Blood Night

by Heather Graham

  “To the bloody apartments. We’re going to find her, my friend. We’re going to find her. And have faith. She’s trained. She…”

  “She’s unarmed. And she was knocked out,” Andre said, staring ahead.

  “We have the plans—”

  “You didn’t know anything about these unauthorized catacombs?” Andre asked.

  “Oh, good God, every damned tree in England was a hanging tree! Every parking lot covers a grave. Good Lord, man, if I’d known…”

  “We’ll find her,” Andre said, determined. Then he turned to Birmingham and added, “We’ll find her, and we’ll stop him. Because I know now.”

  “You know—”

  “I know who the killer is.”

  Chapter 12

  Cheyenne remembered. She remembered it all.

  Everything that had led to her being here, hanging by her wrists, her arms shooting out agonizing lightning bolts of pain, her head as heavy as an anvil.

  But that was nothing.

  Cheyenne had found Edith Greenbriar.

  Edith Greenbriar was hanging by her ankles next to her.

  Drip. Drip.

  And yet…

  She strained to see in the poor light that filtered through the catacombs. Somewhere, someone had a lantern set up, or a powerful flashlight turned on. Not in the immediate area, but somewhere near.

  The catacombs must stretch on. England had a long history. A lot of people had died throughout the centuries, most without even the small amount needed for a decent burial or interment when Highgate first opened.

  Think!

  Yes, she had found Edith Greenbriar. And while the woman’s lifeblood was drip, drip, dripping from her body, there was a slim chance that she was still alive.

  And in need of saving.

  Cheyenne needed to be saved herself.

  Andre would figure it out—as she had figured it out. She had faith in him, as he had in her.

  That night…

  She had been a little too late. And she might be wrong.

  But she wasn’t.

  Inspector Birmingham had played a trick on them when they first arrived. He’d pretended to be a tour guide so he could observe them.

  But he surely hadn’t made that public knowledge.

  Michael Adair had known. He had been part of the prank.

  But Clark Brighton shouldn’t have had any reason to know. And, that night, he had laughed at the table about Inspector Birmingham being a great tour guide.

  He knew…because he had followed them.

  He’d been so helpful…

  Telling them about the way the earth was moaning, knowing that most people would think him a madman, a so-called wiseman, a New Age priest!

  He’d followed them back, and he’d known they’d be searching. And then he’d stayed behind and bided his time. Until now…

  Cheyenne looked up. The ties holding her were rope. If she could just get one hand free…

  She would rip the hell out of her wrist.

  Better that than being hung up like a stuck pig.

  She began working at the knots, remembering the little pendant William Smith, good Father Faith, had given her.

  It hung around her neck.

  Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate…

  The pain was almost unbearable, but finally…

  The blood helped. She slipped her right wrist free and ripped the pendant from around her throat.

  Then she used the tiny, razor-sharp blade to free her left wrist.

  She felt herself falling to the floor. Her breath caught, but she moved quickly to right herself, lest the fall alert her captor to the fact that she was free.

  Maybe he was already gone. She doubted it. He’d be back to see if Edith Greenbriar was dead yet and ready to be set out somewhere on the lane, possibly near a jack-o-lantern or some other Halloween decoration.

  A macabre display encouraging the legend of the Highgate vampire.

  It wasn’t going to happen. She wouldn’t let it happen.

  Edith was strung high by her ankles, causing the blood to drip, drip, drip slowly from the puncture wounds—the fang marks—on her neck. She was unconscious, but she seemed to be alive.

  Barely.

  Cheyenne had to get her down swiftly.

  The hook that held Edith’s bindings was high. Cheyenne wouldn’t be able to reach the ropes without help.

  She winced, seeing the edge of a broken coffin on a low shelf, halfway lying on the floor.

  She hurried to it and, with painstaking care, edged it over to where she could stand on it.

  The lid was partly rotted, and she could see the cadaverous face of the coffin’s occupant inside, skin stretched tight over bone in a grisly mask.

