“May I ask something?”
Vincent smirked. “Sure. I can’t guarantee I’ll answer it, but you may ask anything you like.”
“What makes you different from the rest of these... monsters... we’re dealing with?”
The word grated on Vincent. Spend every day working hard to be normal, be accepted, and then one person comes along and throws that word out and you take forty steps backward. Monsters. He looked at Lenny. The man wanted an answer.
“Different? Nothing.” Vincent leaned in close to Lenny, his voice low to the point of growling. “Only this: I will do anything and everything in my power to keep Sam alive and safe.”
“How sweet.” There was a tinny echo to the words, but the voice was unmistakable. Vincent turned to look up the parking ramp.
John Prutzmann leaned against a concrete column near the top of the ramp, his arms folded across his chest. “Makes me feel all... Warm and fuzzy inside.” Prutzmann chuckled, shook his head slowly as he smiled at Vincent. “Glad to see you’re finally getting in touch with your emotions, Vincent. Although, having seen the lovely Miss Karolyi in person, I’m sure it hasn’t been difficult for you.”
Prutzmann continued to smile as he stood and began to stroll toward the two men. “The thing is, Vincent, emotions can get you in trouble, impair your judgment, cloud your senses.” Prutzmann stopped and slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat.
Vincent caught the movement out of the corner of his eye too late. He felt the impact of the punch to his jaw in the same instant that he saw an equally hard punch hit Lenny in the side of the head and send him flying through the air. Vincent watched the other man hit the concrete farther down the ramp, the force of the blow propelling him into one of the painted concrete bumpers near the stairwell entrance.
Lenny was very, very still. Vincent rubbed his jaw, watching Lenny to see if he was... Yes, he was still breathing. Vincent straightened, raising his gun up, ready to shoot the werewolves as they attacked. But the attack never came. Both werewolves stood still, their dead eyes fixed... on Prutzmann.
Prutzmann made a dismissive gesture, effectively shooing them away. The werewolves growled low at Vincent before running away, back down the ramp.
One paused on the way, grabbing Lenny by the leg and dragging him down the ramp. Vincent silently prayed that, if anyone was down there that, for Lenny’s sake, it was a cop with a very big gun. He watched as Prutzmann strolled toward him, stopping a few feet away.
Vincent heard two pops echo from down below them, followed a few moments later by two more. If the screeching and howling were any indicator, the shots had hit, and they were doing their job. Perhaps Lenny had recovered consciousness long enough to take them out? Not likely, but someone most definitely did.
Vincent looked at Prutzmann. The man’s face was a mask of cool and indifference. “I think your boys are dead, John.”
Prutzmann chuckled. “Like I said, never let your emotions cloud your senses. It could get you killed. Or worse, I suppose.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Are there worse things than death, Vincent? Perhaps... Guilt?”
“Guilt? For what? Dublin? I learn from my mistakes, John.”
Prutzmann smiled again, “You learn from your mistakes, eh?”
Vincent looked at the gun in his hand and smiled in return. “Ten years... My aim is much better.”
Prutzmann slipped off his coat, laid it on the low concrete wall nearby and began to unbutton his shirt. He smiled at Vincent. “The shirt is imported from Italy. Staining it with your blood would be a travesty.” He removed the shirt, carefully folding it and laying it on top of the coat. “Now then, are you ready?”
Vincent aimed his gun at Prutzmann’s head. “I don’t have time for this, John.”
“You don’t have time for it either way. She’s going to change, Vincent, any minute now, and there isn’t a thing you can do for her.” Prutzmann shrugged. “You’ll probably have to kill her, too.” He sniffed the air. “I can almost smell your fresh guilt now. Another sweet, beautiful girl dead because of you.”
He watched the play of emotions across Vincent’s face – from pain and guilt to anger – with relish. Any minute now, Vincent would put down his gun, his noble nature leading him once again to presume the same nobility in others and make a dangerous mistake.
