After relocking the cabinet, he strode to the door, then paused as if reconsidering. He looked back at Glory and opened his mouth to say something. Finally, he growled a few incoherent words and left, slamming the door behind him.
“I have got to work on that man’s social skills,” Glory muttered. She hadn’t understood a word Mirren had said, although it might have been something like, See you later. Until he burst out laughing, she’d forgotten Will Ludlam was even there. His timing sucked.
“Sorry, but hearing Mirren and social skills mentioned in the same sentence is…well, it’s pretty hilarious.” His smile faded, and he gave her a somber, appraising look. “I’m Will Ludlam. Matthias Ludlam, the man who took you, is, unfortunately, my father. I am so sorry for what he did. I swear if there’s any way I can make it up to you…” He shrugged.
The distress on Will’s face made Glory wonder if vampires could cry or if they cried blood like in all the movies. Will’s guilt was misplaced, though, and she didn’t want it. “It’s not up to you to apologize.”
She was a firm believer in owning what you did and not expecting anyone else to take responsibility for it. She sure didn’t plan to take responsibility for the way her parents behaved, not that they’d kidnapped anybody. But they’d made their only child feel like an embarrassment, someone to be locked away or tamed or controlled. She’d decided a long time ago it was their sin, not hers.
Will didn’t look convinced. “Still, what you’ve been through…” He shook his head, not meeting her eye.
Impulsively, she stepped toward him and pulled him into a hug. “Just forget about it. It’s done. It’s over. You got me out of there, me and Mirren both. And that took a lot of courage, especially to go up against your own dad like that. So I thank you.”
Confronting family was a hard, hard thing. Glory knew about that. It’s why she’d run away from home at sixteen, taken charge of her own life even if it had meant working crap jobs and earning her GED on her own. “You can beat your head against a wall trying to change the people you’re supposed to love, or you can walk away and make your own way.”
Will’s arms wrapped around her and squeezed. “That is the ever-freaking truth.” He stepped back and gave her a smile. Her first assessment of him had been right—he was almost pretty. Bet he broke his share of hearts, but he wasn’t her type. “I’m going to like you, Glory Cummings.”
She smiled. “I hope so.”
The sound of gunfire drew Will’s attention to Mirren’s massive electronics setup. Glory didn’t know what half the stuff was, but Will resembled a kid who’d just spotted a pile of chocolate in the window of a candy store.
“Holy shit. Mirren, my man, you have been holding out.” He walked over and examined each piece of equipment, fiddling with knobs, turning dials, flipping switches.
“Uh.” Glory hadn’t been here long, but she’d figured out fast that this was Mirren’s pride and joy. “He’ll kill me for letting you touch it—he’s kinda prickly about his stuff.” He’d be cursing again for sure if Will messed anything up.
Will grinned. “Mirren? Prickly? Say it ain’t so.”
Glory started laughing, and as it happened with her sometimes, she couldn’t quit. She laughed harder, and Will started chuckling. She caught a glimpse of his fangs, and that made her laugh even harder. She flopped on the oversize sofa, giggling until tears rolled down her cheeks. This whole situation was so insane.
“I’m…sorry,” she gasped, finally taking a deep breath and getting herself under control. “Don’t say anything funny for a few minutes.” It wouldn’t take much to set her off again.
Will sat beside her on the sofa, staring at the TV. “What the hell is this?” He picked up the stack of DVDs Glory had pulled from Mirren’s shelves and set on the coffee table, flipping through them. “Westerns? Mirren Kincaid watches horse operas?”
Glory felt the silly giggles threatening again and didn’t answer until she was sure she could string more than two words together without losing it. “Oh yeah.” She pointed at the floor-to-ceiling shelves on either side of the television. “I swear he has every Western ever made, including complete sets of Gunsmoke and Bonanza.”
She expected a wisecrack from Will, but he simply smiled. “I’ll be damned. You’ve already gotten further in Mirren’s life than any of us, except maybe Aidan. He needs somebody like you.”
