A Fall of Silver (The Redemption Series)

by Amy Corwin

  “I don’t like this,” she said quietly. “I don’t sense Sutton, or his people.”

  “You can feel them?” Kethan studied her.

  Yes—I’m a freak. But you knew that, didn’t you?

  “Yes, can’t you?” With shaking hands, she tucked a whip handle under one arm and pulled on a pair of translucent half-gloves. The gloves left her fingertips free but protected her palms from the monofilament fall of the whip. The silvery fall would slice through her hand just as easily as a vampire’s neck if she had to pick it up.

  “No. Not unless I see or touch them.”

  “Super.” Flipping the whip loose, she snapped it through the air and then coiled it in her hand. The long length of the fall, merging into the thong and final popper reassured her. There was no mistaking the cold, clammy feel of a vampire’s dead flesh. Anyone could identify a vampire that way. She snorted, feeling again the sensation of being different and out of sync with the rest of the human world.

  “Please, Quicksilver. We’re here to meet Sutton and find out about Father Donatello, not to antagonize them. I’d like to get him back alive if possible.”

  “Face it, he’s dead.” She watched his face harden with anger. Her heart thudded with pain, but she forced herself to face the worst. If she accepted it now, it wouldn’t hurt so much later.

  “I’m asking you to stand aside.” The lilt returned to his voice, a hint that he was losing control. “Follow my lead. There’s no need for threats, and I won’t ask again. Please. Do as I asked or go back to the car.”

  She shook her head. Of the two of them, she had the best chance of surviving and saving Father Donatello. She refused to abandon the gentle man to a stream of useless words. “Sure, laddie, faith and begorrah, I’ll be as meek and mild as a lamb.”

  Her sarcastic rendition of an Irish accent cranked him up to the point where he could only stare at her, speechless with fury. His hands opened and shut into white-knuckled fists. Even the soft scrape of a footstep on the pavement behind him failed to break through the red haze of his anger.

  She glanced over his shoulder.

  “Mr. Hilliard.” Martyn Sutton stood a few yards away. Tension turned his round face into a white mask glistening in the mist like damp, unfired clay.

  “Mr. Sutton,” Kethan greeted him.

  Quicksilver moved a step to Kethan’s right to keep the fog bank in view while facing the master vampire. Her palms itched within her gloves. Panic heated her blood.

  Kill them or run! She suppressed the urge with a shiver. Not this time.

  “Why did you bring her?” Sutton pointed toward her with an open hand.

  Despite Sutton’s empty right palm, she noted a small switchblade in his left hand. He kept it down by his thigh and repeatedly flicked it open and closed with a nervous gesture, a remnant, perhaps, from his human days before fangs made his knife redundant.

  Kethan gripped her wrist. When she glanced at him, he tightened his hold in warning. “You requested I keep control of her. That’s what I’m doing.”

  Uneasy, she headed his implicit warning. She wouldn’t endanger his position by denying his claim of control. It was his game, let him play it.

  “She’s armed.” Sutton frowned, his shaggy brows shadowing his eyes.

  “As are you.”

  “What? This?” Sutton held up the blade, flicking it open in a gesture of contempt. “’Tis naught but a toy.” A feral, red light glittered in the dark hollows beneath his brows. His gaze flickered to the silver whip in her right hand.

  “Then neither of us has anything to fear,” Kethan said smoothly, moving into the warm, neutral tones of a negotiator. “And we have much to discuss. There must be a place where we can sit and talk.”

  Sutton’s gaze shifted to the fog bank, his features becoming even more mask-like. “We’ll talk here.”

  Indicating the mist, Kethan said, “Your people—”

  “I’ve none here, none but meself,” he cut in. “’Tis autumn damp. Nothing more.”

  “You’re crazy if you believe that,” Quicksilver said and despite the reassuring pressure of Kethan’s grip, panic whirled through her. The presence of the vampire made her physically ill, and her body shook with the need to do something—anything—to escape.

  Get out! Get away while you can! The words chanted through her mind.

