Forbidden (16 page)

“Rachel”—his voice was firm and full of authority, like her father's—“we can't stay here. Do you need anything from inside?”

No. There was nothing here for her. Nothing she wanted or cared to remember.
She shook her head and realized she was shaking all over.

“Okay, then, we have to go. Now!”

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye

That thou consum'st thyself in single life?

Ah! If thou issueless shalt hap to die,

The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;

The world will be thy widow, and still weep

That thou no form of thee hast left behind,

When every private widow well may keep

By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.

With Shakespeare's sonnet lining his thoughts, Akiva returned to the macabre warehouse with all of its carcasses of parade vessels picked over by vandals. He had taken a detour on the way back, pausing long enough to pick up a bite and finished her off in the alley, and his senses were sharp. The wooden structures and metal bits gleamed in the moonlight. The night was deathly quiet: not a sound in his footsteps, not a flutter of a bird's wing, not even a breeze to stir the heat.

He moved fearlessly through the wreckage and debris and rounded the corner of the building. A scent in the air slowed his pace. He sniffed again. It wasn't the ripe odor of fresh blood. It was a tainted smell he'd smelled only once before—when Camille had—

And he was already running before he finished the thought.

He stopped at the sight of the body splayed out in front of the side door. The short, skinny limbs had a lifeless tilt. The head tipped back at an abnormal angle, revealing a gaping slash along the throat. Dark blood coated the neck, chest, and abdomen, pooling on the concrete around the body. The eyes, vacant and void, stared up toward the night sky.

His pace slowed as he stepped over the body, not even looking down at the girl, and flung open the warehouse door. He wrenched it from its hinges and sent it cartwheeling across the yard, crashing into a float's base.

A low hum greeted him inside. He stalked toward the back, his body shrinking, changing, and morphing as he tore through the building and flew up past the stairs to the second level.

The door was open. Rachel was gone.

Akiva emitted a low growl as he changed shape again, his joints popping into place, his limbs lengthening. He lobbed the bed against one wall, smashed the chair, and pounded the desk until it shattered and collapsed under the force of his clenched fists.

Heaving with each breath, Akiva whirled back around toward the broken pieces in the room. His insides jumbled together and broke apart.
Where
was
she? Where did she go?

It didn't matter, because he would find her. No matter what.

Once more, his thoughts returned to Shakespeare.

Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend

Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;

But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,

And kept unus'd, the user so destroys it.

No love toward others in that bosom sits

That on himself such murderous shame commits.

Anger pulsing through him, he took off into the night. As he ran, his body morphed once more, folding, transforming, and emerging into a compact form with expansive wings. He beat the air, and wind rushed against his face. Gliding, feeling the drifts and currents pushing and pulling him, he soared over bridges and roadways, houses and cars. When he'd first been changed, this was the only place he'd found solace—the wind in his face, the air lifting and buoying him on a fast current that was better than any rush or surge of adrenaline. It was where he found peace. If only temporarily.

But
now
where
should
he
go? What could he do?
He swooped and swerved, snapping his wings with a firmness that betrayed his anger.
Would
Rachel
simply
head
for
home, back to Pennsylvania? Or would she hide?
Someone must have helped her escape. He couldn't imagine she had killed Acacia all by herself.
So
who
was
with
her? Who could be in New Orleans?

Not Hannah. Not Levi. It had to be that blasted hunter, whom he'd met in Pennsylvania. Akiva had wanted to clap him on the back for killing Camille. But this time, Roc Girouard would have to die. And he would make Rachel suffer too.

***

I have a rendezvous with Death

At some disputed barricade,

When Spring comes back with rustling shade

And apple-blossoms fill the air—

I have a rendezvous with Death

When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

Seeger's poem sharpened his senses, and he honed in on the apartment building where he had a room and plunged downward. Orphelia wasn't in her usual spot on the stoop, so he swept through the doorway and up the stairs, shifting and changing, his limbs expanding. His movements were smooth, and he swept up the stairs to the first landing, not going all the way to the top to his own room. He stopped on the landing and faced a closed door. He knocked once, then twice, and had to wait a long time until the door opened.

