Possessed by An Immortal Page 8

  And feeling the brush of a key fob against her hand. Her ribs suddenly expanded as if the iron band of fear fell away. She’d clicked the fob before she even got it out of the pocket. The door locks clunked, and she pulled the back door open, lifting Jonathan inside and buckling him into the booster seat in record time. Then she scrambled around to the driver’s door. Now the pursuers were only two cars away.

  She slammed the locks shut and pushed the starter. The motor purred to life, obedient to her touch. Once upon a time, she’d had a Mercedes she’d driven around town like a bat out of Hades. Mark’s sleek car gave her some of that attitude back. Bree pressed her lips together, relishing the spark of defiance suddenly fizzing in her veins.

  Now was the moment things changed. Bree shifted into drive and started turning the wheel. She’d been running and running from one side of the continent to the other, and she was sick of it. She worked alone, but that didn’t mean she’d abandon the one man who’d stuck his neck out to help her. These goons hadn’t beaten her down that badly. Not yet. Not ever.

  All she had to do was get the car back to the place she’d last seen Mark. He couldn’t have gone that far. Not in this short a time.

  So there wasn’t a whole lot of space to maneuver the car out of the ferry line. She’d do her best. It would be too bad about the paint job, though.

  Bree glanced in the rearview mirror at her son. “Mommy’s going to run over the bad guys now. Are you ready, sweetie?”

  * * *

  Mark could scent Ferrel’s apprehension. Good. Nerves made Ferrel sharp, but they also might make him leap to conclusions. Mark could use that. Anything to buy Bree and Jonathan a bit more time to get away.

  He studied his enemy, the beast in him searching for weaknesses. The leader of the Knights, ancient order of slayers and sworn servants of the Royal House of Vidon, looked as if he had stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog—neat, pressed and casual with an edge of sophistication. His artfully windblown hair glinted gold in the autumn sun, the two-day beard shadowing the line of his jaw. Only his angry eyes looked raw and real. There was hate in Nicholas Ferrel. The rest was just packaging.

  The hate made Mark’s beast stir. It would be the man’s strength and a weakness that Mark could exploit. For now, though, he had to string him along.

  Ferrel’s henchmen ranged themselves on either side of their leader, a tall man and a redhead to Mark’s left, one with a Vandyke beard to the right. Mark barely registered their faces—not because they weren’t impressive specimens, but Ferrel seemed to absorb all the energy around them into his rage. No one else counted.

  The street was busy and none too wide for a showdown. Pedestrians carrying waffle cones passed behind Mark, chatting and laughing as if a vampire and four wannabe Van Helsings weren’t glaring at each other like growly dogs. The four Knights stood along the line of parked cars, facing Mark. Someone pulled up, parking a Hummer. It forced Vandyke to step away from the curb, ruining the quartet’s symmetry as he nearly collided with a baby stroller.

  That was good. Anything to gain the psychological advantage.

  Mark made a show of looking Ferrel over. “So you’re the new head of the Knights. Congrats on the promotion.”

  “Spare me your pleasantries. Where are the woman and her child?” Ferrel’s voice was pleasantly pitched, fluid as a radio announcer’s.

  “They are elsewhere.” Mark bit out the words, investing them with all his wrath.

  “You cannot hide them for long. We have eyes everywhere. Technology has granted humankind powers almost equal to yours, demon kin. You are no longer the supreme hunters. The Knights even undergo training that boosts our natural immunity to your hypnotic powers.”

  Cold crept through Mark’s bones, as if the shadows were plucking at him. His answer came in a low, quiet rasp. “Remind me of that when I’m bending your neck to my teeth.”

  Ferrel gave him a frown. “Spoken like the devil you are.”

  A passerby with a camera around his neck gave Mark and Ferrel a curious glance. Neither looked at the tourist, but Mark reminded himself to watch his tongue in front of the humans. This was a public place. He had to use his brain, not his fangs.

  “I could tell jokes if you like. How many zombies does it take to change a lightbulb?”

