Paranormal Nights (Paranormal Romance Boxed Set)

by CJ Ellisson

  “Nigel! Front and center. Link up. This is your mess. You can just help fix it.”

  “Yes Sir. Hi again, Reika.”

  Her screen split into two parts; Nigel’s electric signature on the left, Akron’s vacant-looking alcove on the right. Reika nodded.

  “Last location fix on Beethan and his group again?”

  “Warsaw.”

  “That’s right. Warsaw. I don’t supposed either of you have heard of Die Glocke?”

  “No.”

  It was said in unison.

  “Die Glocke means bell. It was a secret Nazi program, something to do with time travel and aliens, if you can believe that. They built a series of military installations to protect one site. Called the complex Der Riese, or The Giant. And then, after the war, the entire place was abandoned to time and the environment. It’s a bunch of old, decrepit buildings. Miles of underground tunnels. Still pretty secret.”

  “You think he’s there?”

  “I’m saying it needs investigating. I’m sending the twins to assist.”

  “No.”

  “They’re already on their way, Reika. They’ll beat you there. Why do you think I extended this conversation? I’d give you Len as a contact, but he’s recuperating from Texas. Or so he says. That’s why he’s booked to our place in Bora Bora for a week. On my dime. I believe I’ll bring in Roger. Can you see to that, Nigel?”

  “On it Sir.”

  “One more thing, Reika.”

  “Yes?”

  She was on her feet, looking down at the monitor.

  “Don’t force him. Darryl. No force.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s my rule. Humans get a choice. They accept this mating thing of their own accord. Anything else will reap punishment. From me.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “Unfair or not, it’s the rule. No turning a resisting human. You can’t imagine the hell that creates. You think a scorned spouse in divorce court is bad. It’s nothing in comparison to a newly turned vampire with a hate mission. You should have been here in 1227 when…”

  He was still talking when she hit the off button.

  Chapter Nine

  Ah. Poland in February. The cold. Wind. Dark. Snow. Darryl was guessing on the last two since the vehicle didn’t have windows. All it had was a low-watt fluorescent tube mounted down the middle of the roof. Heck. The only thing worse was spending six months in the Amazon, fighting the heat and humidity, and the never-ending onslaught of insects.

  If he had the choice, he’d be on his way to the states, not riding blindly atop a road that needed grooming, in a vehicle that could use more insulation, a heat source, and a good bit of rust removal and putty before repainting. To heaven knew where. Some hidden base. Some secret hide-out. Didn’t matter. He was just playing along. He had that decided when two of them nailed him with some weird kind of stunners – hooks that latched into his pecs, dripping more of that fluid that felt more like acid than Holy Water. Every portion of his body had gone into lockdown while Felicia Trent screamed behind him. He couldn’t turn around to see how they’d silenced her. Nothing obeyed his command. He stood shuddering, but docile, while they’d divested him of his weapons. One guy even latched onto Darryl’s prize; that Italian seventeenth century dagger from Reika.

  The ability to move didn’t return until they turned off the continual stream of water and pulled the hooks out. And then mobility came in stages. They’d used the time to shove his arms through his jacket sleeves, prior to tying his hands with some silver-colored cord interlaced with crosses. From behind his back, he could feel the crucifixes dangling, making a weird religious charm bracelet. They also smarted each time they touched flesh. Not enough to wound, just enough to sting. He had the sensation firmly assigned to the section of his brain that he used for controlling pain, as they’d marched him out, that Beethan asshole leading the way.

  Darryl had been walked past the reception desk, where the doctor and Nurse Krakow lay prone, neither looking as if they’d be waking anytime soon, if at all. He’d breathed a sigh of relief at seeing them place Miss Trent into her chauffeur’s arms, giving some sort of bullshit story about a faint, before bundling him into a windowless van that held everyone else. And if he didn’t have super hearing, he wouldn’t have known they were headed to Warsaw. They wanted to see if he was recruitment material, what his skill set was. His accuracy. Stamina. And design a plan to eliminate his vampire. Nobody said her name. They didn’t have to.

