by Leanna Ellis
Her middle sister, Hannah, often came to visit, as well. But ever since Hannah had married Levi and moved into their little house next to the Huffstetlers’, a tension had developed between sisters like static electricity, invisible, yet even a glance or word could rub Rachel the wrong way and jolt her with its existence. Was it because Hannah had found love when Rachel had lost hers? Was she so shallow as to wallow in jealousy?
When Hannah and Levi had married, Rachel felt relief. Hannah had finally let go of Jacob and clasped a new and real love and life with Levi. Yet a part of her had remained numb from Josef’s sudden death.
Maybe Rachel simply resented everyone hovering around her, handling her like fragile glass. Maybe she begrudged the way they’d moved on with their lives. Maybe she wasn’t as strong in her faith as she’d hoped.
Six months ago, when Hannah and Levi had delivered the news as gently as possible, a glass box had descended on her. All the voices speaking to her, words of comfort and concern, were muffled and distorted. She’d focused on her baby, keeping her baby within her womb, and pushed all questions aside.
From time to time, she allowed her thoughts to wander. She fretted and dreamed about Josef—of his being thrown from his buggy, of a car slamming into the buggy. Of blood.
Steadily, she withdrew into herself more and more. She didn’t want to know the details of Josef’s death. What would it matter anyway? Would knowing the details, blaming someone or something change anything? She would still have to forgive. She would still have to move on. She would still face having a baby on her own. The sad fact was that Josef was gone. Forever.
Maybe his death was the cause of the tension. Hannah knew the details but wouldn’t speak of it to Rachel. If pressed, she spoke in vague terms: “It was an accident. Josef is in a better place.”
A better place? Of course, heaven was better than here on earth, which was what they’d been taught. But Josef had been too young to die. He was needed here to be a husband and father. Didn’t Hannah understand? But her sister had simply remained stoic and unapproachable on the subject.
Still, Rachel feared her past had finally caught up to her and the words of Moses would come to pass on her and her baby: And the LORD passed by before him, and proclaimed, The LORD, The LORD God, merciful and gracious, longsuffering, and abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the guilty; visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, and upon the children’s children, unto the third and to the fourth generation.
Rachel tapped down her tumultuous emotions and searing questions and attempted to soothe her soul with God’s word: For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed upon with our house which is from heaven…Therefore we are always confident, knowing that, whilst we are at home in the body, we are absent from the Lord.
And now, in this rare moment when she was totally alone in the fields, she should have felt reassured. Life was finally getting back to normal, and she should feel peace settling around her, hedging her in. But instead, a sense of foreboding descended on her like a sudden lightning storm.
The sky, however, was clear, and the sun made its slow, reliable rise into the bright June day. Rachel dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead with the hem of her apron. There’s nothing to worry yourself over. Even though she’d had a slight scare at the beginning of her pregnancy, all was well with the baby now. Her back ached though, and she kneaded the muscles at the lower juncture near her hip, thinking how nice it would be to have Josef offer his dependable arm or solidness to curl up next to at night and make her feel safe.
A ruffling breeze stirred the loose strands of hair at her nape, and a chill rippled down her spine.
Rachel.
She lifted her chin. Had she heard her name on the wind?
It was a silly thought, and she brushed it aside as she waved her hand to shoo a bumblebee. Her gaze strayed away from the strawberries and across the field. As far as she could see—the fields of corn and hay, the whitewashed house with laundry hanging on the line, and the weathered barn where goats and chickens meandered—she was alone. Still, despite the warmth of the sun slanting downward out of the bright blue sky, goose pimples speckled her arms.
Pushing up from the ground, she stood, arched her back to stretch out the kinks, and picked up the two full baskets of strawberries. The wind stirred the heart-shaped leaves of a mulberry tree, and her footsteps faltered. There it was again—her name.
Rachel.
She stopped, turned, but there was no one around, no one at the barn or on the porch, no one calling to her. Was it her imagination? Or too many sleepless nights?
***
When she reached the house, she placed the baskets of berries on the back porch, so Mae’s husband could drive them over to the fruit stand when he returned with the buggy. She glanced toward the green-shaded windows and wondered if Timothy was napping already. Not wanting to disturb Mae, she tiptoed down the steps and walked along the path toward the barn where more baskets were stored.
It felt good to stretch her legs and move instead of crouching down in the field. She passed a tiller and plow, then the fenced-in yard containing the family’s chickens and irascible rooster. Several goats were penned nearby; one of the kids had climbed a stack of hay bales, while an expectant mother goat lay in the shade, chewing her cud.
The barn door was wide open when she entered, and a whiff of smoke wrinkled her nose. She glanced around for its source. “Hello?”
No one answered. As she moved farther into the barn, the haze of smoke vanished. Could Eli Troyer have been smoking again? But she didn’t spot the fourteen-year-old or anyone else for that matter. A harness clinked against a metal pole, and Rachel flinched. Then she noticed the open window and soft breeze, and laughed at her nerves.