  She shook her head, clearing away the distraction. “That fog’s not natural. The river’s in the other direction, behind the school. If it were normal, it would’ve come across the school yard, not through the trees.”

  Kethan studied her before giving a small, controlled shake of his head. “Where is Father Donatello?”

  “Father Donatello? Why should we know?” Sutton straightened, his frown showed strong indications of surprise.

  “You don’t have him?” Kethan blinked.

  “Have him? Why should I have him? Why would I do such a daft thing? Damn yer eyes, he’s the reason I met with you!”

  Kethan stepped closer to the vampire. “Don’t play me for a fool and don’t be telling me you’re innocent, or that you’d never do such a thing thanks to your dear friendship with Father Donatello. You’ve an enemy breathing down your neck, haven’t you? You’d be likely to do anything.”

  “Enemy? Aye well, I’ve plenty of those. I’ve the Church wanting to stake me, and a bloody lunatic,” he gestured toward Quicksilver, “trying to behead me. What other enemies do I need?”

  “Then who has Father Donatello?” Kethan repeated.

  “Ask yer bloody Church! And while you’re at it, ask them who they’ve got down Mexico way, or why they’ve got an outsider like you to do their talking for them! Have you wondered that, you bloody sod? Ask yerself why they’d send an old priest they’ve no use for and a man who didn’t have enough faith to keep his vows to talk for them. And don’t be askin’ me for answers, there don’t be any. I were willing enough to talk to Father Donatello, for broken down though he is, he’s got faith and purpose. But you? You can go to the devil—”

  A twig cracked. Behind them? Quicksilver couldn’t tell. She whirled, straining to hear, but the mist muffled the sounds and made them seem distant.

  “Someone’s coming,” she interrupted, her voice low and urgent.

  Sutton swiveled to scan first the woods and then the school. “Where?”

  A lithe, dark shape snaked through the fog. It moved as bonelessly as a snake flowing in and out of the shadows, moving parallel to them through a thin fringe of trees.

  “Sutton….” Kethan’s head snapped around.

  Sutton was gone and the signature of his clan faded with him. The door to his SUV snickered shut and within seconds, even the SUV was gone, squealing out of the parking lot, engine throbbing.

  “Kethan,” Quicksilver said, her voice soft with fear. Something had frightened Sutton enough for him to run, something that she wasn’t sure she was ready to face. She stood in a partial crouch, staring into the mist and breathing deeply to taste the air. She could feel a change in the air, a different scent that did not remind her of the Lost Colonist clan. It reminded her of…Mexico City. Carol and Carlos.

  Oh, dear God, no! I can’t go through that again.

  Her stomach cramped as she whispered, “There is something here.”

  “I know—I saw it, too.” He moved toward his car with a soft tread. “We need to leave. Sutton doesn’t have Father Donatello, I’m sure of it.”

  She didn’t necessarily agree with his assessment of Sutton’s veracity, but she definitely agreed they needed to leave except….

  What if the creature in the woods had Father Donatello?

  “Maybe whoever has him is here.” She took a few steps toward the woods, unable to leave if the possibility of saving Father Donatello existed.

  “Don’t!” he called as she slid closer to a thickening curl of fog. “Damn!”

  While she may have promised to leave Sutton alone, that didn’t mean she had to allow others to stalk them
.

  A few steps more and she lost sight of Kethan in the mist. A momentary disorienting panic hit her, and she took a step back in what she hoped was his direction. The damp air muffled noises, but not enough to hide the tinny sound of a fist banging on the roof of a car. Kethan. It had to be. She didn’t need to see his face to know he was aggravated. Despite her tension, this evidence of his concern warmed her and strengthened her courage.

  The mist felt cool and almost oily on her skin. Moisture quickly saturated her hair and droplets of water clung to her eyelashes and brows. She moved more slowly through the trees, listening.

  Swish…. She heard the faint sound of wet leaves brushing against clothing, nearby. Then something, little more than a dark shadow, raced toward her.

  By instinct she jerked her wrist, snapping the whip toward the vague shape. The fiture wavered and plunged into the deep shadows surrounding an old, twisted oak.

