The man behind her whispered something in a language she didn't recognize. The creature came to a sudden halt as if it had hit a force field, stopping in mid-air. It dropped harmlessly to the floor.
"What the..."
"Move." He shoved her at the broken window.
Mortianna reappeared in the doorway, her expression enraged as her gaze fixed somewhere over Maeve's shoulder. "What the devil are you doing?"
"Stopping you."
"Halt." The room fell silent as an icy wind was born. It whipped around the room, stirring the remaining flowers and tugging at the pink silk draping the catafalque.
Maeve shivered as the witch fixed her gaze on her. "Out of the way, mortal." With a flick of her finger, the icy air shoved at Maeve, effectively separating her from her savior.
"What the-" She stumbled as the wind abruptly ceased shoving her.
Raising one hand, the witch pointed at her son. "You either stand with me or against me. Choose now."
"I'll not let you kill an innocent."
Mortianna's head jerked as if his words had struck her physically. "Then you will die."
"So be it."
Maeve edged away from him and toward the window as mother and son locked in a silent duel. The witch's eyes remained pinned on him and, for a split second, her expression broke. Maeve could have sworn she saw regret pass over Mortianna's face. All too soon, though, it was masked and, in a small voice, she whispered, "Kill them both."
Maeve spun toward the window and freedom when it suddenly registered that the window was intact.
"What the devil-"
Outside in the crisp autumn leaves lay the urn. How could it be outside when the glass was intact?
"Go out the window," he hissed at her.
"I can't-it isn't broken," she protested. "How can this be?"
"It's magic. The window is broken."
"Magic?" She swung toward him, then gasped as one of the creatures grabbed the tail of her hair and gave it a vicious yank, almost taking her down. With a snarl, she reached back and grabbed the braid, tearing it from the clawlike fingers. Twisting, she aimed a backspin kick at its mid-section. Her foot connected and the creature emitted a sound like air escaping from a balloon as it flew across the room to hit the wall with a thud.
Scalp aching, she shoved her braid down the back of her shirt so her hair couldn't be used against her again. She risked a glance at the man to see him backing toward her. He held his hands in front of him and the remaining creatures hung frozen in mid-air. What was he doing? Was he a sorcerer?
"Go out the window now. I can't hold them forever."
"I can't..."
"You have to trust me."
She looked at the window once again. It reflected her image. How could she trust this man, the son of the most powerful witch in the world? Then again, did she have a choice? She took a deep breath and stepped closer. An arm wrapped around her waist, and she jerked in surprise.
"We're out of time," his low voice spoke into her ear.
A cry caught in her throat as he pulled her with him, running at the window. The second she heard the crisp crunch of glass shards under her feet, she knew he was right. The image of the glass wavered, then altered to reveal the massive hole in the center.
She leapt through the opening and into the chilly October air. Peripherally, she was aware of a sharp sting on her shoulder as her feet skidded in the damp leaves. The iron muscles of the arm around her waist kept her upright as she landed. Breaking into a run, he pulled her toward a Rover parked in the drive.
Her boots slid on the gravel as her vision wavered, her head pounding with each jarring step. When they reached the car, she wrenched open the door and dove in as the stranger ran to the driver's side. She slammed her door and locked it as he leapt in on his side. The engine started with a roar, and the tires spewed stones as he pointed the car toward the gates and floored it.
She looked back as they raced down the drive.
The witch stood in the remains of the shattered window, her beasts gathered around her. Her expression was an odd blend of anger and pain as she watched their escape.
* * *
Chapter 3
Mortianna smiled as the young vampire entered her workroom, every movement cautious. Dressed simply in black cotton leggings and a white mohair sweater, Gabrielle DesNoir looked fragile, almost wholesome in a macabre way. Her hair was a somber pale brown, cut short in a pageboy style; she looked like an image of the All-American girl next door. Only her unnatural, pale skin gave her away.