The snuffling of a horse reassured her all was as it should be, and the smell of dust and manure filled her nostrils with familiarity. Toward the tack area, stacks of half-bushel and full-bushel baskets, which were used for collecting the vegetables and fruit and sold at the stand, were nested in a tall pile. She gathered several in her arms, resting the bottom one on the top of her belly.
When she heard her name again, she jumped. The baskets tumbled and scattered on the floor. This time, the sound of her name wasn’t floating on the wind or a puff of cloud. This time, it was distinct and solid, as if she could grab hold of it.
“Rachel.”
Her breath snagged on her windpipe as she turned. She fell back a step. A dark-haired man stood between her and the open door, his face in shadows. But his silhouette, his stance, the tilt of his head and timbre of his voice reminded her of Jacob Fisher. A shiver shot through her. “Jacob?”
Deep laughter rang out, and the rumble of it vibrated through the barn, unsettling her even more. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the sudden movement of a leg sticking out of the hay in the loft above and suddenly disappearing. So Eli was up there smoking, after all. A minute ago Eli’s sneakiness would have irritated her, but she was now too stunned by the man in front of her to feel anything but fear.
She blinked, focusing on the one who looked so familiar and yet not. Those dark eyes mesmerized her, made her feel as if she was falling with nothing to grab onto. “Who are you?” She took an instinctive step backward. “W—what do you want?”
“You.”
Chapter Two
It was time. Roc had been planning this for weeks, careful to gauge the time and location, careful to give himself every advantage, careful no innocent bystanders were in the way.
When Father Roberto Hellman had helped him destroy the vampire Camille in the quiet, unassuming Amish cemetery of P
romise, Pennsylvania, Roc had learned that the smell of blood—any blood, human or vampire—drew bloodsuckers from miles around, circling like sharks.
Even Roberto had been startled by how many vampires existed in his own neck of the woods. He had always claimed to know the bloodsuckers’ strongholds, one of which was New Orleans, but maybe he didn’t know as much as he thought. Or maybe age was catching up to him.
Six months ago, the priest had been quick enough to snag a hungry vampire on the prowl, which had then led them to another and another. Roc had lost count of how many vampires they’d disposed of in the following weeks and months, each time destroying the bodies (and evidence) in bonfires.
“Is that how to make sure they don’t come back from the dead?” Roc had asked, still learning what he could about this new, disturbing world. He’d never wanted to explore the supernatural, or super-unnatural, and had shunned it at first, until forced to confront it after the death of his wife, Emma.
Roberto shook his head, his blue eyes blazing, his gaunt face flushed from the recent fight. Firelight flickered across his features and deepened the shadows along his cheekbones. “Just keeps the authorities from knowing anything.”
Having been a cop, Roc was keen on this aspect, yet suspicious—forensics had ways of knowing. “But what about the remains? Bones and teeth?”
Kicking at the ashes, Roberto tapped down on a persistent ember before it caught the surrounding grass afire. “Nothing remains. Look for yourself.”
When Roc tried to find any pieces of the vampire—bone, flesh, or hair—among the charred logs, ashes, and embers, he’d found nothing.
Through it all, Roc had learned: preparation was everything. Over the last few months, he’d worked hard to get his body in shape; chasing vampires wasn’t for couch potatoes or alcoholics. He’d used weights Roberto stored under his cot and taken to running every morning. He was back to the shape he’d been when he first entered the police academy. And this morning, Roc was as prepared as any vampire hunter could be.
But he and Roberto wouldn’t be a team tonight. Not this time.
The last few months of staking out vampires and the challenge of destroying them one by one had taken a toll on Roberto, deepening the creases in his face, darkening circles beneath his eyes, and making him seem even more frail than usual. Of course, he wasn’t frail, not by any stretch. But Roc didn’t want to risk the old man’s life. At some point, Roc would have to go solo or find a new partner. So, he’d planned this attack without Roberto’s knowledge.
But he wouldn’t be totally alone. Not that he couldn’t handle it…them…alone. But he wasn’t keen on dying either. And backup could be useful. He wasn’t a rogue force all by himself, and he certainly wasn’t on some suicidal mission. He respected the power of his enemy and would not take it for granted. So, he’d brought along an apprentice, whom Roberto had introduced him to a month earlier.
Ferris Papadopoulos looked as if he’d stepped off Mt. Olympus and was ready to battle the netherworld, which was a good thing, because in actuality he was. Young and bronzed by the Grecian sun, this affable youth had come to Roberto months earlier from the recommendation of a fellow priest in Mexico City. Celibacy had apparently been a problem for Ferris, and so his mentor had suggested he serve the Lord in a different capacity.
Ferris began learning right along with Roc, challenging him in his workouts and strategizing self-defense moves. The kid was ready. Or as ready as he’d ever be—no one was ever fully prepared for the first battle: the whispering assault, the black eyes that made the world tilt, the first thrust of a weapon, all the blood, and the hard, unrelenting stare into the face of death.
This morning, which looked more like night than day, heavy gray clouds hovered over the University of Pennsylvania campus. Through research, Roc had learned of its Philomathean Society. One of its heralded archives stated: “Philomathean fierce blood suckers, foulest of the vampire brood.” So Roc had dug into the society, its members and sponsors, which had led him to a certain Professor Victor Beaumont.
