by Anne Frasier
Chapter Fifty-three
Evan felt the darkness curl over him. It grabbed at his ankles and pulled him under. It seeped into his pores, and when he opened his mouth to breathe, he pulled the inky blackness deep into his lungs. His tongue was coated with a layer of evil.
It tasted good.
He felt an overwhelming loss of self—the loss of the man being pushed out and dominated by this presence. He hadn’t expected it to be so powerful. He hadn’t expected it to be so seductive. His hope had been to make himself strong enough to stand up to Manchester, to defeat him.
Instead he’d ingested a parasite.
Parasites were strong. They invaded the host, changed the thinking of the host. Mice attacked by cat parasites began acting more like cats than mice. So why had Evan expected this to be any different?
Manchester was watching him. Evan sensed a connection that hadn’t been there before. He understood Manchester’s hunger and his lust and his anger.
With no words, he felt his amusement at the turn of events.
Manchester spoke. Or was it thought?
“That would have been my second choice.”
Downstairs a door slammed.
Manchester tipped his head toward the sound. Curious, but calm. This was his moment. He’d waited a hundred years and he planned to savor it.
Yes, their minds were communicating.
Manchester was more evolved, yet had been unable to make the leap.
A link had been missing.
The baby is the link. The baby is the secret.
A result of a union between a partial revenant and the great-great-granddaughter of a vampire. The lineage hadn’t been strong enough, and the offspring had appeared fully human. Rachel was an unaffected carrier. But now, with revenant carriers on both sides . . . The infant would span two worlds, the living and the dead. A super being.
Had Evan really even loved Rachel? Or had this been some preordained journey he’d been on since birth?
“Yes,” the man with no eyes said.
Evan refused to believe it. “I love her.”
“An illusion.”
But what wasn’t an illusion of some form? Life fil -tered through personal pasts and perceptions. Did that make embracing it any less important? Did that give someone like Manchester the right to destroy and torture and murder?
They were talking to him. One collective mind.
He could see it all. It wasn’t linear, but rather a lake of information, with no beginning and no end.
A form of evolutionary life, a creature who could live forever under the right circumstances, grazing and feasting on the living, especially children, with no purpose other than to satisfy his hunger. Humans were nothing more than livestock to Manchester.
Until Florence had come along. She’d sparked something in him, nurtured by her own trickery. Her own hatred and lust for revenge was stronger than her desire to live. She would do what she must in order to achieve her goal: his death. She would sleep with him. She would have his child.
She’d meant to kill the infant once it was born. Drown it in a bucket of water like some stray cat. But when she’d looked into her baby’s eyes, a mother’s love had surfaced and she was unable to carry out her plan.
And now another infant had been born. Downstairs, just below them . . .
But Manchester hadn’t figured on Evan’s humanity. It hadn’t even been a part of the equation, because someone devoid of humanity wouldn’t consider it.
Would it be enough?
Manchester heard his thoughts; he smiled a black smile and exhaled on a laugh. “You can’t fight it.”
“I don’t want to.”
A gust of evil floated across the room and touched Evan’s shoulder. It took him by the arm and pulled him toward the door, toward Rachel and the infant.
Come. Together we will conquer.
Evan felt stronger than he’d felt in his life. Physically he’d changed. His back was straight. His chest, though still pale and scarred, was broader. The broken arm was no longer broken.
He motioned toward the door with a regal sweep of his hand. “Let’s finish this.”
Chapter Fifty-four
Alastair called someone from the highway department to pick him up and take him downtown. It was either that or walk.
“Victim is Gabriella Nelson,” the officer on the scene told him when he arrived at the museum. “Throat was sliced.”
Bloody footprints led up the stairs to ground level. Alastair crouched to examine one of the more defined prints. Narrow, with an unevenness that indicated a worn leather sole. He spotted a brand—or rather a stamp. From a shoemaker that hadn’t existed in the area for a hundred years.
His cell phone rang. He straightened and answered.
Graham.
He had to strain to hear. “Repeat that.” He must have heard wrong.
Same thing. “I’m on my way.” He folded and pocketed the phone.
· · · Graham waded down the middle of the highway. Or what he figured was the middle of the highway, judging by the occasional signpost. Should he try to make it back to the car? Or should he keep going toward what he thought was Tuonela?
Too hard to figure out. Too hard to think.
So he just stopped.
He stood there a while. Head back, he shone his flashlight up at the sky, watching the flakes come down. Pretty cool.
The light went out.
He shook the plastic flashlight. Nothing happened.
He’d lost track of where he’d come from. Maybe this way. No. This way? Maybe. Maybe not.
He dropped to his knees.
So tired.
And the snow was soft. Like a bed . . .
He fell asleep. For a second. Or maybe for an hour.
A rumble.
Followed by faint lights that grew steadily brighter.
A vehicle. Heading his direction.
What d’ya know?
He staggered to his feet and stood there, legs braced apart. When the truck got closer, he waved his arms. But he didn’t jump. He was too tired to jump.
Behind the truck was another vehicle.