“Ye-e-e-s?” Stephanos peered through the narrow space, a smile curling his wide, garish mouth. His hand slid down the opening of his gold satin shirt. He wore a red velveteen jacket that ended with a sweeping sleeve, and the tail touched the floor at his heels. “What can I do for you?”

“I need something.”

Stephanos flicked his collar outward. “I'm entertaining.”

Akiva heard a high-pitched squeal and jouncing of what sounded like bed springs. He doubted Stephanos's companion viewed the situation as entertainment. “Who could help me find someone?”

“Human or vamp?”

“Human.”

“You want a cop, then.” He rubbed his chest. “And that would be a new blood we recently acquired. That brat Acacia actually did it without Giovanni's permission.” He shrugged. “But it's been useful, I suppose. His name is—” He stopped abruptly, and one corner of his mouth curled upward. “And what are you gonna do for me?”

Akiva was in no mood to play games. “What do you want?”

Stephanos's smile broadened.

Akiva braced himself, hands clenching in defiance. “Not that.”

Stephanos laughed. “I'm not like Giovanni. No boys for me.”

“You want a girl, then?”

“I want the one you brought here.”

“Done.”

With a flourish of his wrist, Stephanos gave a slight bow. “Then you're looking for a vamp named Brydon.”

Akiva flushed with the excitement of the chase. He would take pleasure in killing Roc Girouard, such great pleasure.

***

It may be he shall take my hand

And lead me into his dark land

And close my eyes and quench my breath—

It may be I shall pass him still.

I have a rendezvous with Death

On some scarred slope of battered hill,

When Spring comes round again this year

And the first meadow-flowers appear.

As the stanza rang in his head and drove his excitement higher, Akiva stepped toward Stephanos. “Where do I find this Brydon?”

Amusement glinted in the flamboyant vampire's black eyes. “And, what,” he said slowly, as if leading a reluctant horse, “will you do for me?”

Akiva banged his fist against the door, which swung wide. Behind Stephanos, he saw the edge of a bed and a bare foot with red toenail polish secured around the ankle by a silk scarf. The foot strained against the binding. “What else do you want?”

“I'm tired of that brat sneaking into my room. Last week, I had company…and there she was.”

“What do you want me to do? Read her a bedtime story?”

“Take care of her. Destroy Acacia.” Stephanos hissed the words.

Akiva hid a smile welling up inside him. This was too easy. But he didn't want Stephanos to think he was too eager or that the deed already had come to its grisly end. “Isn't killing another vamp against the rules?”

Stephanos laughed. “Since when did you ever worry about the rules?”

“She's just a kid.”

“A kid who kills. Not so innocent, is she?”

Akiva dropped his gaze to the floor, as if he was considering the proposal. “Why don't you kill her, then?”

“Because Orphelia would kill me.”

He blinked. “You scared of that old bat?”

Stephanos laughed again. But he didn't make another argument. He simply waited on Akiva's response.

Pretending to dislike the request, Akiva whirled away from Stephanos, took a few steps out onto the landing, then ever so slowly turned back. “Well, don't worry then. Consider Acacia dead.”

“I will.” Stephanos closed the door partway then stopped. “Oh yes, the fella you want works for the NOPD.” Then he reached out and grabbed Akiva's arm when he would have turned away. “Take care of Acacia first. You hear?”

“Absolutely.”

Again, from Seeger's poem, he focused on what he must do.

God knows 'twere better to be deep

Pillowed in silk and scented down,

Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,

Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,

Where hushed awakenings are dear…

But I've a rendezvous with Death

At midnight in some flaming town,

When Spring trips north again this year,

And I to my pledged word am true,

I shall not fail that rendezvous.

His shoulder was on fire.