  At the words, his heart had given him trouble again, causing a hitch in each breath he worked at ignoring, sending it to the same place all pain went. The squeezing sensation about his heart seemed to get sharper and last longer each time. He sure hoped it didn’t mean what he suspected. He shouldn’t care what happened to Reika. As far as he was concerned, she could take a flying leap into purgatory. Even if she wasn’t a monster, he wasn’t the loving type; never had been. In his line of work, loving someone got them injured. Kidnapped. Maybe even killed. He refused to care about her. Not in this lifetime, nor the eternity she’d offered. He didn’t dare love Reika.

  He’d rather have the bullet back.

  Darryl looked at the boots in the floorboard of their truck bed. The lighting was perfect with his new super-vision. It wasn’t bright, a bonus since one of them had plucked the sunglasses off his face. He could still see perfectly. Better than twenty-ten. Amazing. And he was keeping that to himself.

  Five guys sat opposite him, another two on either side; swaying and jolting whenever the road decided it. Their boots interlaced with the man across. Except his. He had his legs crossed - one ankle atop the other - as if this was just another ride to a mission and he’d better get some shuteye while he could. It would be more comfortable if he brought his hands forward, but that wasn’t in his plan. They hadn’t untied him, but the cord they used had filaments that stretched. He’d worked free within ten minutes of getting settled onto this hard bench. He didn’t know for sure where they were headed or what direction and it appeared they’d put a gag order in effect or something. No matter how he strained to hear, nobody spoke, except a curse now and again muttered from beneath some guy’s breath in the cab. Darryl was going to assume that was the driver.

  February. In Poland. Wonderful.

  Darryl lifted his head and looked at the men across from him, picking out the asshole with his dagger strapped to his hip, one man to the left. That fellow looked heavier than the others, resembling a big block without much neck. Older. Maybe…thirty-five. Not like the one on Darryl’s right. That guy was at most, twenty-two. Maybe less. Didn’t even appear the guy shaved yet.

  “Hey. You. Isn’t it Valentine’s Day tomorrow?”

  Blockhead looked like he didn’t want to answer. When he did, it was in a grudging fashion, like Darryl was trying to break into an exclusive club without an invite.

  “What of it?”

  That changed one supposition. No gag order. For the back of the truck, anyway.

  “You don’t send roses to your sweetheart?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Don’t you have one?”

  No answer. Darryl kept talking. His voice sounded weird; like he’d gained depth and range to it…that, or the truck had great acoustics. “You still got time. I understand you can order them delivered off the ‘net. Twenty-four, seven.”

  “I’m a Hunter. And a damn good one. See these patches here?” The guy pointed to a large, sewn-on, blend of color just above his chest pocket. It resembled a full-bird colonel’s patch collection.

  “Yeah.”

  “These on top are rare. They’re given for pair kills. I have four. You know what that means?”

  Darryl’s heart reacted with a thump that hurt. He tensed slightly, even as he worked to staunch it. He narrowed his eyes. Forced his body to endure what was turning into real pain and suffering. Finally got it subdued. Damn everything! He didn’t love Reika! He didn’t. He couldn’t. It wouldn’t work. He w
as a heartless soldier. To the bone. All he wanted was his freedom.

  “Well? Cat got your tongue?”

  Of course he knew. They were using him to bait Reika, and then – if he was unwilling to join up – well. He was going to be the reason one of them got a fresh pair patch.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” he asked finally.

  “Vampires kill easy. If you know where to hit. And what to use.”

  “A wooden stake through the heart. Let me guess,” Darryl replied.

  “Yeah,” the kid at his right side spoke up. “Only if you use consecrated wood made from a cross, it’s even more devastating.”

  “There’s something more devastating than death?” Darryl asked.

  “No. I meant, you don’t even have to hit the heart. Or…where they used to have a heart. Any hit with one of our special arrows will disable a vampire. That makes it easier to get close for the kill.”

  “That why you carry crossbows?”

  “Not all of us. Hans over there? He’s got a longbow. Gets great distance and accuracy. And Geoff prefers a Hunic backward curving bow. Don’t know why.”

  “Because it’s quicker, dumbass. More power at any range.”

