Blood Bond (20 page)

“Where is it?” he asked, craning his neck to
see behind us.

“Somewhere,” I said, waving an arm, “back
there, I think. We’re not waiting around to find out.”

“But it might be the Lexingtons again.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.” He
didn’t answer. “George, they stood in the middle of the road like
they had a death wish, either for themselves or for us, and then
disappeared into thin air. I never even felt them nearby. Does that
sound like they want to be friends?”

“Good point.” We reached the car. He held
out the keys partway and hesitated. “But we could check it out at
least. I wouldn’t let anything hurt you.”

I softened. “When you turn, there’s no
guarantee you’ll be on my side.” I said it gently but I could tell
the words had an effect. He nodded and handed me the keys.

*

Wes called an hour later. I released the
death grip on the steering wheel and grabbed for the phone.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.” He said the words between heavy
breaths and my heart rate accelerated.

“What happened? Did you get the drive?”

“No, something … came up.”

Anxiety curled in my gut.
“What exactly
came up
?”

“The girl, the one I supposed to meet, she
wasn’t there.”

“What do you mean? Like, had the day
off?”

“No, I checked into it. She was fired the
day before I arrived.”

“For what?”

A car door slammed in the background
followed by the sounds of an engine turning over and revving. “No
one knows. I found an address. All of her stuff is there, but no
one’s home. No one’s been home for a while according to the
neighbors.”

The anxiety twisted into fear. This wasn’t
good. “Could it be a coincidence? Maybe she went on a spontaneous
vacation? Or went to stay with her mom. If I got fired, I’d be
upset and maybe—”

“I don’t think so, Tara. Her toothbrush, her
car keys, everything is there.”

“Someone knew you were coming,” I said.
“They knew what she was going to give you.” It wasn’t a
question.

He didn’t answer me directly, which told me
he suspected the worst. “Are you guys there yet?”

“Not yet. We’re close. There was a
delay.”

“What happened?” The worry in his voice made
him snap the words out.

I told him about seeing the Lexingtons and
my near-shift. “You need to get to Astor’s as fast as you can,” he
said. “No more stops, do you hear me? No matter what.”

“All right.”

“And remember what I said about the threat
being the trigger. Keep your cool.”

“Okay.”

“But not if you’re attacked. If that
happens, listen to me very carefully: let it loose. The wolf,
whatever’s inside you struggling to get out, let it. But only if
you’re attacked, all right?”

I nodded until I remembered he couldn’t see
me. “Got it,” I said.

“Good. I’m doubling back. I’ll be there in a
day.”

“Wes, it’s way too far to be there—”

“A day. Call me when you get there.”

I promised him I would and we hung up.

“It’s going to be all right,” George said
quietly.

I shot him a look, knowing my expression
reflected my panic. “You know, the more people say that to me, the
more I realize how wrong it sounds.”

He didn’t say anything else.

Chapter Eleven

George’s fingers tapped against his knee to
the beat of Linkin Park. “…’cause beyond every bend is a long,
blinding end. It’s the worst kind of pain I know,” he sang, his
head bobbing up and down. “Weep not for roads untraveled. Weep not
for sights unseen. May your love never end, and if you need a
friend, there’s a seat here alongside me.” His foot tapped out the
beat against the floorboard, manic energy radiating from him, his
muscles bunched and flexed with the movement.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Huh?” He looked over at me as if he’d
forgotten I was there. “I’m good.” He went back to tapping.

I frowned. He’d been antsy the past few
miles, like he’d downed a case of Monster. I wasn’t sure what had
triggered it, maybe nothing, but it couldn’t be good. I pressed my
foot harder against the gas pedal and watched the speedometer inch
upward.

The song ended but the
tapping continued in the silence. The sound of Bon Jovi’s
“Always
”
filled
the speakers.

“Hey, our song,” I said, my tone falsely
cheerful. Maybe I could distract him. “Remember that letter you
wrote me before I left for Wood Point?”

“Uh-huh.” He kept singing and tapping.

“That was really sweet.”

“Uh-huh.”

