Over waffles and coffee Roger had told her how the Korbinians had lived in the Tennessee mountains for hundreds of years, their numbers declining until only Bren remained. There was more to the story, Roger had said as he’d glanced suspiciously around the restaurant, but the basics would do for now. Like her, Brennus Korbinian was very different. Like her, he was considered by some in the Order, an organization that had employed Roger to study her like a bug under a microscope, to be a menace to the world.
Bren was the last of his kind and the Order wanted to keep it that way. She still didn’t understand what that had to do with her, but Roger insisted she had enough information to handle at the moment, and he was right. Her mind was spinning.
As Roger helped her into the car his cell phone rang. As soon as Miranda was situated, he snagged his fancy new cell and glanced at the caller ID. Tough man and liar that he was, his expression changed, softened a bit. “It’s Cheryl,” he said just before he closed Miranda’s door and answered the call.
She watched Roger in the light that came from the restaurant windows, since while they’d been talking the sun had set and the parking lot was now dark, except for one lone streetlight. What a long day this had been! Dim light or not, she could see enough to know that something was wrong. Roger’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened, and he spat a few angry words Miranda couldn’t hear. And then he stared at the phone as if it had turned into a snake, before dropping it into his pocket and slipping into the driver’s seat.
“What’s wrong?” Miranda asked.
“Nothing!” Roger snapped.
Something was most definitely wrong, but his unwillingness to answer her question only verified what she already knew. He could say whatever he wanted to, but he was not her friend. “Does Cheryl know?”
“Does she know what?”
“Who you are. What you do.”
“Some,” he responded distantly. “Not all. It’s not safe for those outside the Order to know too much.”
He pulled onto the service road and then onto an onramp. They were halfway to the interstate when Miranda realized that they were headed onto the northbound side of the highway. “Wrong way!” she said sharply.
“Are you sure?” he asked as he continued on the wrong path.
“Yes!”
“My sense of direction is lousy,” he said absently. “We’ll turn around at the next exit.”
The next exit, as she remembered, was a few miles away—a few miles closer to Bren. Damned if she didn’t feel like she was being pulled toward the raven-man. “I don’t recall you ever having trouble with your sense of direction before.”
“Get me a map out of the glove compartment, would you?” Roger said, his eyes on the road. “I might want to try a shortcut.”
With a huff of disgust, Miranda leaned forward and opened the glove compartment. She rifled through papers and past an ice scraper and a car manual. There were a couple of pens and some change, but no maps. “I don’t see any—”
She felt the sting in her arm before she realized that Roger had made a move. In shock, in spite of all she knew about this man, she glanced down and caught a glimpse of the syringe as he finished administering the shot. Almost immediately her head began to swim.
A syringe cap and a wrinkled plastic bag sat on the seat between them, and if she’d been able to do so Miranda would’ve laughed. She would’ve laughed and cried and screamed, but she could manage none of those simple actions. Her friend carried a syringe filled with some sort of fast-acting drug in a pocket or close at hand in his car in case he ever needed to put her out. The man who had just sworn that he cared for her was very well prepared to knock her senseless. Or had he just killed her because she knew too much?
Roger withdrew the needle from her arm and cursed as she fell back against the seat. Already her body felt heavy; she could barely move a finger, much less an arm. She was defenseless, in the company of a man she’d never thought she’d have to defend herself against.
Her mind reeled, and silent tears slipped down her cheeks. She should’ve taken a bus home. She should’ve rented a car. Hell, hitchhiking would’ve been safer than getting in a car with the man who thought himself her keeper. Even after Roger had admitted that he’d been spying on her, she hadn’t felt afraid. Now, too late, she was terrified.
“Am I dead?” she asked, her words slurring past thick and heavy lips. The lights on the dashboard blurred, as did the traitorous face of the driver.