  Darryl looked at the guy opposite and to the farthest right. Hans. He didn’t look like a Hans. He looked part African. He had a long bow all right. It topped his head by a foot. It was probably over five feet long. It was held against his left leg, the one closest to the cab wall. The fellow named Geoff was on their side of the truck, far left, at the rear. Darryl couldn’t see him, and didn’t bother looking. Scoping for weapons was in his plan. Getting caught doing it, wasn’t.

  “I’m rather partial to knives,” he told them.

  “You’ll like ours, then,” the young kid replied.

  “Why?”

  Young Kid pulled a combat knife from his belt on the far side, where Darryl couldn’t see. It took him some time to unlatch it. Over two seconds. And he had to look. The blade was double-edged and eight inches in length. Highly polished. Rarely used.

  “They’re special-made. They use Holy Water in the quenching process, while a vial of it is hidden in the hilt. Right…here.”

  The kid unscrewed the compass at the top and tipped it, revealing a vial of innocuous-looking liquid. Put it back. Screwed the top back on. It took him another three seconds to get it back in its scabbard and secured. And he had to look as he did it.

  “Knives aren’t much use against a vampire. Only for the kill. And severing a head, if it comes to that. Beheading will kill a vampire just as much as a stake through the heart. It takes longer though. And there’s a bit more blood to it. Charlie really likes doing that, though. Don’t you, Charlie? “

  “You know it, kid.”

  Charlie was the guy exactly opposite Darryl. He had a wicked-looking blade, the match to Stephen’s, only it was in his hand within a blink’s time of speaking up. And he didn’t have to look.

  “Charlie’s specialty is the blood eagle. Do you know what that is?”

  “Uh…no.”

  He did. He just had to gain some time to halt the reaction. A rush of pain radiated through his chest, before getting chased away by something close to anger. Then rage. His body was probably showing it, and if they had his vision capability, they’d know it. None of it seemed to stop his narrator. The kid was oblivious to Darryl’s taut frame right next to him.

  “It’s a form of torture practiced by the Vikings. At least, they list it in their Norse sagas. You fillet the chest open, break the ribs, and then yank the lungs out to spread them out on the back. Then thoroughly salt everything. Think about it. If you stake a vampire through the heart, game’s over. They turn to dust. No fun in that. Right Charlie?”

  It looked like the guy across from him nodded, slid his finger down his knife, and then gave Darryl a wicked-looking grin. It was hard to tell through the haze of pure red. They were talking about her. Reika. They wanted to take that gorgeous blond with the purplish cast eyes, whose body had delivered him to paradise, and torture her with the blood eagle? Or…maybe they were saving it for him.

  Darryl pulled in a deep breath. Held it. Let it out. Did it again. On the second exhalation, he spoke. There wasn’t the slightest bit of warble attached to his voice.

  “So…who uses guns? Anybody?”

  “That’s enough Stephen. Clam it.”

  Blockhead named the youth and tried to shut him down with the words, delivered briskly and sharp.

  “Why?”

  “Now.”

  “Okay, Sarge.”

  Darryl studied the group about him, digesting information. The Hunters appeared to be a quasi military organization; Blockhead outranking the others in the truck. They might be well financed, but discipline needed a swift kick. No sergeant would allow the response Stephen had given. That would earn a quick loss of stripes from Darryl. Their lack of discipline worked in his favor, as did the little lesson in weaponry they’d just given him.

  Bows would be impossible to use in this space. Their knives were going to be the issue. And Charlie was going to be the first one on Darryl’s list. He’d just have to block the others from getting theirs out of their scabbards in the meantime. That left firepower. Blockhead opposite him was packing. Darryl had already seen the .357 strapped to the hip opposite Darryl’s dagger. There was at least one more. Somebody in here had his Beretta.

  “You like talking so much; you want to tell us something?”

  Blockhead started another conversation. Darryl looked him over for a bit before answering.

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “Are they as good in the sack as we’ve heard?”

  Ouch. The heart thing stopped him from answering for a bit. Darryl twisted his face as if considering his answer. He didn’t know how well they could see, and it hid the other problem – the one afflicting his chest. I do not love her.

