“And you can—” I started.
She nodded. Mouthed the word “maybe.” “Want to try?” she whispered a little louder.
Fuck, I was game for anything.
****
A few hours later, while the house dozed, I stepped onto the porch in the afternoon sun.
A film coated my skin, slid under my nails, through my ears, my nose, my mouth, up in my eyes. I all but tasted it, something bitter like uncoated aspirin.
Thankfully, it wasn’t glittery.
Peri had dosed me, jerking electric energy through me that burned so badly I bit the inside of my mouth until it bled to keep from screaming. It went on for an hour and she was left nearly incapacitated with exhaustion.
But here I was. In the motherfucking sun.
I closed my eyes for a moment, drinking it in, feeling it beat against my dark hair bound back in a bun, and my dark motorcycle jacket.
“I remember the sun. You were beautiful in it.”
His voice in my head cut, slicing through me hard enough that my steps hitched as I walked toward my bike in the driveway. But I steadied. Kept walking. Because I had a shotgun on my back, handguns holstered under my coat, knives all over my person, and one bad fucking attitude. There was no use pretending the bastard hadn’t hurt me—he had. My fault, sure, for opening up. For saving him when I should’ve killed him. For trusting him. I wouldn’t pretend I didn’t love him.
But I would work very hard in the next couple of hours at creating a visceral visual memory of why I should never, ever let my guard down again.
Chapter Thirty
History Repeats
The bike spit dust and gravel, crunching as I swung onto the shoulder of the road, then I cut the engine. Immediately I spotted my helmet in the ditch of long dried grass and mud, the top of it gleaming like new. Clouds had thickened out in the country, more so than in the suburbs I’d left behind, but the air was dry and didn’t feel like rain. Sunlight was watery, almost brittle, but I welcomed it. I wouldn’t have it for long—Peri figured her dosing would last a few hours, no more than four or five. This had to be bloody and quick. I could work with it. Later, I’d probably be utterly thrilled at this new development—at the possibilities, and helping her hone it for my benefit.
But for now it was a tool and I had work to do.
I climbed off the bike, stuffed my gloves in my pocket, plucked off my shades, and stalked over the gravel. Sweat slicked my forehead, soaked me under my coat, but unzipping my jacket let in a bit of air to circulate. I left my hair up in the bun, out of my face. In case I got in a chick fight, I didn’t want it in the way.
The truck hadn’t moved, a thin coating of dust from passing cars covering it. I had spare keys with me, and I popped open the door so I could remove all the weapons hidden within. Guns waited under both seats with extra mags in the glove compartment. I had no use for them—I was packing enough—and I hated to waste anything, but in case someone came looking, it was best not to have them near; I ejected the mags and zipped them in my coat, and then tossed the empty guns on the seat.
I slipped a Bowie knife from the sheath at my belt and slammed it into each of the truck’s tires in turn, air hissing as they deflated. Mish had to’ve had a vehicle of her own, but a scan of the area and I came up with nothing. Oh well—if I couldn’t see it, it would take them time to reach it, should anyone escape.
Before abandoning the truck, I unlocked the back and swung open one of the doors on softly squeaking hinges. Strapped inside was a large red can of gas—another ‘just in case’ item for long drives. I slipped it off the wall and hauled it with me.
The house was silent, windows upstairs covered with black garbage bags. So he was still here. Out of the sun. I was slipping again, tipping into numbness—madness—and I reined it back in a touch, hovering back in rage, back where my blood was hot, my muscles tight, and my trigger finger very, very happy. But before I pulled out the shotgun, before I did anything like that, I opened the gas can and tipped it over, dragging it around the perimeter of the house, splashing accelerant on the exterior. “Just in case” indeed. I left the red can outside, knelt by the rear door with my picks, and worked on the old lock. Door swung open and I stared into a kitchen.
It looked like the upstairs had—lived in, but perhaps in a different decade. Maybe Mishka brutally killed the previous owners, a nice old couple who invited the lying cunt in when her car broke down outside. Seemed likely. I’d probably find their bodies in the basement.