  “Silence!”

  Mark wondered how far Bree had gotten. He wouldn’t be able to keep Ferrel talking for very long. “Would you prefer knock-knock jokes? Or go old school with quotations from Punchinello? After one has lived as long as I have, one amasses quite the repertoire.”

  “Silence!” Ferrel repeated. “You will tell me what I want to know.”

  Try me, slayer.

  As if reading his thoughts, the one with the Vandyke beard tried to edge past Mark. With a grunt of satisfaction, he sidestepped into the man’s path and roughly shoved him back. The sheer physicality of it felt good. Doing was always better than talking—and deep inside he remembered that he was designed to kill.

  “Is that the best you’ve got, Ferrel?” he snarled. With part of his mind, he realized the people on the street were giving them a wide berth now. Their showdown was attracting attention. Be careful.

  Ferrel bristled. “I’m better than you, bloodsucker.”

  “At knitting?”

  The man’s hand lingered around the lump under his jacket. A holster. Knights of Vidon used silver bullets, good for anything: human, vampire or werewolf. Mark’s beast stirred, restless beneath a fresh wave of anger.

  Mark dropped his voice. “Why do this, Ferrel? Why send me the note? Why not just kill us all on the island?”

  “Because that’s not the object of the game,” Ferrel replied in a tone that said he was stating the obvious. “I want the woman and her son alive, and I want you to know they’re in my power because you failed, vampire. You’ve already brought them to me. You’ve played right into my hands. All that’s left is your shame and destruction.”

  Weariness and rage overtook Mark. “Because I killed your ancestor five centuries ago? And then your kin killed my family? And I killed more of yours? Or did I get the order of events wrong, and your kin killed mine first? It’s been too long to make any difference. Give it up.”

  “No difference in your mind, perhaps,” Ferrel replied. “The Knights have a longer memory.”

  “That was hundreds of years before you were born. Vendettas went out of style, right along with codpieces and hats with bells.”

  Ferrel’s face went colder still. “Vendettas? This is more than a family feud. I am a Knight of Vidon, and you are demon-spawn. I am sworn to end you. The blood spilled between us just makes it personal.”

  If anyone had a personal stake in this, it was Mark. He’d been there—not that fact mattered in the ceaseless battle between vampires and slayers. They were two wolves locked in a fight neither could win. “We don’t have to do this.” The words had to be said.

  “Do you think so? Do you think playing doctor will cleanse your sins, vampire?” Ferrel smiled, but it wasn’t happy. The next words were so quiet, Mark would have missed them if he had been a human. “If I locked you in a cage with no one to prey on, how long would it be before you’d drain the first human unlucky enough to wander too close to the bars? Days? Weeks? No more than that.”

  Mark was too aware of the people all around. Kids. Mothers. A man walking briskly along with his briefcase. “Not the place for this conversation.”

  Ferrel drew his gun. So did his three sidekicks. Mark’s beast seized control of his reactions. He sprang over their heads, landing on the roof of the Hummer. He crouched, tension thrumming through him, ready to leap and run. If he drew his own weapon, that would start a firefight. Someone would get shot, maybe killed. Probably some local kid.

  Unfortunately, three of the very humans he was trying to save were pulling
out their smartphones. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to star in an online video.

  Tension built in the air, like a brewing storm or static electricity. It pulsed through his skull, making his molars ache.

  “But you enjoy the violence, don’t you?” Ferrel said softly. “It’s more than the blood you want. You all have a taste for the kill. So do we.”

  Ferrel pulled the trigger. A woman screamed as the Hummer’s windshield fell to a rain of glass chips. Mark was already in the air, then landed on the roof of the coffee shop, rolling to his feet to see the Knights wheeling around in consternation. The car alarm began blaring into the chill, sunny morning. Crouching as low as he could, Mark sheltered behind the false front that ran along the roofline. The bystanders were running now, cameras forgotten until they found cover.