  He cleared his throat. “Well…yeah. They’re amazing. In fact, I don’t think there are enough roses,” he finally replied. “Oh. Wait. You mean you don’t know?”

  Blockhead sneered. “I’m not one for necrophilia.”

  “None of you?”

  Darryl turned right and left, checking the faces around him, putting an incredulous expression on his as they all shook their heads. “Man. You guys might want to consider that before you hack a head off next time.”

  “Enough.”

  “Well. You did ask.”

  Darryl looked back to the collection of boots interlaced atop the floorboard. He got what he wanted. None of them had his advantages. None were half-turned. Letting him know was a big mistake. They wanted to play rough? He’d just have to play rougher. Heck. They probably thought that little bit of cord still held him.

  Hunters. He’d never realized how little regard any of them showed for life. No wonder some people considered a vegetarian lifestyle. Darryl contemplated the truck bed beneath his boots at length. The truck slowed, as the driver down-geared. Stopped. Doors opened. Two men got out, including the driver. That Beethan jerk was probably the lone one still sitting in the cab, presiding over everyone as if that lordship title he claimed meant something. Maybe it did. Maybe he led them because it was hereditary. Or maybe they’d elected him…

  No. Scratch that. Definitely granted by birth. Blockhead was proof. That guy could take out Lord Chester Beethan before mid-morning coffee break.

  Darryl cocked his head slightly, listening to the sounds of large chains getting pulled through metallic brackets, followed by the squeal of doors that needed oiling as they were pushed open. The men got back into the cab. Slammed doors. The truck started off again, this time with a lurch of clutch action that sent everyone in the back sliding along the benches, while the truck stalled. Nobody said anything in the back. Someone up front got a cussing out. The truck restarted, shuddered into gear, and then entered a large cavernous area, the jet-engine sound giving away some more secrets.

  The space was probably underground. The ech
o was solid. Non-metallic. And vast. Maybe designed for an underground railroad. If Darryl remembered correctly, the Nazi regime had built a secret facility in Poland. Near the Czech border. Close to the Wenceslas Mine. The truck caught another gear as it gained speed. The sound grew denser.

  These guys really needed an education in covert operations. They’d just given Darryl several more things. First, the young kid carried a knife he wasn’t very adept at. And Blockhead carried Darryl’s dagger. Both within easy reach. Secondly, the ground they traveled was smooth; nothing much in the way, like tracks. Third, the tunnel was getting smaller, and most likely darker. If he eliminated a light source, they’d probably need night vision goggles. He wouldn’t. Fourth, they’d left the entrance open and unobstructed. And unchained. Easy to escape through and then disappear. No one to see or interfere. And lastly, the driver was the nervous type. The dropped clutch was proof.

  He’d be Darryl’s last obstacle. If he hadn’t run off by then.

  These Hunters had some smarts, though. This truck, for instance. It had seen more years of existence than Darryl claimed, probably leftover from the Soviet occupation during the Cold War era. That explained the excess ventilation and rusted condition. No doubt they owned it because it blended in. They’d changed out the engine, however. The whine of a turbo-charged 5.7 liter diesel engine bouncing off the tunnel walls was proof.

  Darryl concentrated, using his hyper-hearing to listen beyond the sound of his own blood moving through his veins. Any sounds from the others about him. Their reticence was a decided plus in his favor. He zoned in on the vehicle’s odometer, and heard it clicking. They passed the one kilometer mark…neared the second.

  The truck slowed again, the down-shift drowning out the odometer. Fair enough. He had a good estimate. Looks like his immediate future included a bit of trauma, followed by a two kilometer sprint to freedom. And he wasn’t leaving the dagger behind. Any second now…

  The truck stopped without warning, unseating the back occupants, amid a squeal of brakes. A siren blared into being from somewhere outside, penetrating the vehicle in waves of sound. It was accompanied by two spears thrown with lightning precision. They tore through metal, impaling Stephen and the guy on his right before lodging into the back of the cab, shuddering with the impact, the two Hunters skewered and gurgling on their very own shish-kabobs.