Graham’s brain was muddled, and it took him a moment to figure out that the snowplow was cutting a path for an ambulance.
Cool.
The plow stopped. Alastair jumped out, ran to him, and hugged him tightly. They got in the cab of the truck and headed toward Old Tuonela, Kristin, and the baby.
Right where he’d left them.
They got them out of the car and packed them into the ambulance. Two EMTs bent over the baby while Kristin sat in the corner and watched, hugging herself, shaking with cold. Alastair put a hand on Graham’s shoulder and gave him a shove. “Get in.”
Graham turned around to argue, and collapsed.
He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
With Alastair ’s help, he got to his feet and crawled into the back of the ambulance. The doors slammed behind him.
Chapter Fifty-five
Evan and Manchester found Rachel sitting on the kitchen floor. Evan took in the scene before him with strange detachment.
Rachel’s lips were blue, her skin transparent. Limp tendrils of dark hair framed her face. Her legs formed a vee, the bloody flannel shirt falling between her thighs. One hand on her lap, one behind her. She had dark circles under her eyes, and she trembled violently.
Manchester made a visual sweep of the room. “Where’s the baby?”
She looked up at him with defiance. “I threw it out with the dishwater.”
Evan laughed. How fitting. They were all insane. All three of them.
With one swift motion, Manchester had Rachel by the throat. He lifted her into the air. “Where’s the baby?”
A knife appeared in her hand. She raised it and plunged, her movements blind and desperate.
“You can’t kill me,” Manchester said.
Rachel.
Evan watched her struggle. The power of his feeling
s for her encompassed the past and the future; it spanned generations and reached beyond his own questionable existence.
He dove, breaking Manchester ’s hold. Rachel crashed to the floor, dropping the knife with a clatter.
Manchester whirled, grabbed the knife, and stabbed Evan in the arm. He pulled out the blade and drove it down again.
Evan slammed Manchester’s wrist against the wall.
You have to cut off his head.
Manchester heard the voice too.
Evan released him and sidestepped. Without taking his eyes off Manchester, he backed away, moving toward a dark corner of the kitchen.
Evan’s fingers wrapped around the handle of the sword. He let out a roar and charged, the heavy blade held high. He swung.
One long, clean stroke.
Alastair saw a faint light deep inside the house. He jumped from the snowplow and ran to the front door. Locked.
A woman screamed.
With his handgun, he fired at the lock, then kicked the door open.
Something rolled across the floor and hit his foot.
It took him a moment to realize it was a severed head.
He looked up to see his son standing in the kitchen, the hilt of a bloody sword held in both hands.
Chapter Fifty-six
Air brakes hissed as the bus bound for Minneapolis pulled to a stop in the terminal. I picked up my bags, got to my feet, and waited for the arrivals to disembark. Third person out was a girl about eighteen. Cute. Short blond hair with yellow bar-rettes and a fuzzy knee-length coat. She had a cell phone to her ear.
“I just got into Tuonela. I’ll call you later.” The girl disconnected and tucked the phone into her pocket.
Then she was gone.
I boarded and grabbed a seat near the back, but not too close to the bathroom. The bus filled up, and a twenty-something guy sat beside me. He was fidgety and nervous.
“I’ve never been out of Tuonela,” he confessed. “I’m going to Minneapolis to check out the U of M. How ’bout you? Have you ever left?”
“I was just visiting. I’m going home.”
That seemed to scare him. Stranger danger.
Would I ever come back to Tuonela? I didn’t know. At this point I was just glad to get the hell out of there.
The driver closed the door and put the bus in gear. With a lumbering roll, the vehicle moved out of the terminal.
Minneapolis, here I come.
I unzipped my backpack to make sure the videotape was still there. I’d found it in the glove box of Graham’s car. It contained footage of the death pit, along with two interviews: the one with Graham at Peaches, and the one with the old guy outside Betty’s Breakfast. Even with the videotape nobody would believe me.
But I would make my little movie.
Would it unfuck my life? I smiled at the guy next to me and offered him a piece of gum.
Probably not.
Evan sat at the kitchen table as Dr. Henderson opened the black leather bag he’d had ever since Evan could remember. Years ago, when Evan returned home after extensive medical tests, Dr. Henderson had used the protocol outlined by the specialists for treating a patient with an allergy to sunlight. They had a long history.
Now Evan removed his shirt and the doctor leaned over and examined the knife wounds. “That’s amazing,” he said. “They’ve almost healed. But I can’t help but notice you seem nervous.”
Evan stopped jiggling his knee. “I’ve had some strange thoughts lately.” Dr. Henderson was trustworthy, but there was only so much Evan was will- ing to share. That he was afraid he might be well on his way to becoming a one-hundred-percent non-human was not one of them.
“That’s understandable in your position. You feel trapped, claustrophobic. I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned the symptoms before this.”
“Can you give me something for it?”
“A couple of things. One medication you can take once a day. It will suppress those common desires and frustrations. I call them good-behavior pills. Another medication—a strong sedative—for occasional emergency use. One tablet will make you sleepy as hell. Two will knock out an elephant, so be careful.”