  She looked away and carefully tested her weight.

  The edges seemed mostly solid. She crawled up on top of the coffin and could just reach the ropes. The blade in the cross was small but sharp. She sawed and sawed, and the rope began to give. When it did, she realized the weight of the woman, though not great, would bring her down the rest of the way. Cheyenne had to be ready.

  And she was. But she teetered dangerously on the coffin’s edge before finally managing an almost silent leap to the ground.

  The weight did her in, though. She fell, with Edith Greenbriar atop her.

  For a moment, she lay still and silent, listening. She could hear bits of movement. Clark Brighton was still in the mire of the catacombs somewhere.

  She had to keep quiet. Find a weapon, bide her time.

  Andre would come. He would have checked on her last phone call, and he’d have gone to or talked to Benjamin Turner.

  He was near. He had to be.

  She eased herself out from under the body of Edith Greenbriar.

  Cutting a piece of material from her sweater, she pressed it against the puncture wounds on the woman’s neck.

  She didn’t know if it was enough.

  She grabbed the woman’s wrist to check for a pulse, hoping she wasn’t desperately trying to save a corpse.

  Miraculously, she found it. The tiniest hint of life.

  But she needed help fast. Edith required medical care. Immediately.

  Very carefully, Cheyenne came to her feet and looked around. She needed a weapon other than the tiny blade in her cross. Using that would require her to get closer than she felt comfortable with.

  Suddenly, she saw something she never expected to see. A figure, but not that of her captor. It was Lady Elizabeth, coming through the doorway of the room. She held a finger to her lips, signaling for Cheyenne to remain quiet, but pointed at the coffin near her.

  Cheyenne moved closer and glanced down. The corpse inside was mostly decayed. And his bones…

  She couldn’t do it.

  Hell, yes, she could.

  She glanced up to thank the ghost, but she was once again alone in the chamber with Edith. Elizabeth Miller was nowhere to be seen.

  Cheyenne’s decision for whether or not to desecrate a corpse to get herself out of this mess was made almost instantly because, even as she pondered it, Clark Brighton came walking into that section of the catacombs.

  He startled when he saw her, but carried that same gold golf club he’d used to deck her before.

  * * * *

  “So, who is it? What the hell is going on?” Birmingham demanded, glancing at Andre.

  “Clark Brighton,” Andre said.

  “That old—?”

  “Not that old. Strong. And powerful. And he lives in the new apartments. He might have stumbled upon the crypt or catacombs or whatever at some point, or he might have found the original plans and compared them to what was built…or watched one of Benjamin Turner’s Internet shows and found out that way. Who knows? But it’s perfect. I just wonder if…”

  “If?”

  Andre looked at Birmingham.

  “I wonder if he is working alone.”

  “Don’t you be looking at me that way!” Birmingham said explosiv
ely. “No way in bloody hell would I ever think to hurt another living soul. Sir—”

  “Hey, stop! I wasn’t referring to you. Here’s the thing. Somehow, Clark Brighton knew you pretended to be the tour guide to meet us.”

  “Now, there you go again. Michael Adair is as fine an inspector as I have ever known. There is no cause—”

  “I didn’t suggest Inspector Adair, either. I believe Clark Brighton followed us and saw you. But I still wonder if he’s in this alone.”

  Birmingham was silent.

  They had reached the apartments. Others followed behind them. Some of Birmingham’s men were already moving to the building itself.

  “He could have carried it off. He’s a big man, a powerful one. It’s easy enough to take a small woman. And, as you learned, he’s easy to trust.”

  “He wanted us all to believe Satanists were at work, but he’s the leader of beauty and peace and softness in the air. I fell for the bastard’s bullshit.”

  “You’re sure it’s him?”

  “Pretty damned sure. But we’ll find out soon enough. We will find Cheyenne, and we’ll find her soon.”

  Birmingham fell silent.