Well, it wasn’t like Mirren had exactly invited her into his life. She’d been thrust on him. Still, she had to ask. “What kind of somebody do you think I am?”
He’d just met her—what could he possibly know about what type of person she was?
Will leaned back and propped his feet on the coffee table. “Somebody who doesn’t know his past, who isn’t afraid of him, who sees behind the asshole he tries to be, who can break down those walls of crabbitude he puts around himself.”
Glory watched the gunfight on TV for a few minutes. Matthias had called Mirren Slayer and said he was good at killing. “What is his past? Or do I really want to know?”
“That’s his story to tell, not mine.” Will reached out and took her hand. “But you’re safe with him. And, good Lord, he’s letting you live here. You’re even wearing his shirt, I’m guessing.” He wagged his eyebrows at her a couple of times in a parody of lechery. “He even let you cook in his house.”
“He misses food.”
Will stared at her and smiled, his brown eyes practically dancing. “He told you that?”
Glory shrugged. “He didn’t have to. I could tell. He did say he likes to smell it.”
“Huh. You should find out what he liked to eat before he was turned, and then you eat some of it an hour or so before he feeds from you.” Will gave her a probing look. “It gets in the bloodstream, and we can taste it a little—some foods more than others. I don’t miss food, so it’s no matter to me, but if Mirren does, well…” He shifted his gaze back to the screen. “If you want to please him, anyway. Just a thought.”
Did Glory want to please Mirren Kincaid? Did she want him to want her? The memory of his mouth taking nourishment from her body, his hands stroking her back, came back in a rush. Not to mention the kiss whose memory heated her up from the inside out. Glory was glad Will seemed to have gotten interested in the antics of Dean Martin.
Otherwise, he’d have seen her blush.
CHAPTER 14
Mirren eased the Bronco around the corner of Cotton Street, cruised down the street slowly, looped in a wide arc around the end of the cul-de-sac, and drove back. A movement of shadow in the moonlight bouncing off the brick hulk of the old cotton mill caught his eye.
Or what was left of the old East Alabama Mills. After Owen Murphy had set up his headquarters first in the mill itself and then in an underground storm shelter, Aidan had torched the place. Now only parts of the redbrick hull stood against the brilliant night sky like a monument to the industry that had built this town and whose demise had eventually killed it. By the time Aidan began buying up property here, the death of the textile industry and the pandemic had combined to make Penton little more than a ghost town.
Mirren drove past the mill and parked around a corner, then doubled back on foot, moving with a stealth that came not only from his vampire nature but his training as a gallowglass warrior. Mirren wished he had Faolain, his favorite sword, with him, but it was too bulky to take on normal patrol. With its thirty-seven-inch blade and ornate ring pommel, it could take a man’s head with a single stroke and more finesse than the blunt work of his two-handed battle-ax. More often these days, he did his work with the .45 caliber Smith&Wesson.
He unholstered it now, its cold weight reassuring in his right palm. Eyes scanning for movement, he crept silently from shadow to shadow, hugging the sides of storefronts, blending in. A man’s voice wafted softly on the cool night air from behind the biggest remaining portion of the mill’s front outer wall. The intruder stood in the shadows, out of the reach of the dim glints bouncing off the ruins from
the glow of the streetlights.
Mirren stopped and listened, lifting his head, scenting the air. Vampire, male, but not of the Penton scathe. He risked a glance around the crumbling brickwork. Dark hair, emaciated, average height, young, both in human and vampire years. And not too bright. He spoke on a cell phone with his back to the street, and before he’d even registered Mirren’s presence, the Smith&Wesson was pressed to his temple.
“A bullet in your brain might not kill you, but at point-blank, you’ll really, really wish it had.” The man froze, and Mirren reached around him and plucked the phone from his hand, holding it to his ear. The connection was still live.
“You want to talk, I’m all fucking ears.” The phone fashed call ended. “Guess not.” He pocketed the phone and pressed the gun barrel harder against the vampire’s temple. “Too bad. That means you’ll have to do all the talking.”