Evan nodded. “That’s what I need.”
He planned to keep on with the excavation. The Tuonela Historical Society was going to help. The bodies would be given a proper burial in the Old Tuonela graveyard. Victoria and her daughter would be buried next to each other. Maybe that would stop their restlessness, if the end of the Pale Immortal hadn’t.
Dr. Henderson was old-school. He poured some pills into a brown medicine bottle and wrote out the instructions.
Evan picked up the bottle. “Lithium? Isn’t that for schizophrenics?”
Dr. Henderson tucked the pen in his pocket. “Works extremely well for them in some cases, but we also use it for various personality disorders. I know that’s not what you have, but it can suppress certain unwanted tendencies, thoughts, and urges. I think you’ll find it useful.”
Evan wanted a normal life. He wanted to be there for the people he loved.
He would take the pills. He would suppress whatever was inside him.
Alastair turned on the basement light and headed down the steps. All’s well that ends well. That’s what he always said.
He felt pretty sick about suspecting Evan of the murders, but what a relief that it was over and everything was back to normal. They’d burned Manchester’s body and head, making two different fires. Once that unpleasant business was done, they’d put the remaining ashes and bones in containers. One of those containers was at Evan’s house; the other was here, upstairs in a safe. No telling what might happen if the contents met. Probably nothing, but you couldn’t be too careful.
In the basement, Alastair opened the freezer. He shoved the packages of meat around, looking for the skin. He was going to burn it too. Be done with it once and for all. A fresh start.
No skin.
He went through the packages once more.
The skin was gone.
Graham shut the cash register and bent down to arrange the food in the case. He had a new job working at Peaches. It was temporary, because he’d be leaving for college in the fall. Peaches was one of his favorite places to hang out, so it was cool.
“I’d like a large café mocha with almond syrup and whipped cream.”
He shot straight up to stare at the girl on the other side of the counter.
“You quit returning my text messages,” Isobel said. “Why?”
Looking at her hurt. Everywhere. His heart, his hands, his eyeballs. “I got kind of busy.”
She shook her head. She didn’t believe him, but she played along. “With school?”
“Other stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
He picked up a white flour-sack towel and made a big deal out of wiping his hands. “Nothing very exciting.” He wouldn’t brag about the lives he’d saved, or how he would come running if anybody tried to mess with his baby brother.
“What time do you get off?”
He shrugged. “Now, if I want.”
She smiled. “Like to share a mocha?”
He made the drink. She tried to pay.
“It’s on me.” He carried it to a dark corner table away from the few people who still littered the café. He sat down. “What are you doing here, Isobel?”
She took a seat across from him. “What do you think?”
“I thought I wouldn’t see you again,” Graham said. “That’s why I quit replying to your messages. You were having so much fun. You were in France and Italy. Prague. Abbey Road. You saw Abbey Road. You were meeting so many cool people. I mean, you met the damn queen.” Using two fingers, he pushed the cup across the table at her.
“The queen.” She made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Pfft.”
Unable to make eye contact, he repeated, “I thought you weren’t coming back.”
“Doesn’t everybody return to Tuonela? That’s what I’ve
been told. Once it’s in your blood, you can’t shake it.”
“Tuonela? That’s why you’re here?”
“Silly boy. I came back for you.”
He smiled, and the tenseness drained from his body. Isobel had always been too damn confident. He liked that in a woman.
Rachel sat in the hospital bed cradling the sleeping infant. She couldn’t quit looking at him, marveling at him. Tiny hands. Tiny fingernails. Tiny perfection.
She heard a movement and looked up to see Evan standing in the doorway. The room was dark, but faint light from the street lamp below cut through the window blinds, falling in a broken pattern on the wall behind him.
She’d wondered if he’d stop by to see her. With Evan it was hard to say.
He came in and tossed his wool coat on a chair. “How are you? How’s the little guy?”
“They say they’ve never seen such a healthy premature baby.”
Evan’s relief was obvious. Then he surprised her by sitting down on the bed, his back to the head- board, one arm braced behind her. She could feel his calm. Feel his normalcy.
He’d eaten the Pale Immortal’s heart, but Evan wasn’t a monster. Yes, some hard-to-believe things had occurred. Richard Manchester had walked and talked and almost killed them. She didn’t know how, but it had happened, and she would never again live in denial. But Evan was okay. Their baby was okay, and the truth of his ancestry was locked away in a safe in the morgue.
Evan leaned close and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “A name?”
“Not yet. All along I thought I’d name him after Dad, but he needs his own name. He needs a name that isn’t clinging to the past.”
“Who are the daisies from?”
“Graham and Kristin. They stopped by earlier today. Sweet of them, wasn’t it?”
“And the roses?”
“David Spence.”
“From school?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought he was married.”
“Not anymore.”
“He’s a little white-bread, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t be mean.”
“How’s that mean? I never said he wasn’t a nice guy. Just boring and predictable, that’s all.”