  “Quicksilver!” Kethan called, his voice blurred by the woods between them.

  Her head lifted. She almost answered before she realized doing so would draw him further into the danger surrounding her.

  As quietly as she could, she eased away from him.

  Give up. Go back, she silently urged him, moving deeper into the darkness. Save yourself, it’s too late for me.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The sharp, singing crack of a whip sounded on Kethan’s left. Galvanized by the sound, he ran toward it, pushing twisted, barren branches out of his way. The forest closed in around him.

  He couldn’t see. The trees obscured everything, distorting sounds and absorbing everything, including the air. The atmosphere was claustrophobic.

  “Quicksilver!”

  No response except stealthy, creeping noises that came from no particular direction.

  Swish…crack!

  Muffled by the moist air, the sound sloshed through the fog like whiskey in a drunk’s bottle. Unable to orient on the noise, he nearly ran into the thick black trunk of a maple as he chased the tantalizing echo. He thrust out a hand and pushed himself forward, using the sodden trunk to propel him.

  Ahead, several dark figures circled a silver wraith.

  Quicksilver! Her pale body and hair blended with the pearlescent mist until she faded into a gray curl of fog like a void forming between the distorted, darker figures.

  “Quicksilver!” he called.

  “Here!” she called, then perversely added, “Stay away!”

  One of the creatures broke off and headed toward him, gliding through the black trunks. Kethan instinctively recognized it by the way it moved. Only a very old vampire oiled through the air like that, one who no longer cared if he appeared non-human.

  Kethan picked up a stick as thick as his wrist, his pulse pounding as adrenaline surged in his blood.

  Too long. Unwieldy. He hit the stick against a tree.

  The wood splintered soggily, crumbling in his hand. Cold sweat—or rain—dripped down the back of his neck. The shadows skittered around him as if frightened by what was coming through the darkness. Kethan backed a step and cast around for another limb. Nothing. He glanced up. The figure was nearly upon him. He could see the vampire’s eyes glowing hot, viral red through the gray mist.

  “Come, little man,” the vampire whispered in a strange, sibilant accent that underscored its faint lisp. Straight black hair hung in lank strands over his thin shoulders. He looked emaciated, old. Dangerous. “We have an acquaintance in common—Father Donatello.” He drew out the name like a taunt. “He’s graced us with his presence…as a guest, of course.”

  “Where? Where is he?”

  “You wish to see him? Then come with me, human.”

  Kethan edged away, tightening his grip on the stick. “Who are you?”

  “Jesus.” The vampire laughed, the sound whispered through the branches. He circled around a tree and dipped out of view. “Jesus de Salvador.”

  Kethan turned, keeping his back to the solid bulk of a massive oak. His tension mounted as he strained to orient on the vampire. If he turned to face him, his back would be unprotected, vulnerable to the undead.

  “Let Father Donatello go. Once he’s free, we can talk.”

  “Words? Words are meaningless, little man. We have no need of words.” The vampire reappeared, a bare two yards away on his left.

  Kethan jerked back. His shoulder hit a tree and his gut tightened in near panic at how easily the vampire had moved closer, close enough to strike. The branch in his hand felt light—too light—but rotten or not, it was the only weapon he had.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Nothing too difficult. Martyn Sutton. Give us Martyn Sutton. Then Father Donatello is yours.” The laugh that followed rained over Kethan like shards of ice. “You want this, si?”

  “Father Donatello—is he unharmed?”

  De Salvador tilted his head to one side as if listening to something only he could hear. “Unharmed? Who among us is completely unharmed?”

  “Is he bitten? Already dead?” Kethan forced his tone to remain calm.

  “Not…dead. Not yet.”

  “No negotiations, then. Not until I know he’s safe and unconverted.” Kethan shrugged. “If it’s already too late, well, that would be a mistake.”

  The creature studied him, calculation gleaming in his black eyes. “Give us Sutton, and you may have the priest.”

  “Betrayal is not on the table. No Sutton. What else do you want?”