“George, are you listening to me?” I reached
over and touched his arm. He flinched so suddenly, I swerved.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” His eyes blazed with
barely controlled fury. I sucked in a breath. His eyes were
brighter than normal, somewhere between a very human white and a
distinctly hybrid yellow.

“George—”

“Let me out. I need to get out. I want out!”
He clawed at the door handle as if he couldn’t remember how it
worked. When it didn’t open, he twisted toward me, his back pressed
against the window. “Let me out,” he whispered.

I slowed and veered onto the shoulder. By
then, he’d gone back to fumbling with the door handle and locks. He
managed to roll the window down in short, awkward bursts. I watched
as he wiggled out of the opening and fell, face first, onto the
ground.

“George!” I got out and ran around the
car.

He pushed to his feet and straightened in
front of me, his hands fisted at his sides. “Get away from me,” he
growled. His eyes were wild and glowing. Thick hair sprang up on
his arms and legs. It poked through the back of his shirt as he
turned and bolted into the desert.

I hesitated for only a second before
following. This was George. And I’d made a promise.

Darkness hung like a heavy coat over my
face. I couldn’t see my hands in front of me, much less George. I
followed the sounds of his labored breathing and his footsteps as
they pounded against the sandy terrain.

Slowly, the ground underneath my feet
changed. It became harder, packed dirt instead of loose sand. I
stumbled as my feet caught on low-growing plants. I brushed up
against something hard as I raced by. A fallen tree. The bark left
a scrape on my shin.

Shadowy shapes sprang up in front of
me—narrow trunks and leafy branches. The scent of lilac and nectar
filled my nose. George’s footsteps became louder as he crashed
through brush and branches. Where had all of the trees come from?
Everything we’d seen up until this point had been nothing but open
desert with the mountains forever framed in the distance, never
getting any closer, never fading out of sight.

Up ahead, yellow floodlights glowed,
throwing everything into an eerie pool of light. Leafy branches and
exotic greenery spanned every direction. My foot landed on
something hard and I glanced down. A stepping stone. And then
another. A path?

Just ahead, George let out a grunt. It
sounded heavy, as if the wind had been knocked out of him, and was
followed by the crash of branches. The gray outline of his body
slunk to the ground. I raced forward.

“George,” I called. I pulled up short at the
sight of him, groaning and rolling side to side on black asphalt. A
thick hedge bordered by granite stone separated the exotic forest
behind us from the hard surface stretching in front. I followed it
to its end, several yards away.

A house, enormous and sleek, loomed up out
of the darkness. Soft yellow spotlights aimed strategically against
the stone lit the structure. I stood on what must’ve been the
driveway, a circular path with a fountain in the middle that
trickled a steady stream of water from its spout. A sidewalk
leading up to the massive double front door was lit in white
pathway lights. The numbers mounted above the door read 1183.

We were here.

I knelt in front of George. He was holding
his knee, still rolling side to side. The groaning had stopped but
he looked pained.

“George?” I said softly. “Are you all
right?”

He didn’t answer, just continued rolling and
writhing, seemingly lost in his own world. His lips moved in silent
mutterings, and his eyes were closed. It scared me to imagine what
color they’d be once he opened them.

“George, we’re here,” I said softly. I
touched my hand to his shoulder and he reacted. In a lightning
move, he rolled away onto all fours and growled at me. His eyes
blazed bright yellow.

“Back off.” A snarl rose from deep in his
throat, twisting his features.

I resisted the urge to retreat. Instead, I
straightened, adjusting my stance to be ready if he attacked.

“Stand up,” I said.

He snarled again, but he stood. As soon as
he was on his feet, I swung. I put everything I had, all of my
weight and training, behind the punch. My fist connected. George
staggered sideways. I braced myself, ready to hit him again if
necessary, but his eyelids drooped and closed, and he crumpled. I
bit my lip against the agony of my throbbing knuckles and walked in
circles. After a moment, the pain dulled to nearly bearable.