For now, I slipped past the drying dishes in the rack, past the quaint oak table with a vase of dusty, dried flowers, and ghosted through a narrow hall for the staircase beside it.
The stairs were scuffed and lined from overuse, and the bottom one creaked when I stepped on it. I froze, looked up. Listened. No sign of movement, just the dark upper floor. Faded wallpaper of vertical stripes and dainty flowers ran up the wall and I pressed my fingertips to it, grounding me as I went step by step, testing each of the stairs with a touch of my weight before settling my foot down and continuing to the next. A railing ran around the hole in the floor at the top of the stairs, spindles thick and uneven. Three doors lay shut, one open to a bathroom.
I eased the Bowie from the sheath at my belt and moved toward the front bedroom. No light under the door—heartbeats beyond steady. Sleeping.
Somewhere beneath all the hurt, the betrayal, the icy rage, was the broken sad girl ready to chicken out, to hightail it out of there, to question the bloody vengeance I was very interested in bestowing.
I put my trust in him. All of it, every ounce I had to give and more. Believed in him.
I stuffed that damn broken girl down again, sealed her away, locked her in a box in my head where she wouldn’t bother me again. I’d lived a long time without a conscience and it wasn’t time for Jiminy to make an appearance now.
My free hand clasped the cool brass doorknob and turned it slowly, twisting as gently as I could when all I wanted to do was blast it open with my fucking 12 gauge.
The door opened softly, swinging with only the slightest twinge of the hinges. It was the room from the night before, windows on either side covered thoroughly with plastic garbage bags and duct tape. And the bed was occupied, the lovely couple sleeping peacefully. Under a quilt, maybe clothed, but that barely registered—didn’t fucking matter. Nate on his back, Mish on her side, her hand on his chest. Buzzing knocked around in my skull again and for a horrible moment I wasn’t here, wasn’t me; I was a nameless, newbie vampire drenched in blood after killing the family house staff, creeping into her bedroom where her husband—her murderer—slept with her replacement. This time, though, I was the replacement, wasn’t I? His temporary distraction.
I stared at him, standing three feet from the bed. Just...fucking stared. All the steeling myself, the preparation, it didn’t matter. I was raw, bleeding, cut so deep I didn’t think I’d fix me this time, if I ever really did before. Zara Lain emerged to save Ana—to be strong when the dead girl I was couldn’t be. Now, though...I didn’t know who I was. Who would save Zara now that she was so fucking weak?
I returned the knife yet again to its sheath. I wanted to stab him in the throat; wanted to see his eyes open in horror, lips part wordlessly, blood seep through the mattress as he bled out, but I couldn’t. Not yet.
But I still needed him out of the way until I was ready.
I moved, feet skimming the floor, closing the distance. His eyes shot open as my hands closed on his arm, confusion dragging him a step behind me as I hauled him up and straight for the window to my left. The garbage bag crackled and tore, glass shattered and I threw everything into it, tossing him headfirst like a bouncer with a guy who had too many and wouldn’t leave. Light broke into the room he left behind as he tumbled outside to sunbathe awhile.
But the moment he left my hands I was already spinning, jerking the shotgun around, lifting it before I’d ever finished turning, and I squeezed the trigger immediately. The sh
ot struck the headboard, chunks of wood flying—missing Mishka’s head because she was already up.
Soft steps running, patterned peasant skirt fluttering in my peripheral vision; I twisted while I reloaded and fired again, took a chunk of the doorframe.
Magic was already flying, charging the air a second before it flew my way, but I ducked and twisted the gun strap off my shoulder, swung the weapon by the barrel and smacked the stock against her ankles. Mishka stumbled back, whatever spell she threw flying wide. I was rising, running, dropping the Rossi for a Desert Eagle because there wasn’t much space between us—couldn’t give her room to throw more magic.
The gun fired a sound like thunder, flash spitting from the muzzle. I blew a hole in the wall, plaster puffing up, six inches from her head. Wind struck, ripping at my hair, but I crouched low again and fired. Another hole in the wall, the gun like firing a cannon.