  Mark swore viciously. Shooting in public? Was Ferrel just extracrazy—which appeared to be a given—or had the Knights given up the tacit agreement to keep the war between the supernatural and the slayers out of the public eye? Or did he think bystanders meant that Mark wouldn’t fight back? That was true, up to a point.

  Mark reached for his own gun, wondering how to make an exit. Every human had vanished, or so he thought. Then his eye caught what had to be the local lawman, hurrying down the street with a too-much-mac-and-cheese swagger. Oh, crap.

  “What’s your damage, Ferrel?” Mark bellowed. “How can we end this?”

  “Where are the woman and child?”

  I want you to know they’re in my power because you failed, vampire. Ferrel meant to give the feud between them renewed viciousness. Mark said nothing, a hard, cold anger clogging his throat. He had backed away from the endless cycle of revenge. Became a doctor. Gone to his island. That didn’t mean he was over what the first Nicholas Ferrel had done to his wife and boys.

  Ferrel was aiming at the roof. “Hand the woman and her brat over. You have no right to them. They’re not yours to protect!”

  Up till that moment, a piece of Mark had done his best to believe that. But from his vantage point, he saw his Lexus screaming the wrong way out the entrance of the ferry parking lot. Mark blinked, not quite believing his eyes. Uniformed men were piling out of the ticket booths, waving their arms. The car swerved a fishtailing right turn and tore down the street toward them.

  The driver was wearing a baseball cap, but Mark’s sharp eyesight caught the features. He’d know the determined set of that wide, expressive mouth anywhere. Bree’s face was swiveling side to side, searching the street. Looking for him. By the darkest hells, she was coming to save him. Amazement blossomed in his chest, and he almost laughed out loud.

  “She’s just made herself mine to fight for,” he said under his breath.

  He waited, calculating the exact second the Lexus passed. His muscles ached with the urge to spring too soon, the beast’s desire to be free, but he forced himself to obey. Control.

  The lawman was getting closer, shouting into a radio strapped to his shoulder. Bree was getting closer, but now Mark was pinned between the police and the enemy. He would have to be quick and accurate. He would have to count on Bree’s steady nerves. He silently pleaded with her to look up, to see him there on the roof.

  The lawman was yelling at Ferrel and company. Now everybody had their guns out. Mark’s muscles twitched.

  At last, the Lexus was almost directly ahead. Bree glanced up, nearly driving into a lamppost when she saw him on the roof.

  He leaped, landing on the hood. The car skidded, making him grab on so hard his fingers dented the metal.

  “They’re human,” Ferrel shouted. “You’ll destroy them in the end!”

  But Bree kept speeding toward the road out of town. Another volley of bullets splattered the street, followed by sirens. The local lawman had apparently called his friends. Mark flattened himself on the roof. If he was stuck on top like a roof rack, a high-speed chase would suck.

  Then the passenger window hummed open. Relief washed through him.

  Jonathan squealed in delight as Mark swung his legs inside and slid into the seat. At that speed, it was a very good thing he had a vampire’s brute strength and agility.

  “Nice move,” Bree said, steaming onto the highway out of town with a squeal of rubber.

  “Thanks.” Superhuman or not, he reached for the seat belt. She was driving like a werelion on catnip.

  “Sorry about the paint job,” she added.

  “We’ll talk about that later.”

  She shot him a sidelong look, but Mark ignored it, staring moodily out the window and listening to the sirens. You’ll destroy them in the end. A sudden weakness made his stomach roll. No. It didn’t have to end that way. Not again.

  Chapter 9

  Bree stepped closer to the counter at the convenience store, straining her ears to catch the news report about the incident at the ferry terminal. It had only been hours ago, but already a confused account was circulating about how the villains had got away despite the police. Apparently Ferrel had given the cops a merry chase after Bree had blown the scene. She was almost sorry she’d missed it.