  “A delicate situation, si?” The vampire smiled, his long incisors dimpling his lips. “So…so, you convince Martyn Sutton and his clan to come to us. Then Father Donatello returns to you. Simple, si?”

  Behind him, Kethan heard Quicksilver’s whip slash through the air. Then silence for a heartbeat. A sharp, frantic grunt and another crack of her whip against wood suggested she had trapped a vampire against a tree.

  De Salvador’s head snapped up. His eyes filled with a crimson, animalistic light as he glanced in the direction of the sounds.

  “Do it!” He focused on Kethan. “Give us Sutton or Father Donatello becomes one of us. Slowly. Painfully. Si?” The vampire melted into the mist.

  Raising the stick like a club, Kethan bolted toward where he hoped Quicksilver stood.

  “Watch out!” he called. His gut liquefied. Was he too late?

  A slender, white silhouette darted ahead of him through the trees and then halted suddenly. Between the trees, Kethan could make out the thin, black silhouettes of several strangers.

  With a whip in each hand, she circled the vampires, lashing out toward one and then flicking the second whip behind her to prevent the undead from attacking her blind side. The vampires stayed well beyond the range of her whips.

  “They’ve got Father Donatello,” he called to her, stepping behind her back to face the void between two twisted maples where Jesus de Salvador had disappeared.

  “Damn! These aren’t Sutton’s clan,” she panted. “Die!” She screamed and charged a target Kethan hadn’t noticed.

  Before the vampire could react, she snapped the whip and ensnared his neck. With a vicious tug, the monofilament slid through his spine, severing muscle and bones as he fell toward her. She shoved her shoulder into his chest and pushed him away.

  The impact made the head fall to the left while the torso tumbled in the other direction. Before it hit the ground, the body dissolved into a cloud of searing ash. The crimson embers drifted around her, sticking to her damp clothing and skin and sizzling before winking out.

  Two remaining vampires melted away between the trees before she brushed her forearm over her face. Lowering her arm, Quicksilver rotated her wrists, her face flushed with fury.

  “They’re gone,” Kethan said, knowing his words weren’t precisely true. The air around them still held the chill of the undead, but he had to stop the violence and get her away to safety. He feared that any damage they did to the vampires, no matter what clan, would be paid by Father Donatello. “We’ve got
to leave.”

  “I can feel them, they’re still here.” She glanced around, distracted.

  He walked toward her, striving to project calm confidence. However, his back felt cold, as if evil incarnate watched him, waiting for an opening.

  Grabbing her shoulder, he pushed her ahead of him. When she dug her heels in, he leaned against her shoulder and whispered, “I feel them, too. But they’ve got Father Donatello. If you kill any more, he may die in retribution.”

  “He’s already lost.” She stared at him, her eyes flat and devoid of hope.

  “Not yet.”

  She looked away. “He’s gone.”

  “No.”

  “You and your second chances,” she replied sourly, letting him push her forward through the trees with only token resistance.

  “Do you really want to give up? Let them win?”

  “No.”

  “Then believe me. He’s alive. We can get him back if we’re smart.”

  She sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

  He nodded, praying for the same thing but fearing he might be wrong. They might have lost Father Donatello to the children of Hell, already.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Despite Kethan’s assurances, Quicksilver’s stomach burned with an increasing sense of uncertainty, eroding her confidence. The undead followed them, keeping to the shadows among the trees. She caught another glimpse of a vampire and eased closer to Kethan, trying to control her racing thoughts. Each move, each decision they made might further endanger Father Donatello. He was too good, too kind, to do what she’d done to survive when she was imprisoned by vampires.

  No decent human being would do what she’d done. Father Donatello would die, instead.

  She shivered, her body feeling too small, too tight. Thinking of what might happen—what might be happening now—raised wave upon wave of panic. The acrid taste of failure choked her as she imagined the worst. Staring ahead, she bumped into Kethan once, twice, but she couldn’t force herself to increase the distance between them. The wide breadth of his shoulders and warmth steaming off his back reassured her.