“No. But you’ll sleep for a while.” Roger pressed the gas pedal to the floor and the other cars seemed to be standing still as he sped past them and past the next exit. He had no intention of turning around; that had been just another lie.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked while she could still form words. Already she felt as if she was being pulled into darkness.
“I’m sorry, Miranda,” he said, sounding sincere as he avoided answering her simple question. “I don’t have any choice.”
She felt a flash of anger and would’ve lifted her head if she’d been able. She wanted to scream, but all she could do was murmur, “There’s always a choice. Always.”
By the greenish light of the dash she watched as his face hardened. Before she passed into complete darkness she heard Roger mumble, “They have Jackson.”
Bren had been pacing the floor for hours. He didn’t want to eat; he couldn’t possibly sleep; he didn’t even want to fly. The house felt strangely hot, so he wore nothing but an old pair of jeans as he stalked about the empty rooms, talking to himself and wondering if he should’ve handled the situation differently.
In a way he’d wanted Miranda gone; her presence brought too many changes to his life, no matter how strongly he was drawn to her. And now she was gone and he felt as if she’d taken a piece of him with her. He’d hoped distance from her would make his senses return, but at the moment he was positively senseless.
Kademair or not, Miranda was gone. Judging by the expression on her face as she’d jumped from his truck, she wouldn’t be back. He was meant to be the last of his kind, as he had always known he would be. So why did this separation hurt so much? Why did he feel as if Miranda had taken a chunk of him in her suitcase when she’d left?
The sound of the doorbell surprised him. No one dropped by, not way up here. For a split second he thought maybe Miranda had returned, but he knew that wasn’t true. If she was standing on the other side of his front door he’d feel it in that thrum he experienced only when she was near. In spite of his very real reservations he’d find himself running to the door, instead of walking.
Duncan Archard stood on the front porch, a strangely sappy smile on his face. “We had some news on that breakin at the Talbot cabin, and since you and the girl spent some time together I thought you’d like to know what was going on.”
“Sure.” Bren opened the door wider, and Archard stepped inside. “You didn’t have to make the trip up the mountain in the dark. Why didn’t you call?”
“I tried but your phone is out, and I didn’t want to wait until morning to let you know what the sheriff found.”
Bren headed for the closest telephone. Now and then there was an interruption in service, but not often. How long had he been without a phone? Had Miranda tried to call? The news must be important for Archard to make the trip, instead of waiting for the next time Bren had to gas up. “So what happened?” he asked as he reached for the phone, lifting the receiver to immediately hear a strong, steady dial tone. He turned to face Archard, who held a very large gun as if he knew how to use it.
Bren dropped the phone and dove to the floor, intending to roll to safety, but it was too late. Archard fired, and a dart with a long, thick needle punctured Bren’s chest before he hit the floor. Pain radiated from the site of the wound through his entire body. He landed on the hardwood floor with a thud, and immediately the room began to go dark. From behind his back Archard produced a large net he tossed expertly so that it opened wide as it spun and drifted
. Bren was unconscious before the net fell over him.
Miranda came to disoriented and with a killer headache. She no longer sat in the front seat of Roger’s car, but was lying on a hard cot. Her hands were bound in front of her, though not too tightly. The sensation of being lost, of being disconnected, was overwhelming. She didn’t know how many hours had passed since Roger had drugged her, and she had no idea where she was. Soon enough she realized she was not alone. Whispering voices drifted to her from not far away, and she recognized one of those voices as Roger’s.
Traitor.
Instead of sitting up and demanding answers, Miranda lay very still with her eyes closed, keeping her breathing slow and steady. Maybe if they thought she was still unconscious they’d say something that would give her a clue as to where she was—and why.
“Duncan should be here soon with Korbinian,” a strange voice said.
“Why?” Roger asked. “This is a farce. Neither Miranda nor Korbinian have ever hurt anyone. Ask me to take out a vampire or a werewolf or snuff a demon and I’m there, but these two people—”
“They are not people,” the strange voice interrupted. “That is your weakness, Talbot, you’re too soft. Your father had the same failing.”