  The sound of the reporter’s voice, live from the scene, made her stomach tighten. She hated, hated, hated reporters only slightly less than she hated every idiot with a cell phone camera and the notion that they were entitled to play paparazzi at her son’s expense. Not that any of the bystanders at Gleeford knew a thing about her son, but her protective instincts surged to the fore. She kept listening, waiting for any mention of Jonathan, but there was nothing. They did mention Mark’s dramatic leap to freedom, though. That was almost as bad.

  Unfortunately, the bottom line was that Nicholas Ferrel and his happy band of psychopaths were still on their tail. Nicholas Ferrel. All this time, the men chasing her had been shadows, nameless bogeymen hiding under the bed. Now they were individuals. Knowing Ferrel’s name did nothing to ease her fears.

  The broadcast changed to a cheerful country song as Mark paid for their bag of groceries. Jonathan peered over the edge of the counter to watch the clerk bag the prefab sandwiches and containers of yogurt. The man kept giving the boy sorrowful glances. Even he could see her son was ill. Bree closed her eyes, feeling as though she was dying by inches.

  To make matters worse, there was a security camera on the wall above the till. Assuming the thing worked, it was just one more way someone could track where they’d been. This was a nightmare. There was no way she regretted saving Mark, but her actions had drawn the attention of the police. They were fugitives from them now, too.

  The only plan they’d made so far was to get as far away from Gleeford as they could, which meant heading west.

  Brows drawn into his habitual scowl, Mark pocketed his change, picked up the bag and walked toward the door. Jonathan was on his heels, playing with a plastic dinosaur.

  “Did we pay for that?” she asked her son as they drew near. Jonathan was at that age where ownership and theft were still fuzzy concepts.

  “I did.” Mark pushed open the door, making the bell ring. “He liked the T. rex best.”

  Jonathan made a gleeful roaring noise, baring his teeth.

  Something about it put Bree on edge. She was already anxious, not sure where she stood after what had just happened. Kissing. Shooting. A wild escape. Nothing in the dating advice columns on how to handle that one. Oddly, it was the kiss her mind kept returning to, the feel of his lips caressing hers. She had always been confident with men—okay, confident that men wanted her—but had been pretty good at handling herself once she’d gotten out of the disastrous high school phase. Mark was a different case. She’d done her best to avoid getting involved, and now she felt like she had stepped off a cliff. She could picture herself floundering, arms flailing as she hurtled toward disaster.

  It made her uneasy and snappish. “When I was his age, I had a stuf
fed lamb.”

  “He’s a boy,” Mark said with almost a laugh. It was the first sign of amusement she’d seen since they’d started this journey.

  “He’s a baby. And he’s sick. I don’t want him...”

  “Pretending to be a monster?” The statement had a cutting edge, though she wasn’t sure why. “Be grateful it’s dinosaurs and not guns.”

  “Why does it have to be anything violent at all?”

  They stopped a few feet from the car, taking the moment to truly look at one another. Mark was still radiating a muted ferocity, as if he hadn’t quite calmed down from the confrontation with Ferrel. His hands were at his sides, his fingers so tense they were half curled into claws. His eyes were hidden behind the shades, but his jaw bunched as he clenched his teeth. Was this the same man whom she had kissed? She edged forward half a step, putting a hand on his arm. The muscle beneath his sleeve was ropy with tension. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound snappish.”

  “It’s okay. It’s been a busy day.” His tone was ironic.

  Bree shifted uneasily. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted out. You don’t have to risk yourself for our sake.”

  He made a sound of impatience, stepping away from her touch. “I have to make a call. We need to change cars.”

  Fine. An ache of confusion wrapped her chest, making her sigh hurt. Bree looked around at the tiny town they’d stopped in. There was the gas station, a few houses and what looked like a saloon. There were even hitching posts in front of it, but no rent-a-car business or even a sign to say where they were.

  Mark prowled out to the road, talking on his cell while Jonathan walked the T. rex up the side of the Lexus and made growling sounds. He’d taken to Mark. Perhaps a smart mother would keep him away from her son, try to cushion the inevitable shock when Mark went his way and they went theirs. But she’d made a different choice by going back for the man. She just prayed it wasn’t a bad one.