Prutzmann could feel his muscles tensing up, the adrenaline starting to pump through his body, his synapses firing faster and faster as his body and mind prepared for the soon-to-be fight. Of course, some of the rush was the tide coming. It had to be nearly six o’clock, nearly high tide, nearly time for the change if he chose to embrace it. It had been awhile since he had let it take him, almost two years. But now... Prutzmann moved his head from side to side, felt the stretch of his muscles, the faint crackle as his vertebrae moved into alignment. He wasn’t young anymore; the years of changing had taken their toll on his connective tissues, making every morning, or rainy day, a less-than-pleasurable experience, to put it mildly. He took a deep breath, banishing his thoughts of aches and pains as he shook his hands, his fingers flexing.
Vincent wasn’t moving. That damned cannon of a gun was still trained on him, aimed right at his forehead. Perhaps he had truly lost his touch as an antagonist for the younger man. Perhaps all these years of solitude and death had changed Vincent in a way that the change itself never could. Perhaps –
Prutzmann heard the stairwell door slam open before he saw her emerge. She was running, sweating, blood staining her face and chest. Weber looked at him, her light eyes intense and full of fear before running up the ramp past them.
Seconds later, the door slammed open again, and it was HER. Prutzmann almost gasped as the wave of pheromones hit him. He saw Vincent waver slightly, his gun-hand dipping a few millimeters, as the wave hit him.
Vincent turned to look at her and Prutzmann grinned. Never let your emotions cloud your senses. He saw her run by in pursuit of Weber and run up the ramp. Prutzmann took a deep breath, blocking out her scent as he lunged for Vincent.
29
BEN PEEKED AROUND THE concrete column at the ramp leading up to the B-Level of the parking ramp. A-Level had been clear, with only a few stragglers from day shift hurrying into the hospital, into the waiting arms of the cops who were now in the ER and lobby areas.
The ramp was eerily quiet. Ben ducked back, taking a deep breath and preparing to head up toward the next level.
Then he heard it. It was hard not to hear the scratching sound with all the quiet echoing through the concrete garage. Ben carefully peeked out around the column again and froze.
Two werewolves were coming down the ramp, their feet padding softly on the concrete with nails tapping ever so softly as they walked. Even though he had seen them at the mortuary earlier, Ben couldn’t help but be awed by them. Freaks-of-nature that they might be, they sure were impressive-looking. The first one, a dark gray in color, slowed slightly as it neared the bend in the ramp and looked back toward its companion.
Ben slowly moved forward a little, bringing the second werewolf into clear view. The second werewolf was more of a mousy brown in color, but what was interesting about it was what it was doing. It was dragging something behind it, or more accurately someone.
Ben felt his breath catch in his throat as he recognized the coat – It was Lenny.
Lenny seemed completely limp, hopefully only unconscious, and blood stained the collar of his shirt and the side of his head.
The brown werewolf stopped dragging Lenny for a moment and began to growl and grunt at the gray werewolf in what could only be called a “language.” The gray werewolf “replied”, and the brown werewolf promptly began to drag Lenny again.
That’s when he saw it.
Ben looked back at the place where Lenny had been just moments before. There in the middle of the ramp was Lenny’s gun. How Lenny still had it was a question for the ages, particularly in the condition he appeared to be in. There it was, though and, if Ben remembered
right, that gun was loaded with “silver bullets.” At least, it was if Lenny hadn’t used them all up.
Ben looked at the werewolves and at the unconscious man being hauled presumably to his death, and a horrific death at that. He could get the gun; he knew he could make it. The question was whether he would be able to do anything with it. If it was loaded... well, he’d done well at the range, and if Vincent’s shots were any indicator, you didn’t have to hit them in the head or chest for the mercury to be effective.
But if the gun wasn’t loaded... Ben took a deep breath, swallowed hard. Crunch-time... Now or never.
Ben bolted out from behind the column, arms pumping, legs pumping. He saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, a flash of movement down the ramp, but he didn’t turn, he didn’t falter. He had to hit his mark, had to get that gun. It was his only chance, Lenny’s only chance. He could see the gun, shining brightly on the concrete pavement. He was almost there. He was going to make it.