“Humanity is not a failing.”
The response was a long sigh. “This is why we had to detain your son—we had to make sure you did as you were told.”
For a moment all was silent and then Roger said, “You still haven’t told me why you’re bringing Korbinian here. All you have to do is keep them apart. Let them continue as they have been. They don’t know anything that can hurt us. Apart they’re not a danger to anyone.”
“Originally I had the same thoughts, but the truth of the matter is that their very awareness of one another changes everything. Now that they’ve met they won’t be able to stay apart, no matter how determined they are to do so. Kademair and Korbinian. One of them will seek out the other, and then…well, you know what will happen.”
“Yeah,” Roger said darkly. “They fall in love. They have a family, and a species that is not meant to die out flourishes.”
There was a long pause, and the other man said darkly, “You knew. Damn you, when you took Lynch up there you knew very well who she was!”
Knew what? How could Roger have suspected that she and Bren would hit it off so well? How could anyone have known? There was much more going on here than he’d told her.
“I suspected,” Roger said in a lowered voice Miranda could barely hear.
If she ever got to talk to him again, he had some serious explaining to do.
A cold voice responded, “You suspected, and yet you did not bring those suspicions to me. Instead, you decided to perform your own little experiment.”
“They found one another within a matter of hours.”
Again, that sigh. “She knows too much now, about the Order, about Korbinian, about you, Talbot. It would be a disaster if she ever decided to seek Korbinian out and they joined forces. What if they disappeared? It might take us years to find them, if we ever did. No, she knows too much, and now we will likely have to kill them both, all because you had a suspicion and you acted on it rather than bringing those suspicions to me. If we’d moved her to the other side of the country and made sure they never met, none of this would be necessary.”
Miranda found herself holding her breath.
“I believe one-half of your little experiment is awake,” the strange voice muttered.
Miranda rolled over and opened her eyes. Solemn and pale, Roger remained on the other side of the gray, windowless room. He was still a traitor, since he’d lied to her all these years, but she understood why he’d done what he’d done—this time. The people who’d kidnapped her had Jackson, and Roger would do anything for his family.
Standing not too far from a narrow flight of metal stairs, the man who’d ordered her and Bren kidnapped, the man who said they would both have to die, looked like your average, slightly overweight grandfather. He had sparse gray hair and puffy eyes. He needed a shave; the white stubble on his face looked rough and unfriendly even as he smiled at her. He wore khaki slacks and a gray cardigan that was missing a button.
“Miss Lynch, what a pleasure to meet you at last,” he said as he approached the cot. “I’m Ward Quinn, a compatriot of your friend Talbot. I’ve heard so much about your talents and experiences, and I have long yearned for a conversation about the afterlife and those who inhabit it. I do hate that we had to meet under such challenging circumstances.” His grin widened, revealing crooked, yellow teeth. “You must be parched after such a long and difficult journey. Would you care for some tea?”
Bren came awake in an awkward position, as the vehicle transporting him hit a bump in the road and lurched. A large net covered him, and when he tried to move it aside, he discovered that the restraint was anchored in several places. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could make out the metal rings welded to the floor of the covered truck bed.
All this time he’d been protecting his secret, and it wasn’t so much of a secret, after all. Archard knew. Otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered with the net that would contain Bren even in his raven form. His hands were bound behind him, but not tightly. Maybe Archard had expected his tranquilizer dart to be longer lasting; maybe he was just sloppy. Bren easily slipped the bonds that held his wrists and then he tested the netting with his fingers, judging the thickness and the strength. He couldn’t allow himself to be in this vulnerable position when the vehicle stopped and the rear doors opened. He would not remain here, helpless, at the mercy of the man who’d kidnapped him.
One thought spurred him on. If Duncan Archard knew Bren’s secret, did he also know about Miranda? Had he taken her, as well?
It was nearly dawn when Duncan pulled into the familiar, deceptively serene driveway. Thanks to alarm sensors buried at the farm entrance, Quinn and the others would know that he’d arrived.