She wasn't fooled. Only a very brave person or an imbecile would dare approach the head of the witches in her own territory. Desperation had made fools out of many people before. As to which category this vampire fell into, she was very curious to find out.
"Why do you wish to speak with me, Gabrielle?"
The vampire jumped and spun toward the voice. Her expression showed her apprehension before she quickly masked it. Mortianna quelled her satisfaction at the further evidence of unease.
Gabrielle cleared her throat before she spoke. "I have a business proposition for you."
Mortianna stepped from the shadows and picked up a small tray containing items she'd collected earlier. "Indeed? What do you know of my business and what makes you think I want anything to do with the vampires?"
A bubbling pot hung over a low fire in the center of the round room. She set the tray on a small, marble-topped table before picking up a glass container. She made a great show of holding it up to the light so the vampire could see it contained human teeth.
"I have something you need." Gabrielle's voice was shaky, though she tried to control it.
With a pair of tweezers, Mortianna selected a tooth and dropped it into the cauldron. A hiss of dark blue steam escaped as the tooth broke the surface of the murky liquid. She returned the glass jar to the tray and selected a variety of dried herbs. "I'm listening."
"I'm sure you're aware of the events of the last winter solstice. The vampire Mikhail made a bid for the leadership of the Council of Elders and was tricked by Conor MacNaughten. We were almost killed."
Mortianna failed to quell the laughter that bubbled. "That isn't quite how I heard it happened but, yes, I know the story." She dropped the herbs into the liquid, and varying shades of green steam escaped as they sank below the surface. The scent was dark, earthy.
"Since then, our lives have become a nightmare of persecution. Our followers have scattered, fearing retribution from the remaining council members. Mikhail and I would like your help in regrouping our followers and gaining control of the council."
Interesting.
"Why didn't Mikhail come and ask me himself? Why did he send you to represent him?"
The vampire paused. "There was an accident and Mikhail was injured by MacNaughten."
"Injured? Why would I support someone who's in dubious health? If he cannot pay me a visit, how can he hope to command the Council? It takes an iron will and an even stronger hand to keep those beings in line."
Her visitor straightened her shoulders. "Should Mikhail be unable to carry his duties, I'm more than capable of taking over."
Ah, but the plot thickens...
Mortianna selected a large dipper and stirred the pot, the ancient handle familiar against her palm. "You want me to aid your cause in gaining control of the Council? How to you propose I accomplish this?"
"Align your army with ours."
Startled, Mortianna's gaze met the vampire's. Never would she have expected the creature to make such an audacious request. What sort of trump card did this little girl hold?
She paused in her stirring. "You ask for a great deal. Since the dawn of witchcraft, the witches have remained outside the politics of the preternaturals. Now you ask that we aid the cause of the vampires? What will we gain from this?"
"I'll deliver Damien St. James to you."
Startled, she released the handle of the spoon and it slipped beneath the bubbling surface. "Bother," sh
e muttered, annoyed she'd let the little vampire rattle her concentration. She grabbed another spoon to fish out the first. "What do you know of St. James?"
"I know he took your daughter many years ago and ultimately played a role in her death. It's well known you placed a curse on him and would've killed him if it weren't for her interference."
Mortianna dropped both spoons on the tray with a clatter. Presumptuous wench! "Edward killed my daughter, not St. James."
Gabrielle nodded. "He did and, for that, he paid with his immortal life. But it was Sinjin who set Bliss on the path to her own destruction, and he's what stands between you and avenging your daughter." She moved to a straight-backed chair and perched herself on the edge, a soft smile playing around her mouth. "I can deliver him within forty-eight hours."
Mortianna's mind whirled with possibilities. What the little vampire said was intriguing. Could she deliver Sinjin with a minimum of fuss? Was there something to be gained for the witches by throwing their support behind Mikhail and his followers?
With a flick of her hand, she ignited the kindling in the massive stone fireplace on the north curve of the room and waved the vampire toward it. "Come, let us warm ourselves while we chat a bit more."