His credentials appeared solid until Roc looked beneath the surface, where his origins were dubious at best. With a background in literature and his last teaching position at Tulane University, the professor had a loose connection to Akiva, who had once gone to New Orleans for a literary tour of his favorite authors. But Roc needed more to go on.
Checking with U of Penn students had brought to light a few of the professor’s idiosyncrasies and his penchant for dark stories. It was rumored he’d had an affair with a student a couple of years ago, and when he dumped her, the coed had left school. In reality, she had disappeared, and her parents had been searching for her ever since without success.
Then there were the initiation rites of the Philomathean Society. All involved blood.
It warranted Roc’s following the professor. For the first week, all had seemed normal, even dull. But then the professor had disappeared for more than twenty-four hours, even missing one of his classes. According to his students, Professor Beaumont often vanished on a full moon. So Roc broke in to investigate the professor’s house, and found a freezer full of plastic containers, labeled and dated—blood.
The next day, Roc had been waiting for the professor after his class on nineteenth-century American literature. Surrounded by his students like he was some sort of rock star, Victor Beaumont walked out of his classroom. He had spiky silver hair and matching goatee. He wore a tweed jacket, and beneath it a plain brown T-shirt, and faded jeans. As the tall, smiling man left the building, backing his way through the doorway, he’d tilted his shades downward and winked at Roc. Roc’s hackles rose at the sight of those black, sin-filled eyes.
Now, even in the cloying humidity and the feeble light, the stately College Hall, with its gothic style, looked as if Lurch might answer the door, if a doorbell had been available to ring. Beyond the tops of the leafy trees speckling the campus, a light glowed in a fourth-floor window. It was where the society held its secret meetings, had its library and archives, and even housed an art gallery. It was where Roc fully expected to find the professor.
With summer and the weekend in full swing, the building was empty. At a side entrance, to access the building, Roc used a “borrowed” student ID Ferris had procured. Ferris followed him inside. They were both dressed for the warm weather—T-shirts and jeans—and utilized the stairwell rather than any elevator, moving parallel to each other along the wide expanse of steps. The younger man was already gripping a wooden stake, a replica of Roc’s, in anticipation of the bloodbath to come. Ferris’s brown eyes were wide as he peered into the dim corridors and passageways. A flickering light overhead made a buzzing sound.
Nerves gripped Roc as they always did in the moments before battle, and he suspected the kid must feel the same on his first kill. Nothing Roberto could teach or Roc could say would prepare Ferris for the point of impact, the final thrust, the rush of blood. To take a life, even the life of a vampire, was never easy. Maybe even worse. For eternal hell, if one existed, awaited these monsters. Looking into their dark eyes, the glint of life fading, the strength waning, the fight dying, was not for the weak of heart or purpose.
The kid was strong, though, determined and full of what Roberto called divine providence. Ferris believed God had sent him on this mission, to learn from Roberto and purge the world of this pestilence known as vampires—it was a noble cause. But Roc’s motive was simpler in nature—pure revenge. Still, how would Ferris actually perform in the fury of battle? Would he falter? Hesitate? Run? The unknown set Roc’s nerves on edge.
The vampire they hunted today had done nothing personally to them. Personal vengeance wasn’t necessary. The simple fact was that this creature was a bloodsucker, requiring food, and that ultimately meant human pain and death. But Roc also suspected this one might lead to Akiva. And Roc wouldn’t quit hunting till he found Akiva and destroyed hi
m.
The stir of air-conditioning ruffled Roc’s hair, which had grown longer and thicker over the past months. A clicking sound alerted him, and he paused, his hand clenching not only his Glock but also wielding the wickedly useful wooden stake Father Anthony had given him back in New Orleans. His gaze snagged and narrowed on a yellow Post-it note stuck beneath the edge of a door as it flapped like a wounded bird’s wing. Roc leaned against the wooden railing, glanced right, then left, and held a hand up for Ferris to wait.
A quick shift in focus revealed Ferris had moved ahead without waiting. He had already reached the next shadowy landing of the fourth floor, and his gaze seemed fixated on a hallway ahead of him. Without a backward glance in Roc’s direction, Ferris crept forward as if being summoned.
Roc gave a whispered call, “Hey!”
But Ferris rushed forward. From his stance, Roc suspected Ferris saw something up ahead. But then the kid’s arm went slack, his weapon pointing toward the ground instead of being raised in battle-ready position. Did he hear the whispers? Those whispers had the ability to confuse and confound, to turn someone’s thinking into a twisted spire of indecision.
Roc raced up the stairs, taking two at a time, pausing at the top. His Glock couldn’t save Ferris or him but it could buy them precious seconds. He took a shallow breath, his back to the wall, and then launched himself around the corner, bracing himself, ready for anything, pointing the 9mm. At nothing. An empty hallway met him. His gaze bounced around the walls and ceiling and doorways. Ferris must have shot forward out of Roc’s range. Roc cursed and pushed on. He glanced sideways as he passed closed doors, trying to spot any signs, warnings, or traps.