I got closer still, discarded that gun and grabbed the knife because I wanted close combat—wanted to look in her eyes when I did it, wanted to watch her eyes go glassy and dead.
She screamed and threw something at me—a fucking basket from the dresser, potpourri and odds and ends flying—but I came at her quick, raising the knife. The blade flashed in the low light, slashing across her throat.
Blood sprayed, arcing against the wall, splattering hot and thick against my face and neck. Green eyes widened, popping out in surprise, or horror, or pain, or something else—I didn’t know. Didn’t care. Her hand came up to cover the wound but blood poured through her fingers, soaking her tank top.
No chance to feel superior, to gloat, to make a snarky comment—I was out of snarky comments. I felt nothing, no relief, just burning still on that fury high. And steps neared, a rapid heartbeat, Nate having returned from outside. I spun on instinct, knife raised, hand out to grab his throat and—
And my hand locked on the neck of five-year-old boy.
Chapter Thirty-One
In the End
Too late to stop, I followed through, slamming the kid against the wall, lifting him off the ground so his face was closer to my level, Bowie knife raised, my arm jerked tight.
Tears snaked down his cheeks from blue eyes—bright blue, startling blue. Blue that I first saw six years ago, when my second target on my first big assassination contract opened a door and pulled me inside with him, away from the guards bound to kill me. The kid’s hair was silky brown, hanging on either side down to his ears, and he wore pajamas in blue with astronauts. His body froze like I’d dunked him in ice except for his lips trembling, and a dark wet spot spread from the front of his pajama bottoms, the sterile stink of urine hitting the air.
A kid. His kid.
My heart thumped hard like it was trying to escape and I didn’t blame it. Sweat slithered down the back of my neck, under my jacket, and my arm ached, but I didn’t lower the knife—didn’t even lower the kid. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.
He had a kid.
The detached part of me that was watching, listening, preparing for anything, felt the movement in the room, magic so thick that it sank dread in my gut because heavy shit was happening and I knew I should run. But I stared at the kid still as he cried and whimpered, his heart beating wild, the pulse thrumming under my fingers like that of a rabbit caught by a wolf, knowing it was about to get ripped open.
That wasn’t fair, though. Wolves didn’t terrorize their prey intentionally. Didn’t enjoy it.
Not like I did.
Was this what little Nate looked like, when his father made him eat something he was deathly allergic to, or threw things at him, or pushed him down the stairs, or beat him? This scared? Nah, this kid didn’t look resolved to being hurt—he was terrified by the bloody, fanged monster with a huge knife less than two feet from his head. Violence was unfamiliar to him.
But he never dropped his gaze. Pissed himself—it was dripping on the floor now—cried and whimpered, but his gaze didn’t flinch. Held steady. Maybe he thought if he blinked, I’d kill him. Or maybe he didn’t think at all—he just faced the bogeyman and wouldn’t look away from it.
Nate’s kid. Fuck.
Figures blinked through my peripheral vision and a second later the long black barrel of my Rossi was pointed at my head. Hands red and blistering, just like the rest of the person out of focus, holding my gun at me from half a foot away. Burns like that fucking hurt—I knew because I’d had them. Because he’d come back for me while I was trapped under my bed and got me out of my apartment alive.
I trusted you.
“Put down my child, Zara.” His voice was low and threatening, dead fucking serious.
Child. His child.
My skull rattled, buzzing in my ears like bees about to escape, slipping back, back, back into the memory of a monster. Children are so breakable. I’d know—I’d killed them. Drained them. And this one wouldn’t take long—he was gangly, not much to him. He’d be tall one day, though. Like his father.
My grip tightened and the kid winced.
“Let. Him. Go.”
And I tipped again out of rage, not into the scary place beyond but the other way, fire turning to ice, chilling my veins. And soon I’d snap, my ice veins cracking open, all of me falling to the floor and shattering. Tremors worked up my arms, not from being frozen in this position for so long, but...fuck, I didn’t know. Didn’t want to think about it. If I didn’t focus all of my attention, right then, on keeping steady, I’d shake and shake until I fell apart.