She smiled to herself as she watched the vampire rise from her seat, her movements far more relaxed than when she'd entered the room. Gabrielle and her dark cohorts might be able to deliver St. James, but that wouldn't stop Mortianna from her current plans.
Digging into the voluminous folds of her cape, she located an emerald-colored pouch. Opening it, she withdrew a pinch of gray dust. Dropping it into the bubbling pot, she smiled as the steam turned black before fading away. Her potion was almost ready and the perfect revenge at hand.
Mortianna.
Maeve rubbed the throbbing spot just between her eyes as the witch's name tumbled about her brain like clothing in a dryer. She'd actually stood in the presence of the most powerful witch in the world. Surely Mortianna would know the spell that could bring down an elder vampire.
She slid a sideways glance at her silent companion. Mortianna's son should also know the spell. Raised at her knee, wouldn't the witch have taught her child everything she knew? The only question was how to get it.
She transferred her gaze to the dark countryside. Funny, she'd never heard the witch had a son. Then again, most preternaturals didn't talk about Mortianna, at least, not out loud. They lived longer that way. In the past few months, the mortality rate among the witches had risen and it was rumored she might be at the center of it. Maeve didn't believe it. Surely a witch would look out for her subordinates rather then destroy them out of turn, wouldn't she?
She shifted in the seat; twinges of discomfort in her jaw and shoulder making themselves known along with a more pressing need.
She cleared her throat. "Can we pull over?"
"Why?" His voice was deep and pleasantly rumbling.
"I need to use the loo."
He made a sound suspiciously like a snort, and Maeve frowned. Obviously, he was inhuman and didn't have such needs, but she did and soon, she needed a bathroom. She glanced back at the darkness speeding by her window. Not a light to be seen for miles. It looked like she might have to improvise.
What seemed like an eternity later, he pulled off the paved road and onto a little-used path, slowing considerably. As they traveled the ill-maintained track, she grabbed the door handle to keep from bouncing out of her seat.
"Where are we going?" She gritted her teeth as they jolted over a large rocky patch, slamming her sore shoulder against the door.
"Someplace private."
Ahh, she'd wrenched two words from him. She was getting somewhere. She stifled a groan as they continued bumping along the road, her discomfort increasing as they climbed ever higher. Finally, they reached a small clearing and he came to a stop. Before he could put the car in park, she moaned in relief and flung the door open.
Scrambling out, she didn't bother to shut the door behind her before darting into the woods. She clambered over fallen trees and underbrush for a few yards in the stygian darkness before finding a small clear spot that would suit her purposes.
After she took care of her most immediate need, she rose, grimacing as she tugged her clothing, still damp from her tumble with Mortianna's beasts, back into place. Nothing was worse than wet cotton against chilled skin.
She shivered as she began her trek back, careful to take better note of her surroundings. For the past hour, she hadn't seen a single light heralding civilization. How far out in the countryside were they? Night creatures rustled in the undergrowth, but she ignored them. She didn't fear anything living, only the dead.
She glanced through the treetops to the patches of night sky visible through bare tree limbs. Clouds danced overhead, playing hide and seek with the stars. Even the sky was unfamiliar. A wave of homesickness washed over her. She shoved the intrusive sentiment away. She no longer had a home, or a family; what was there to miss?
Tentatively, she stretched to relieve the aches in her abused body. Now that her immediate concern was taken care of, she needed to find out where she was and how to get to the nearest town, village or house. Heck, even a cell phone would do.
She strode out of the darkness toward the Rover and the man who waited for her. In the cool, blue glow of the waxing moon, he stood at the edge of the clearing near a drop-off, hands on his hips as he surveyed the darkness in the valley below. For the first time, she got a good look at her reluctant companion.
He was tall, well over her own five feet eight inches, topping out around six feet. Moonlight burnished his short, golden hair to silver and etched his features in shadow. Dressed entirely in black, he blended with his surroundings.
