. In her mind she pictured how he'd looked when she'd first seen him in the church. Like some homeless guy. Skinny, his kneecaps poking sharply through his jeans.
"I think I have a fever."
"You need a doctor."
He made an annoyed sound and slapped her hand away. "Quit trying to talk me into something that isn't going to happen. Let's change the subject." He paused for a new thought. "Do you read?"
"Read?" That was his new subject?
"Yeah, like books. Do you like to read books?"
"I'm not sharing anything else with you." And she wasn't going to let him lead her off in a different direction. "Graham, listen to me. We have to try to get out of here. Before . .. someone ... comes ..."
Suddenly she didn't have the energy to continue. Her voice trailed off. Her chin dropped to her chest. She jerked awake, but immediately began to drowse again. "Sleepy ..."
"You lost a lot of blood. That's what happens when you bleed to death. If you're worried that it'll hurt, it won't. You just fall asleep. And you never wake up again. It's no big deal."
No big deal. Her death would be no big deal. "You're an animal. Worse than an animal. I hate you. I loathe you."
"You said that before."
Nothing touched him.
She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to get back at him, at least a little.
"I listened to your stupid CD with all of those stupid songs. I didn't want to, but I did just to be polite."
She'd loved them, every single one. She would lie in bed at night and listen with earbuds.
"I hated them. Lame, happy, naive crap. Stupid, stupid stuff. I mean, my parents are classical musicians. I know good music. The stuff you gave me was like something somebody who doesn't know anything about music would like. Like something a baby might listen to."
She wanted to say more, but her rant had worn her out. She tried to lift her arm, but couldn't. Her eyes fell closed again, and her body went limp. Before she lost consciousness, she imagined she heard a strange sound. Like a sob.
Travis stood outside his house, hands in his pockets, shifting from one foot to the other while waiting for Johnson to pick him up. It was actually going to happen. The trap had been set. Everything was going just like they'd been told it would. Travis had to admit he'd been skeptical at first. He'd just gone along with the whole vampire thing because he liked that kind of shit But this was the real deal.
He patted his waistband, making sure his dad's handgun was still there. The front door opened and his mother stuck her head out. "Honey, don't forget your jacket. You really need a light jacket tonight."
He walked to the house and took the jean jacket from her. "Thanks." He realized he might not be coming back. A car came barreling around the corner, then squealed to stop.
"I wish Craig wouldn't drive so fast," his mother said. "Tell him not to drive so fast."
Travis laughed and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "See ya, Mom."
He spun around, ran down the sidewalk, and jumped in the car. Johnson put the vehicle in gear and they roared away. Five minutes later they were speeding down the highway.
This was it. The night they would all become immortal.
Chapter 39
The green Toyota sped up the highway, sending the digital readout on the state patrol's radar gun to seventy-three mph. It was a fifty-five zone. Officer John Malcolm set the gun aside, flipped on his lights and siren, and peeled out, gravel flying.
He hated radar duty, but he loved this part of the job.
The pursued car didn't slow.
Not that unusual. Sometimes it took drivers a few minutes to realize they were being chased. But as John continued to follow, the car increased its speed. He radioed for backup, giving his location and the direction the car was heading. He shifted in his seat, sitting up straighter, both hands on the wheel. His patrol car had a lot of horsepower—he rapidly closed the distance between them until he was near enough to read the plate. He tapped on his high beams, pulled out his radio, and called in the number to Dispatch.
There were three heads inside the car. All appeared to be male. The person in the backseat turned around. Suddenly John's passenger windshield made a popping sound, then shattered in a sunburst.
John swerved and almost lost control as he whipped the car back to attention, at the same time backing off.
They were shooting at him. Jesus. He'd been a cop for five years and nobody had ever fired at him.
This was river country, and the landscape rapidly shifted from gently rolling hills to craggy cliffs and sharp turns. The road surface was black; the night was cloudy and dark. The only thing worse would have been rain.
He slowed for a hairpin curve. A back tire hit loose gravel, and for a second he thought he might roll. Once he was back in control, his heart hammer
ing, breathing rapid, he realized he'd lost visual contact with the car.
He drove two more miles.
Nothing.
They couldn't have gotten away. At least, they couldn't have gotten that far ahead of him. He slowed, flipped off his siren and lights, did a quick three-point turn, and headed back in the direction he'd come.