  Andre knew the man was hoping that they found her alive.

  “Well, he usually displays his victims one at a time, and we haven’t come upon Edith Greenbriar’s body yet,” Birmingham said. Then he winced.

  Finding another woman dead was a bitter thought.

  “I’m still wondering about…the other women. Except for Sheila, they were held for a time before they were found. That makes me think two people might have been involved, as well. One who was impatient, and one who was not.”

  “And Clark Brighton—”

  “He liked the process. Keeping the women, draining them slowly.”

  “So, the unknown accomplice killed Sheila?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Possibly. You’re right,” Birmingham said.

  As they talked, they studied the terrain and the maps. And Andre thought he’d been heading in the right direction, but…

  As he looked up, he saw something. A figure moved in the fog—at least, he thought he saw something—but then it disappeared as if it had vanished into thin air.

  Or fell into the earth.

  Another, dimmer figure followed but didn’t disappear. Instead, it came closer.

  And Andre saw her, saw her clearly. It was Lady Elizabeth Miller, and she was beckoning madly, pointing to the place where the other person had disappeared.

  Andre started to run.

  “Hey!” Birmingham called.

  “There, by the tree! There’s a bush by it that’s…crooked. It’s probably where a foundation should have been started. Come on!”

  * * * *

  “Well, look at you, Miss Bloody Hot-Stuff American agent!” Clark Brighton said, smiling—apparently not displeased that she had worked her way down, likely happy to have a go at her again.

  “You bloody bastard!” she yelled. “All talk of the air and the earth and goodness and light. You knew damned well the screams and moans you heard were your victims. And you hoped the police would go crazy right in the cemetery.”

  He smiled. “They did.”

  “And you enjoyed it.”

  “Loved it! Loved talking to the good Inspectors Birmingham and Adair and letting them know what a harmless idiot I was.”

  “They aren’t fools, Mr. Brighton. You were on their suspect list.”

  He frowned at that. “Bloody idiots.”

  “Again, I beg to differ. They were on to you, which is why we were on to you.”

  “A little too late, though, eh, missy? I’d like to take some time with you, but…ah, well, upside down, bleeding out, you might not be so clever. How is our Miss Greenbriar doing? Is she ready for disposal yet? Did you save the dead?” he asked her.

  Cheyenne smiled, judging the size of her thigh-bone weapon against his golf club.

  She needed him off guard. She’d had training, but he was big and powerful. Balance, she reminded herself. Balance and fighting with the mind, conserving strength.

  “No,” she said cheerfully. “She’s still breathing.”

  “Not for long, I dare say.”

  “Do you know how sick you are?” she asked him.

  He shook his head and grew serious. “Sick? No. I’m ridding the world of the riff-raff, my dear girl, and making it safe for God-fearing men again.”

  “What?”

  “Wretches, horrid little creatures. Evil. Each deserved to die, to have their blood drench the earth.”

  “You’re crazier than I thought.”

  “Not crazy! Offended. Insulted by women of loose morals. You think you know, but you do not! And you…as wretched as any of them. Worse. You think you are equal to a man? I’ll show you! Tonight’s going to be the best Blood Night ever.”

  He was, beyond a doubt, crazier than she had thought.

  But she’d done what was needed. She had riled his temper to a point where he would come at her in a fury.

  He lunged as expected, golf club swinging.

  She let him use his own weight and momentum against himself and swept to the side with a split second to spare. The club crashed down on the coffin, carrying the weight of his arm and shoulder with it.

  She raised her thigh bone high and slammed it down on his head for all she was worth.

  Good aim, a direct hit.

  He went down, groaning, and then lay still.

  She hit him one more time, hard, for good measure.

  That wasn’t from any FBI training. That was from watching far too many horror and crime movies where the bad guy was trounced—only to get up again.

  She moved quickly in the direction from which he had come, the thigh bone still in her hand. The entry to the catacombs had to be somewhere over there, and she had to get out and get help for Edith. Fast.