Then he could hear it... one of them was coming, and it was close. Ben leaped, preparing himself mentally for the physical impact his body was about to receive as it hit the concrete and slid forward. He’d done this hundreds of times playing baseball as a kid, playing softball as an adult, but this... this was the most important slide home he was ever going to attempt.
His body hit the ground, the pain of the impact jarring him and continuing as he slid across the pavement. He could feel the brush burns forming as he slowed to a stop. There was the gun, right near his hand, right where he had hoped it would be when he landed. Ben grabbed it and rolled over.
The brown werewolf was nearly upon him, its limbs assuming the predatory crouch that always preceded a lunge.
Ben brought the gun up quickly and fired one shot, then another. Both shots hit, one in the chest and the other in the stomach. The brown werewolf gave a screeching howl and reeled backward, falling onto its back and beginning to convulse.
Ben scrambled to his feet and away from the creature. A howl echoed from down below and Ben turned in time to see the gray werewolf abandon Lenny and run toward him.
Ben took his time with this shot, aiming for the gray werewolf’s head. He fired off two rounds and it dropped to the ground, its momentum sending it tumbling up the ramp toward him as it screeched and writhed. It began to melt almost immediately. As it tumbled into one of the concrete barriers, it seemed to explode like a gelatin mold, pulverizing into wiggling pieces that melted into puddles as they hit the ground.
Ben glanced over at the first werewolf he had taken out. Nothing but a silver stain on the pavement remained.
He’d done it. Two werewolves, dead. Ben looked down at the gun in his hand and let out a long, whooshing breath. Lenny. Ben checked that the safety was on the gun before carefully sliding it into his jacket pocket. Then he ran down the ramp and crouched beside the injured man. He checked for a pulse and breathing; both present. Ben searched through his jacket pockets, pulling out his mobile phone. He grimaced. The daring dive he’d taken earlier may have saved both of their lives, but his phone had become a necessary casualty.
He pressed the screen and keys in vain. Deader than dead. Stuffing the dead phone back in his pocket, Ben reached into Lenny’s pockets, hoping that his mobile phone was still functional.
Ben touched the phone’s screen and it sprang to life. He quickly dialed 911 and waited as it began to ring. That’s when he heard it... A low vocal hum, someone talking. It sounded like it was right above him, somewhere up on the B-Level.
Then the voice changed, and that voice was familiar. Vincent.
Ben heard the dispatcher pick up on the other end as he carefully set the phone down beside Lenny. He patted the injured man gently on the back and whispered, “Hang in there, man. Help’s on the way.” Ben stood quickly and jogged away up the ramp.
Nearing the bend in the ramp, Ben slowed and ducked down, skirting along the wall until he reached the end. Quietly and carefully, Ben looked around the corner.
Two men stood in the middle of the ramp facing each other. One was definitely Vincent, and he had his gun trained on the other man as he spoke: “Staining it with your blood would be a travesty.” He removed his shirt, folding it carefully and placing it on top of his coat nearby. “Now then, are you ready?”
Vincent aimed his gun at Prutzmann’s head. “I don’t have time for this, John.”
“You don’t have time for it either way. She’s going to change, Vincent, any minute now, and there isn’t a thing you can do for her.” Prutzmann shrugged. “You’ll probably have to kill her, too. I can almost smell your fresh guilt now. Another sweet, beautiful girl dead because of you.”
Ben frowned as he listened and tried to process what he was hearing. What’s he talking about? What girl? Who did he kill? He said she’s going to change... He means Sam.
Suddenly, the door to the stairwell swung open, slamming against the wall with a loud bang that reverberated off the concrete, echoing through the parking ramp. A tall blonde woman ran out, her hair disheveled, blood staining her face and the front of her shirt. She was sweating and gasping for breath. She looked at the shirtless man, seemed to know him, before continuing to run up the ramp and out of sight.
Then the door slammed open again, and it was Sam. She, too, had blood staining her face and clothing. She looked at Ben for the briefest of moments before turning and running up the ramp after the blonde. Ben watched her disappear up the ramp.