As she moved closer, her foot snapped a dry twig, causing him to turn to face her. Her breath caught in her throat as his pale blue eyes scraped over her, then dismissed her before he walked to the Rover. He moved with an athletic fluidity, the by-product of excellent muscle tone. His shoulders were broad and tapered into the lean lines of his waist and narrow hips. He was at ease with his body, unconscious of its beauty and power. He opened the tailgate.
She stopped a few feet away and crossed her arms over her chest. "So what's the plan?"
"I'll take you back to where you came from." His voice was low, cultured with a definite accent.
Fascinating. Now that her head wasn't ringing quite so much, she could discern Mortianna's son was an American.
She shook her head. "No thanks. I don't want to return to Sinjin's."
"Regardless of what you want, I'm returning you to where you came from." He pulled out a black leather duffel bag and dropped it on the ground at his feet. "What you do once you're there is up to you."
She placed her hands on her hips. "I said, no thanks. I can take care of myself."
"I can see how well you do that," he muttered. He busied himself unfurling a blanket and spreading it out in the back of the truck.
Stung, she straightened. "There were six of the little buggers."
"And you didn't win, so you can't take care of yourself." He paused, a dark nylon sleeping bag in his arms. "Get in."
She scowled and stepped back. "Why?"
"I need to rest."
She glanced inside the dim compartment and saw he'd put the back seat down to make a larger space. Even so, there was no way she was willing to get in there with him. She shook her head. "I can drive-"
"No, thanks. I need to rest in a stationary car, not bouncing around while you drive."
A shaft of fear ignited in her chest. "No."
"I don't think you understand. You either get in by yourself or I'll stuff you in. It's your choice."
Images of those strong hands in the air, holding Mortianna's beasts at bay came to mind. Did he have the power to physically move her? She glanced at his face and saw that he did, indeed, look weary and in no mood for a fight. The watery moonlight etched lines around his eyes and mouth. She sighed, reluctant
to admit she was also exhausted. It wasn't every day a girl was kidnapped by demons and escaped an angry witch.
Giving him a wide berth, she climbed into the back of the truck, scrambling into the far corner to avoid touching him. He tossed the sleeping bag in her direction before picking up the duffel. Setting it at the rear on her side, he climbed in and pulled the hatch shut, enclosing them in a small, dark area.
A wave of claustrophobia hit her and she squelched the urge to fling herself at the door as he lay down on his side of the blanket, his back to her.
"You should change out of those damp clothes. I don't want you getting sick on me. There are some dry things in the bag." His words were slurred, and, within moments, his breathing deepened.
Is he asleep already?
Maeve watched, making sure he wasn't going to move before she reached for the bag. With frozen fingers, she grabbed the handle and pulled it toward her. Opening it, she pawed around inside and found a small penlight. Flicking it on, she located a clean pair of sweatpants and a thick, ivory woolen sweater. She glanced uneasily at the man's back, the dry clothes clutched in her hands.
Will he turn around?
She scowled at the thought. To hell with him. If he wanted to watch, let him. She dropped the clothes in her lap and stuck the penlight in the fold of her knee. She wiggled out of her shirt, wincing as her shoulder pulled painfully.
What the devil was wrong with her? Inspecting her shirt, she was dismayed to find a large rent on the top of the shoulder, reaching down the back for several inches. The cloth was damp with blood.
Looking regretfully at the plush sweater, she wiped her damp fingers on her pants before pitching the sweater over the back of the driver's seat. There was no way she could put it on if she was going to bleed all over it. The pants were another story.
She wrestled her boots off and placed her last remaining knife within easy reach. Flicking the penlight off, she dropped it back into the bag and tossed it into the front seat. She wiggled out of her damp pants, stifling a groan of delight as she pulled on the dry sweats. The cotton was thick, wonderfully warm. She spread her clothing over the back of the passenger seat to air dry and slid beneath the sleeping bag.
Wilder, J. C. - Shadow Dweller 4 Page 3