  She followed the light into a second space, the outer room of the catacomb chambers.

  A coffin had been used as a table. Clark Brighton had set his lantern there. She could see that there was a little ladder beyond it.

  It had to lead to a hatch of some kind.

  She ran toward the ladder.

  Then, suddenly, the hatch opened. Before she could go farther, a man jumped down and landed before her.

  This might be England, but he had a gun.

  And it was aimed directly at her.

  She backed away slowly, knowing now that Clark Brighton had a partner.

  And after the night she’d had, the partner’s identity wasn’t surprising.

  Some of Andre’s instincts had been right.

  “Ah, Mr. Bower,” she said. “Why am I not surprised? Let’s see…Sheila appeared almost immediately after being killed because she hurt your sense of masculinity. Am I right? Brighton slowly killed the others—with you, in whatever your macho ritual was—but you killed Sheila. Because she hurt your little feelings, right?”

  “You’re going to die so much faster than she did, Special Agent Bitch!” he said, raising the gun.

  It never fired.

  Andre leapt down on top of him, and the gun went flying out of Bower’s hand.

  They weren’t in the United States. They were Americans, unofficially in Britain. Andre was just a provoked tourist, caught in a violent situation…

  Andre landed hard on Bower. Slammed him to the floor, wrenched him over, and sent a right hook flying into his jaw that seemed to affect the entire catacombs.

  Indeed, a coffin rattled precariously on a shelf.

  Another man landed in the catacomb tunnel. Birmingham.

  “Give him one for me, too, won’t you?” Birmingham asked.

  But she saw Andre wince and then stand. “Sorry, friend. He’s already out cold. And if you don’t mind…”

  He took a step toward Cheyenne and pulled her into his arms and held her.

  After they’d felt each other’s heartbeats and were reassured that they were both aliv
e and well and…together, he pulled away.

  “Clark Brighton?” he asked her anxiously.

  “Next room. With Edith. We have to get help immediately. She’s still alive, but barely. Oh, my God, if we move fast enough—”

  “On it!” Brighton told them, his phone already out.

  He called for help and, in just seconds, medical personnel flooded into the catacombs. She and Andre and the inspector moved aside to make room.

  “You knocked out Clark Brighton?” Birmingham asked her.

  “Corpse’s thigh bone,” she said.

  “Ah,” Birmingham said, looking at Andre. “So, uh, she took out one, and you got the other?”

  Andre laughed. “Something like that,” he said. “And if we may…”

  “Get out! Get help. You should have your wrist looked at,” he said, pointing at her hand where blood still leaked from the torn flesh above it.

  “I will, I will!” Cheyenne promised. “But now…”

  Birmingham moved the little ladder, reaching to give her a hand.

  “Oh, uh, if I may?” he asked.

  “Always happy for an assist,” she told him, and she couldn’t help herself. She paused, giving him a smile and a hug before she headed up and out of the tunnel. “Always grateful for help. And courtesy. And decency among all men and women.”

  He smiled at her. “My kind of agent,” he said. “Both of you.” He tipped his chin at Andre.

  Andre thanked him and followed Cheyenne up the ladder.

  She felt his arms around her as they emerged.

  The sun was just rising, bursting through the fog and the darkness of the night.

  The day was going to be beautiful.

  Epilogue

  “You have to listen well, man,” Michael Adair said. He shook his head. “You can’t tell the Irish from the Scottish? Ah, the first is a lilt, it goes up and down. Beautifully melodic. The second has that burring sound to it, not so musical.”

  “He’s only saying that,” Claude Birmingham assured them, “because his dad came here from Dublin, and my mother came from Scotland. The Scots’ accent is soft and sweet and pure as a whisper against oak!”

  “Uh…they’re both lovely,” Cheyenne said, quickly adding, “as is the English accent.” She glanced at Eric, who was at the table, too, along with Emily and Andre.