He heard the fight start before he saw it. Ben turned to see the shirtless man and Vincent struggling on the ground, each attempting to choke the other one as they rolled on the ground. They started moving toward his hiding place and Ben leaped clear as they slammed into the concrete barrier. He watched for a moment, his hand reaching into his pocket and feeling for the gun.
She’s going to change... any minute now.
Ben took his hand from his pocket. Sam had been there for him his entire life, or at least the parts that mattered. Whatever the risk, he would be there for her now. Ben turned from the fight raging in front of him and ran up the ramp.
30
SAM SHOVED THE STAIRWELL door open, slamming it against the concrete wall bumper. The bang resonated through the parking ramp, fading out slightly before echoing back almost as loudly as the original sound. Then it was quiet. Sam stepped out into the dimness of the parking ramp.
Their scents hit her before her eyes could even focus enough to see them. The rich, deliciously male scent that was Vincent hit her first. He wasn’t far away, maybe four yards, near the rise in the ramp driveway, and Sam could feel a familiar pull in her abdomen as she looked over at him. He knew she was here, even if he hadn’t turned to look yet.
The other man with him most definitely knew she was there. He was looking at her so intensely that Sam thought she might melt away right there if he didn’t look away soon. It was a frightening gaze, full of raw sexuality and violence. And then Sam realized where she had seen those eyes, that face, before... And why Ivan Karolyi had good reason not to want to get in that subway car.
Sam shook off the onslaught of male pheromones coming from those two and tried to focus on finding Weber’s scent.
That’s when she smelled it... a lighter, distinctly human male scent. Ben. She searched for the scent source and found it closer than she had expected. He was crouched behind the concrete barrier wall, three feet away, his clothes were marked with dirt and light traces of blood around the scratch marks on his shirt and pants. Thank God, he’s still alive! He started to move to stand, but Sam raised her hand, motioning for him to stay put. He was staring at her, his expression a blend of anxiety and expectation.
Sam smiled, only a slight twitch of her mouth, but it was enough for Ben. The questioning look had faded from his eyes, replaced with obvious relief. Sam gave him a nod and then took off running up the ramp. She had to get away from all of these guys, if she was ever going to get a clear scent on Weber. She rushed past Vincent and the other ma
n, their scents fading as she reached Level C and turned towards Level D.
It was at the turn to Level D that she caught it... Diane’s scent. Sam sped up. The warmth inside of her continued to intensify. It felt like every muscle in her body was on fire. Her joints were beginning to ache, too. Her chest hurt and her head was pounding. Thought I was in shape. Guess I thought wrong. Sam chuckled at that as she raced through Level D and started up the last run, the ramp that led to the rooftop level of the parking ramp.
31
VINCENT FELT HIMSELF waver slightly as Sam’s scent hit him. It had reached an intensity that was almost overpowering, and the heat that the impending change to her body was generating radiated out in waves. She literally could change at any moment and, as much as Vincent wanted to be there to help her through it, he needed to get her away from Prutzmann fast. The question was, how? Get out of here, Sam... Please...
Sam ran by them, following the path of the other female up the ramp and out of sight.
Vincent felt himself sigh in relief. Thank God! Now to just... His thoughts were cut short by Prutzmann’s first punch. Vincent reeled backward, his gun flying out of his hand and sliding over close to the wall. He struggled to recover from the blow, reaching up for his jaw. Swear to God, the man has steel grafted into his hands. He stood up, and was promptly tackled by Prutzmann, the two men falling to the ground. Prutzmann grabbed Vincent around the throat, trying to get his fingers and thumbs into position to choke him. Vincent got his hands up quickly, reaching for Prutzmann’s throat. The two men rolled along down the ramp, each struggling to overcome the other.
Vincent saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He tried to get a better view, hoping it would give him some kind of advantage if those two werewolves had returned to assist their master.
Then he saw him: Ben. The younger man skirted by them, eyes wide and unsure, as he headed up the ramp, his footsteps speeding into a run once he was past the struggling men on the ground. He’s going after Sam. Got to admire that kind of loyalty and courage.
The Bloodline Series Box Set Page 20