I heard it then, a few feet away—shallow heart still beating, little human gasping noises, stink of copper permeating the space. Mish twitched on the floor like a fish out of water in its final death throes, soaked in red. She might die yet. She might also live—her husband was real good at that kind of thing. Not just healing but not giving up on people.
I returned my attention to the kid. His kid. Their kid. I could snap his throat. I’d get a bullet in my pretty head, yeah. Some brains splattered over the wall. But I’d recover, eventually. Might lose a few memories if my brain was damaged but at that moment the idea of forgetting all this shit was looking pretty fucking good. And then Nate would be miserable. Mourning. So would Mish, if she managed to live. Bullet in my head or not—even if they staked and decapitated me—it would almost be worth it.
My lips twitched in a grim smile. Almost.
I dropped the kid, twisted and batted the shotgun barrel away in the same movement and ran with the short burst of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it speed of a vampire, beating across the hardwood. I dove out the window where I’d tossed Nate.
I hit the grass and rolled, broken glass cut, but adrenalin spiked through my veins and I felt none of it. I was up again, on my feet, about to run when the pungent, headache-inducing odour of gasoline hit me.
My fingers slid into my pocket, produced a matchbook, and I lit the whole thing up, sulfur stinking and flames rising. A glance at the house—where Mishka was, where he was, where the kid was—and I iced over any feelings I had, tossing the matchbook. It struck the side of the building where gasoline discoloured the wood and peeling paint, and fire spread, rolling around the perimeter.
I turned and darted across the lawn, jumped the ditch, and hopped on the bike as smoke tinged the air and painted the sky black in my wake.
****
I enjoyed the sunshine.
Enjoy might be too much. “Found shit to do in the sunshine” was a start. I was on borrowed time, of course, but I like the idea of pushing it—pushing myself to the end of Peri’s magic wearing off. And pushing the limits of my credit card; I swung the Kawasaki Ninja back into the city to hit a couple of stores. Retail therapy: refuge of the brokenhearted. I’m also a priority customer at a cute little salon who took me right in and gave my hair a fresh wash and trim, along with a mani-pedi. My nails were a lovely polished crimson and I secured my shopping bags to the bike before heading back to Nic’s.
Thick clouds had rolled in, the sky dark blue like a bruise as dusk hit. A
storm brewed that would slam into the city hard—I was kinda glad to be off the harbour. Still, I’d gotten plenty of sun and my skin was toasty, reddening but not burned yet by the time I parked the bike and strolled into the house, shopping bags swinging in hand.
He had a kid. Holy shit.
I gave myself a mental shake and kicked the front door closed behind me. “Honey, I’m home.”
“Zara, what the—” It was Nic’s voice going nearly shrill.
I slipped off my sunglasses and dropped the bags by the couch. “Went shopping. Got anything new from Abel?”
Peri, seated at the computer, blinked at me. I ignored her.
“Um...” Nic gaped at me still. “It was daylight.”
“Indeed. What’s new here?”
“You went shopping?” Peri snapped. “I’m sure glad I didn’t waste my time finding you any fucking C-4.”
“So where’s the nun?” I didn’t see Ry around, just Ellie by himself with a fifth of Jack Daniels.
“Meeting Abel,” Nic said. “He wasn’t comfortable faxing the books so he’s giving them to her. Now seriously, what in the hell—how in the hell—were you outside in the sun?”
Hmm, faxing was bad, but stealing was okay. I knew they were kept sequestered in that church, but really. Abel knew how to email and text.
“Look.” I pulled a black cocktail dress from one of the bags. “Vintage Valentino. I can’t believe it was in my size.” No one seemed terribly interested in my purchases, however, so I dropped the dress back in the bag and lifted my parcels to take to the bedroom. “Just for that, I’m not gonna tell you about my shoes.” I probably would, eventually. Manolo Blahnik—of course I’d tell them.
The front door burst open, hinges swinging, splintered wood flying and striking me. Clothes still streaked with blood, tips of her hair crimson with it, throat wiped clean and sporting a pink, healing scar, Mishka stood in the broken doorway with one hell of a storm brewing behind her.
Exhumed Page 20