He lowered his window and aimed his search light along the bluffless side of the road, following the guardrail's sharp curve until he came to a missing section.
Idiots.
He pulled over, withdrew his high-powered flashlight, got out, and walked to the section of broken railing. At the bottom of the ravine he spotted the green car lying upside down, one back tire spinning.
There was no sign of activity.
He radioed the dispatcher and gave his location. "We're going to need a couple of ambulances." He was afraid it was too late. A request for a coroner would probably be his next call.
Now what?
Someone could still be alive and in need of immediate medical attention. Yeah, and that person could have a gun.
He waited and listened, trying to come to a decision. Then he thought he heard a faint cry.
Drawing his weapon, he slipped and slid down the steep hill. When he reached the bottom he bent and shined the flashlight into the crushed car. The person behind the wheel looked dead. He circled the vehicle and shined the light in the passenger side. His stomach lurched and he had to look away. The head was crushed.
Definitely dead.
"Help," came a faint cry from several yards away.
He raised the light.
Lying on the ground, one leg bent under him, forehead bleeding profusely, blood running in his eyes, was passenger number three. The guy who'd shot at him.
John crouched beside him. "An ambulance is on the way," he said. "Hang in there." Just a kid. Probably only sixteen or seventeen. "What's your name?"
"Travis."
"Travis, somebody will be here any minute. I need to go back over and check on the others in the car." Make sure the driver was really dead.
"Wait!" Travis didn't want to be left alone. "How are they? Are they okay?"
"They're both in pretty bad shape."
"Are they dead?" Travis's voice rose. "They aren't dead, are they?"
John couldn't see much point in lying. "I'm afraid one of them didn't make it. I'm not sure about the driver."
"No. We can't die. None of us can die."
"Everybody dies."
"Not us. We're the Pale Immortals."
Ah. John had heard of them. Buncha idiot kids who pretended they were vampires. "You just need to lie there and keep still. Someone will be here any second."
"No! I have to get outta here. I gotta go. We all gotta go."
"Where? Where are you going?"
"Old Tuonela. We have to get to Old Tuonela right away."
John was sick of all the Old Tuonela, new Tuonela garbage.
Whenever he went to a law enforcement conference and people there found out where he was from, they teased the hell out of him and he was no longer taken seriously. He'd been thinking about getting a job somewhere else, in another state, but whenever he brought up the subject his wife got upset, saying she didn't want to leave her friends. But John figured it was better to get out now, before they had kids.
"There's nothing in Old Tuonela," he said. "Nothing but a bunch of decaying buildings."
"You're wrong. That's where we were heading."
"Were you going to a party?"
Underage kids liked to party there, but most teenagers were too afraid to go to OT during the day, let alone at night.
The injured kid reached blindly for him, and he gave him his hand to squeeze. John kept looking at his bent leg, wanting to straighten it, but knowing that would be a bad idea. It was probably a compound fracture. Straightening it could slice an artery.
John's ears picked up the faint wail of a siren. "There'll be other beer parties to go to," he told the kid.
"No, not a party. Not that kind of party," the kid said in protest. "First we ... we were gonna bathe in the blood of a virgin. After that, we were going to eat the heart of a vampire."
John let go of the kid's hand and stood up. He could see the flashing lights now. Oh yeah, he definitely needed to look into relocating.
Chapter 40
Sitting in the passenger seat of the police car, Rachel leaned forward and strained to see through the windshield, watching for the narrow lane that led to Old Tuonela. The night was humid, and the wipers were on high. Wisps of fog hovered in ditches and clung to vegetation along the side of the highway.
Seymour had radioed the dispatcher to check on the availability of backup, only to find that all units were occupied—some at Isobel's, the rest at a fatal crash site.
"There it is," Rachel said. "Turn here."
Seymour guided the car down the lane that had once been a road. Over the years the gravel had been swallowed by mud until the only things remaining were parallel ruts with center vegetation that caught and scraped on the undercarriage. The headlights didn't penetrate very deeply. The beam reflected off birch and cottonwood trunks, illuminating the car's interior in uneasy flashes of light.
Seymour made a left, shot up a steep hill, and pulled to a stop not far from the main house.
"I heard the Pale Immortal was born here," Rachel said as they walked up the curved path of uneven bricks and weeds, her father training his flashlight in front of them.