“I’m just hungry. Was told I could find a feeder here.”
Interesting choice of words. “Who might have told such a lie?”
Too bad the guy didn’t realize it was too late to shut up like a clam. Mirren pulled the silver cuffs from his belt, and finally, the guy’s survival instincts kicked in. He threw a leg back, hooked it behind Mirren’s, and tried to pull him off balance.
“Shit-for-brains.” Mirren wasn’t back up to his full weight, but he still had a hundred pounds on this loser. He grabbed the vampire’s arm and gave it a quick jerk outward with one hand, using his other arm as a piston to bend it at the elbow—the wrong way. It gave with a satisfying crack, and the man screamed. “Wanna try anything else?”
“No.” Loser fell to the ground, cradling his broken arm.
Mirren studied him. The vampire carried no bond of fealty, yet he’d given away that he was working for someone. Purely hired talent, and calling this guy talent was being generous. “Get up.” He nudged the man’s broken arm with the toe of his boot, getting a whimper in return. “Get up, or I’ll do it for you.”
“No, wait.” The vampire struggled to his feet, holding his broken arm against his body. Mirren thought it was mostly for show. It would heal in a half hour and had probably already popped back into place.
Mirren pulled the handcuffs out again and slapped them on the guy, twisting the healing arm enough to get a sharp intake of breath. “Move it.” He pushed the guy ahead of him. With the silver cuffs, the intruder would be no faster or stronger than human. Plus, the man was in no hurry. He’d lost the game, and he knew it. So he walked slowly, head down, mouth shut.
“You got a name?” Mirren nudged him to turn left and take the steps leading into a two-story white stone building with columns spanning its broad porch.
“Cal.”
Mirren pulled keys from his pocket and shook loose the one for the front door of the municipal building, which had been the city hall back in the old days. “Well, Cal, welcome to Penton. How things go for you here depends on how well you cooperate.” He unlocked the heavy wooden doors and shoved Cal inside, following him in and reaching left to flip on the lights.
“Sit on the bench in the hallway, and don’t even think about moving.”
As soon as Cal sat, Mirren sent a mental message to Aidan, then leaned against the wall opposite the bench, hands stuck in his pockets. “Who you working for?”
Cal raised his misery-filled eyes, which grew wide as if he were finally seeing Mirren and registering how much trouble he’d stumbled into. “It’s true. The Slayer’s back.”
Sometimes a bad reputation came in handy. “That’s right. You’re lucky all you’ve gotten so far is a love tap. Who you working for?”
“I don’t know his name. I swear. I’d tell you if I did.” Finally, old Cal seemed to realize he was in real trouble. He stared at the floor, eyes dazed, his left leg jiggling up and down in a nervous rhythm.
Aidan arrived in fewer than ten minutes.
“What’ve you got?” He strode through the front door, stopped in front of Cal, and gave him a measured look. “Bring him downstairs.”
Mirren smiled at the alarm on Cal’s face. “Yeah, you thought the cavalry was coming to save you. Think again. On your feet.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know who hired me. Please.”
Mirren wrapped a hand around his upper arm and dragged him down the hallway. Cal was going to provide exactly what he needed to get Glory off his mind—a little interrogation. “Come on, Cal. Let’s go downstairs and have some fun.”
He and Aidan had this routine down to a science now that rogue vampires were wandering into town. They’d put the poor, misbegotten vamp in a silver-barred cell, ask questions, and if they were satisfied the rogue was nothing more than some poor, hungry slob, they’d give him a supervised feed, wipe his memories, and drive him far enough out of town that he wouldn’t wander back.
Old Cal here wasn’t a random hungry vampire, though.
Aidan led the way down the marble staircase to the basement that housed four cells. One was currently occupied. Lucy Sinclair lay curled in a fetal position on a single bed that had been brought in to make the cell more comfortable, along with rugs and a few nonlethal decorations. She’d been tortured by Aidan’s brother until she finally broke, mind and spirit. Combative at first, now she was virtually catatonic, barely able to feed.