I eyed the massive double front door of the
mansion across the way. Butterflies danced in my gut at the thought
of ringing the bell. I glanced down at an unconscious George. I
didn’t have a choice.

It took me several minutes
to drag George close enough to ring the bell. I couldn’t leave him
in case he woke disoriented and ran off, and I couldn’t carry him.
Being an all-star athlete
and
a Werewolf hybrid definitely made a person solid.
I ended up dragging him by his shoulders and the scruff of his
shirt. I propped him against the house and then pressed the
doorbell before I could change my mind.

A minute passed. Silence from the other
side. No lights shone from the windows. Last I’d checked the clock
on the dashboard, it had read close to midnight. I sighed and rang
it again.

An echoing click sounded from the door, and
I jumped.

The door opened and a man stood there. He
wore a formal black jacket over silk pajamas. Both hung off his
lean frame and he stooped a little at the shoulders. His dark hair
was thin and combed straight back. “Can I help you?” He seemed
unruffled considering the time of my visit.

“Um, yeah, I’m Tara Godfrey. We’re here to
see Astor DeLuca.”

“We?” His brow rose, a gesture that
elongated his nose.

“Oh, my friend and me. He’s there.”

I pointed and the man craned his neck to
peer around the corner. He didn’t register any surprise at the fact
that George was unconscious. “Do you have an appointment?” he
asked.

“An …? No.” I stared at him, trying to
decide if he was being serious. “I’ve come a long way and my friend
is sick. It’s an emergency.”

“Hmm. I’ll see if he’s available.” He
started to turn away.

“I’m his niece,” I added.

The man turned back, expression still
neutral. He peered down at me. “You’re Tara, you say?” he asked
finally.

“Yes. My father was Jeremiah DeLuca.”

“Hrmph,” he said. Then he closed the
door.

I blinked once, twice. By the third time,
heat coursed through me. Tears stung my eyes. I’d come all this way
to be turned away at the door? I looked over at George. He was
still slumped against the side of the house, unmoving. The entire
side of his face was raised and red with the beginnings of what
would surely be a nasty bruise.

I heard a noise, the sound of the lock being
turned over, and sucked in a breath. The door inched open, and a
pair of deep-set eyes set against bushy, white eyebrows peered out
at me. “You’re Tara?”

“Yes.”

He continued to stare.

“Are you Astor?”

He straightened and swung the door wide.
“Well, I ain’t the Pope. Get in here, then.”

I took a hasty step forward and then stopped
on the threshold, gesturing to George. “My friend. He’s sick.”

He waved a hand, dismissing it. “Jeeves’ll
get him. Come on.” He turned in his fuzzy brown slippers and headed
down a long, dimly lit hallway spanning left.

I hesitated a second longer. I didn’t see
“Jeeves” anywhere and I wasn’t about to leave George lying on the
porch.

“Jeeves!” Astor yelled.

I jumped.

The man who’d first answered the door
appeared from a side hallway.

“Get that boy off the porch,” Astor told
him.

“Where shall I put him, sir?”

“Put him in the east wing and lock the door.
I smell something not quite right on that one.” Jeeves nodded and
headed for the open doorway. “Let’s get on with it,” Astor said as
he resumed his trek down the hall. Behind me, Jeeves was already
working at dragging George into the foyer. With nothing else to do
but follow, I hurried after the strange man.

At the end of the hall, we turned right, and
I found myself in an open room. All of the furniture had been
pushed back and stacked haphazardly against the wall. In the center
of the room stood an easel speckled with various colors of paint.
Beside the easel sat a small side table littered with brushes and
jars and rags. What had once been a white cloth covered the floor
underneath my feet. It was hard to tell if there was more paint on
the easel or the cloth.

Astor closed the door behind me with a
decisive click. “How did you find me?” he asked, eyeing me
sharply.

“Vera Gallagher, sir,” I said.

“Vera sent you here? You mean, you’re not
here to arrest me?”

“Arrest you?” I echoed, thoroughly confused.
“No, I came to ask for your help. I’m your niece, or great-niece,
or something. My father was Jeremiah.”

“Jeremy?”