Roc swerved the Mustang around a corner, his GPS system attached to the dash guiding him through the streets of New Orleans. He leaned forward, pressing his weight against the steering wheel, gritting his teeth against the pain. Darkness beat down on him. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the red, yellow, and green traffic lights blurred into the streetlamps' glare and store windows' glow. It became a warped psychedelic swirl of colors, sliding and swerving as he tried to focus on the white lines, which wavered and shifted down the paved road. He couldn't hold the Mustang steady, and it veered to one side then the other. A horn blared, and he jerked the wheel left.

“Are you okay?” Rachel gripped the strap along the door.

“Fine,” he bit out. He overcompensated with the steering wheel and swerved the car back the other way. Sweat poured down his face. His shirt was damp with a mixture of sweat and blood.

“You don't look fine to me.” Rachel placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Pull over, and let me look at your shoulder.”

“I've gotta make a call.” Colors slid past him like some sort of hallucination, the same way his thoughts skidded out of reach.

“I can do it for you,” Rachel offered. “Whom do you want to call?”

He dared not take his gaze off the road, except to glance occasionally at the GPS map. Red lights flashed in front of him.
Brake!
He stomped on the brake, and the car jolted to a stop, slamming both Rachel and him forward then back. He swept his good shoulder against his face to mop up the sweat.

“I could drive,” Rachel suggested. “Jacob taught me. It's been a while, but—”

“I'm okay.” But he wasn't, and he knew it. Still, he repeated it as if saying it made it so. “I'm okay.”

He stared straight through the bug-matted windshield. The car stopped in front of him now advanced through the green light. Behind them, a horn blasted, the sound elongating as an irritated truck driver whipped around him.

Roc managed to get the Mustang going forward again, but he was having trouble concentrating, reading the street signs, following the GPS map. He should know where he was, but he was confused, disoriented. His shoulder throbbed, feeling like an oversized football shoulder pad, which he'd worn playing football in high school.

“Maybe we could just stop for a minute.” Rachel's calm voice broke into his thoughts. “I'll stop the bleeding, and then we can go on.”

The bleeding.
The
blood!
His heart gave jerky, haphazard beats. “Are you crazy?
He's
after us by now. And he won't stop—”

“I know that.” Again, her voice was soothing, like a pool of bath water he could float in. “But if we don't stop”—her voice took an edge—“then we won't get very far if you crash the car or bleed to death.”

“
He
will smell it—the blood.” Roc took a risk and glanced at her. She had one hand on the door strap and another on her rounded belly. “They can smell blood like a shark.”

“Okay. Okay.” Rachel's breathing was shallow. “Then all the more reason to stop the bleeding.”

At least that made sense. Sort of. Bleeding like this, he was a danger not only to her and her baby but also to anyone else on the road. He studied the buildings and roads ahead and wrenched the steering wheel, making the car swerve and the tires squeal. The car hit a bump of uneven pavement and jolted them as they drove into an alleyway.

It was dark back here between decrepit brick buildings. So dark he couldn't see much of anything when he turned off the headlights. Only the GPS map glowed on the dash, and he jerked the cord out of the cigarette lighter. He didn't want anything to give away their location. Total blackout was their only hope.

When he'd driven as far as he dared into the darkness, he brought the Mustang to a jerking stop. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes, breathing hard through his mouth, and allowed his body to relax for the first time in more than an hour. Rachel reached for the door handle.

“Don't get out of the car. It isn't safe. Not here.” He swung his gaze in her direction, tried to sharpen his words for emphasis. “If he finds us—” He breathed heavily, unable to finish. She was watching him closely, as if absorbing all he was saying.
But
did
she
believe
him? Did she understand what a danger Akiva was? What danger she'd been in?

“Roc,” she said, her voice featherlike, “can you twist toward me so I can bandage your shoulder?”

He looked into her blue eyes, which he could barely focus on, and leaned close. He clung to the dazzling blue lifeline. He had to make her understand. “Don't leave me.”

She shook her head. “Of course not. You're okay. You'll be okay.”

Roc groaned and closed his eyes. She didn't understand. But it took too much effort to explain what he meant. If she decided to take off on her own, then he wouldn't be able to protect her. And he was going to protect her, even if it killed him. Which it was beginning to feel like it might.