Mirren thought they should put her out of her misery. Only Krys’s pleading had kept them from doing it already. The time was coming, though. Lucy wasn’t ever going to be the feisty fighter she’d been before Owen got his hands on her.
Mirren shuddered. Better no life at all than one like that.
He glanced in the cell next to Lucy’s, glad it was empty. Until a few days ago, a young illegally turned teenage vamp who’d come into town with Owen Murphy had been locked up here. They’d thought they might use her as leverage to get Matthias Ludlam thrown off the Tribunal. Once Aidan had been forced to turn Krys to save her life, however, that moral high road got closed. They’d scrubbed her memories and put her on a fight to Cairo. And if the Tribunal ever found out about Krys, well, the Tribunal would have all the excuse it needed to rain holy hell all over their heads.
Aidan unlocked the cell across from Lucy’s, and Mirren popped Cal’s handcuffs and followed him inside. A bare cot stretched across the back of the cell, and a wooden table and chair sat in the middle. All they needed was a bare hanging lightbulb to have a classic interrogation space. The sound of the silver-over-steel bars clanging shut echoed throughout the concrete basement. Panic crossed Cal’s face when he realized he was locked in with Mirren.
“I’m telling you the truth. I don’t—”
“Shut the fuck up.” Mirren leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “Here’s how it works. Aidan asks you a question. You answer. If we like your answer, he’ll ask you another. If we’re unhappy with your answer, I will cut something off you’re really attached to, and that’s gonna hurt like a mother. Got that?”
Cal turned wide eyes to Aidan. “Please, I was approached in Atlanta by some guy in one of the vamp clubs. He asked if I was hungry and needed a feed and some cash, then gave me a cell phone. A man called it a few minutes later. The guy on the phone said if I’d come to Penton and scout around, I’d be able to feed. He never gave me a name. The other guy was supposed to meet me tomorrow at five with the payoff.”
“Meet you where?” Aidan paced outside the cell, eyes on the floor.
“Corner of Magnolia and Ross, downtown.” Cal approached the bars, getting as far from Mirren as he could. “That’s all I know, I swear. The guy who called me tonight to make sure I was here was the same guy from the club.”
“Sit down.” Mirren pulled a combat knife from his pocket and flicked it open. Cal looked to Aidan for help but got nothing in return but Aidan’s calm stare. The vampire sidled to the chair, eyes widening as Mirren walked toward him. “Are you right-handed or a lefty?”
“Wh…what? Right.”
“Put your right hand on the table, palm down.”
“Here’s my problem,” Mirren said, pulling the knife out of the wood with his right hand while his left kept Cal’s wrist pressed to the table. The man fisted his fingers as if he could retract them into his palm. “You admit you were sent here to scout, but you don’t say what it was you were scouting for. That doesn’t make me happy. I think that’s worth a finger, at least. Maybe a dick.”
“Please.” Cal addressed his plea to Aidan, who shrugged, tossed Mirren a key, and walked back toward the stairs to the first floor.
“Clean up when you leave, Mirren. I’ll trace the records on his cell phone. Call me if you learn anything interesting.”
“Will do.”
Mirren released Cal’s hand and went back to his spot against the wall. “Now, it’s just us, Cal. How you want to play it?”
Cal swallowed hard. “What are you going to do with me if I tell you what you want?”
What, he thought Mirren would shake his hand, feed him dinner, and send him on his way? “Depends on what you say. But I can tell you exactly what will happen if you tell me nothing. I’m going to lock you in, go home, and sharpen up my sword.”
Cal flinched.
“Maybe you’ve heard of it? I used it a lot when I was the Tribunal’s slayer. The Gallóglaigh had the finest armory. The blades have six facets, did you know?”
Cal shook his head, but his skin had turned a little green.
“Aye, fine workmanship. A one-handed swing and a man’s head will still be talking as it bounces off the floor near his feet. ’Tis a thing of beauty. I also still have my battle-ax. Works every bit as well—just a bit messier.”
Absolution Page 10