In years past many unnatural beings had been studied in the bunker that was so cleverly concealed beneath the typical, picturesque red barn beside the two-story white farmhouse with the massive front porch adorned with hanging pots filled with flowering plants. There were those in the Order who were more interested in studying monsters than in eliminating them. Duncan thought it would be best if they were all terminated, but only the deadliest of the unnatural beings they watched were taken out. When he was in charge that would change, Duncan thought as he parked the truck near the barn.
With the engine silent he listened carefully for movement from the truck bed. All remained silent. The tranquilizer should keep Korbinian out for another couple of hours, if his calculations were correct. At least here he’d have help moving the man. Getting Korbinian from the mountaintop house into the back of the truck had been a chore, and Duncan’s muscles still ached from the exertion.
Quinn and a sour-faced Talbot stepped onto the porch. The old man must not have any faith in Duncan’s abilities, since he cradled a shotgun in his arms.
Duncan nodded to the others as he unlocked the padlock and swung the metal doors open to reveal his prisoner. Before he had a chance to get the door fully open, the blackbirds exploded from the enclosed space into the open air.
Large black feathers blinded him, flapping in his face as one beak and then another pecked viciously at the exposed flesh of his neck. Duncan flailed his arms for a moment and then threw them across his face and neck, protecting his most vulnerable, uncovered flesh. He gasped for breath, and then he dropped to his knees. There were so many of the damned birds, and they kept coming in a cawing, fluttering flood of feathers and claws as they escaped the confines of their prison and took to the sky.
Duncan didn’t like birds, natural or unnatural. They were dirty, ferocious creatures that might look harmless one minute and then peck out a man’s eye the next. The ravens—that damned Korbinian—could’ve flown around him and made their escape, but they did not. Instead they purposely came at him, scratching and
screaming in his ears, attacking him with ferocity.
The attack ceased, and after peeking around his folded arms to see that the birds were indeed gone, Duncan allowed those arms to fall. He stood and spun about to watch as Quinn calmly lifted his shotgun and took aim at the flock of birds that made its way almost peacefully across a gray morning sky. There would be buckshot in that weapon, Duncan imagined, since Quinn was always properly prepared. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to bring Korbinian down with a handgun, but with enough birdshot among those feathers he would surely no longer be able to fly.
“Do it,” Duncan whispered as he placed a hand on his throbbing, bloody neck. “Kill the bastard.”
Before Quinn could fire, Talbot surged forward and hit him in the back with his shoulder, sending an unsteady old man thrashing and fighting for balance. The shotgun dropped to the ground and the ravens made their escape, flying high and to the east, toward the thick woods that separated the farm from the nearby small town of Silvera.
Quinn regained his balance and turned to the traitor. “Why?” he asked Talbot in a low voice that sent chills down Duncan’s spine.
“Why do you think I introduced Miranda to Korbinian?” Talbot said hotly. “Why do you think I went around you in order to make certain the species survives? Korbinian isn’t a killer, not like some of the others we detain and execute. He has talents we could use. So does Miranda. If we could convince them to join us, think of the instances where their abilities could be put to good use in the name of the Order.”
The old man walked toward Duncan, a scowl on his face. Talbot was right behind him, arguing his ridiculous point. Monsters in the Order? Unheard of. Impossible.
Duncan offered Talbot a glimpse of his bloody hand. “Not a killer? What do you call this?”
Talbot reached into the truck bed and drew out what remained of the net that had restrained Korbinian for a while. It was in shreds, the thick rope gnawed and unraveled, torn to pieces by beaks and claws. The net had been destroyed.
“If Korbinian had done to your face and neck what he did to this netting, you’d be dead now, or close to it. A couple of pecks in your tender flesh are merely a well-deserved reprimand for what you did to him.” Talbot tossed the remains of the net to the ground.
Last of the Ravens Page 13