"I heard the man who killed the Pale Immortal lived here," he said.
That's how it was. So many conflicting stories. The very stories Evan had hoped to sort out. But instead he had become part of the lore.
They climbed the steps to a sprawling porch surrounded by a wall of the same gray stone with supporting pillars that narrowed from a broad base.
Phillip Alba answered their knock, his face in shadow, his body backlit by a ceiling light. He wore black pants, black shoes, and a gray wool vest over a white dress shirt.
Seymour apologized for their late visit. Alba opened the screen door wide and they stepped inside.
The house had been beautiful once, with dark wood and high ceilings. Now piles of crumbled plaster littered the floor, and in some places water-stained floral wallpaper and bare one-inch wooden slats showed through. A massive staircase led to a landing with a boarded-up window, a turn, and another flight of stairs.
Even though the house had endured a few halfhearted renovations, it felt dead. Not a good place for anybody to live. Especially someone with a recent history of tragedy.
"We're looking for Evan Stroud. We have reason to believe he headed this direction."
"I heard he's suspected of killing Chelsea Ger-ber." Alba shook his head. Very sad, he seemed to say.
Alba had probably known her. Maybe she'd been one of his students.
"Have you seen him?" Seymour asked.
"No."
"Have you noticed any suspicious activity or people around here lately?"
Alba frowned in concentration. "The weather's getting warm. On weekends I sometimes have to run kids off."
"Would you mind if we look around? In Old Tuonela?" Seymour asked. "Just a quick peek."
"It's not safe to walk there at night." Alba stuffed his hands into the pockets of his vest. "It's hard to get through now. All the paths are overgrown."
"I was there not long ago," Rachel pointed out.
"Things grow fast here. I guess it's the soil." He shrugged. "But if you really want to go ..." He shook his head, implying that he thought they were nuts.
"We'll manage," Seymour said. "I have a couple of strong flashlights."
Alba stood there a moment longer. "I'd better come with you. At least I can show you where the paths are. Wait; I'll be right back."
He vanished through the dining room. A light appeared in the kitchen; then Alba returned wearing a brown coat with deep pockets and carrying a lantern. He'd exchanged his shoes f
or brown leather boots.
All three of them left the house and headed in the direction of the woodland that stood like a thick wall on the edge of the clearing.
"Looks like you've had a lot of traffic this way," Seymour noted as they strode down a well-worn path that led away from the house.
"Raccoons." Alba lifted his lantern higher. Up in a tree, two pairs of eyes reflected from the branch. "The place is overrun with them."
He removed a padlock from a gate and swung it open, stepping out of the way to allow Seymour and Rachel to pass.
Rachel and her father walked side by side, their flashlights trained to the ground as they swept them back and forth.
Tire tracks.
If it was so hard to reach Old Tuonela on foot, why were there tire tracks? "Who's been driving here?" Rachel asked.
Alba paused to stare at the ruts. "I don't know.... I keep the gate locked."
Seymour crouched down. "They're fairly recent."
"Today?" Rachel asked.
"Not sure."
Father and daughter resumed their walk, ending up in the graveyard with the rotten oak tree.
The ground had been disturbed.
An unmarked grave had been dug up and left exposed. Rotten, splintered pieces of wood littered the area.
"So he was buried here," Seymour said in a hushed tone.
Rachel put a hand on her dad's arm in silent com- munication. Who had known about the oak tree and the possibility of a secret grave? Her father. Alba. Dan.
Evan.
Evan could be nearby right now, with the girl. Seymour must have been thinking the same thing. He unsnapped his holster and drew his gun.
And the world exploded.
A deafening roar came from a few feet away. Her father jerked. His flashlight hit the ground and went out. There was a gasp of pain and the sound of exhaled air moving through clenched teeth.
Rachel struggled to comprehend the event.
Another gunshot.
Another grunt of pain from her father.
She felt his hand on her arm, his fingers like claws. She thought he was clinging to her to keep from falling, but suddenly he shoved her. Hard. More gunshots exploded and the ground dropped out from under her.
She tumbled down a sharp incline, smacking her flashlight against a rock, breaking it. Trying to stop herself, she reached blindly, slamming into a tree halfway down the steep slope, the wind knocked from her.