He pressed his good shoulder toward the passenger seat and his wounded shoulder as far as he could toward the steering wheel and her. Pain throbbed down his arm and into his chest cavity, the pulsing ache seemed to go on and on. He sucked in a breath, and it whistled as he released it.

“I'm sorry,” Rachel whispered and pressed against the wound.

He couldn't lift his arm, so he maneuvered it with his other hand, lifting his forearm and dropping his hand into his lap.

“Do you have a flashlight?” she asked.

“No. No light.”

“How can I see what I'm doing then?”

“Just put pressure on it.” He leaned his head against the headrest and watched her shadowy figure. Blood loss was making his head swim. “That's all we can do for now.”

She lifted a hand and hesitated before touching him. Finally, she unbuttoned his shirt, her fingers nimble and quick, as if she'd made up her mind what to do and realized she had no choice.

He tried to lighten the moment. “Don't worry. I won't get the wrong idea here.”

Her fingers paused briefly. He tried to smile but feared it was more of a grimace. Finally, she went back to her task, fumbling with the button near his waistband.

His shirt scraped against the wound. A long string of curse words hurled through his mind, but he clenched his teeth to keep from saying something that might shock this Amish woman. Rachel jerked the material loose and tugged the tails out of his jeans.

“Are you always in this much of a hurry?” It fell as flat a vulgar joke in front of the Pope, but he needed something to distract him from the red-hot pain.

Rachel paid no attention to him as she slipped the fabric off his good shoulder. Compressing it into a thick wad, she pushed it against the wound, leaning against him, placing as much of her weight into it as she could. He bit down hard on the words jamming into his throat. Her breath brushed his cheek and fanned the feverish heat spreading over his body.

His vision swayed, the edges forming a gray circle. Pain, Roc learned, had a variety of colors. He squeezed his eyes closed, and across the insides of his eyelids a palette of reds drifted, arced, and exploded. The throbbing went flat, and the vibrancy faded to black. He leaned his shoulder hard against Rachel's hand, and pain shot through him like a searing brand, which scorched his flesh and turned his vision to a blinding white.

And then like a shade pulling downward over him, he saw nothing.

He was floating on a bobbing, swaying current. This wide river rumbled him along at a frenzied pace with a swoosh and rush. Maybe he was finally approaching the delta of afterlives he'd been longing for. A burbling and rumbling brought him close to the surface, and he wrapped his arm around something soft and warm, a buoy in the vast expanse of dark waters.

“Roc!”

He heard his name like it was a pinball bouncing around the stars, a pinball with strings wrapped around him, and it somehow slowed the dark river's progress. Something tugged on his arm, as if a tree limb or rock snagged him.

“Roc!” The voice calling to him arced into a note of panic.

His eyelids fluttered against a heaviness weighting them. With much effort and struggle, he forced his eyes open. A solid blue gaze met his befuddled one.

“Are you okay? I thought I'd lost…that you'd…” Her voice broke.

He realized he'd slumped sideways against the passenger seat, and he was nearly in Rachel's lap. He pushed with his good arm and fell back into his own seat. “Where are we?”

“I don't know.”

He jerked upright, and pain jabbed him in the shoulder. The Mustang was stopped, the engine humming, but the lights were off. “Why'd we stop?”

“We had to stop the bleeding. Your shoulder, remember?”

The bleeding. The girl vampire had bitten him.
What
did
that
mean?
Was
he
doomed? Was this the beginning of his being changed? Had anyone ever been bitten and lived to tell the tale without wanting to take a bite of their audience? Did a vampire bite carry some sort of venom that infected the person? Would it kill him slowly? Or would it change him forever?

A thick wall of panic rose up inside him, its hard edge pressing against his windpipe, and he gasped for air. His soul darkened in those few seconds. If he let it, fear would cut him off from hope completely. But he wouldn't give in. Not yet. Not now.

Because first he had a job to do: he had to get Rachel somewhere safe. He had to get her to someone who would protect her from Akiva…and possibly even himself.