Forbidden (17 page)

Akiva watched the slow rise of the three-quarter moon. Its yellowish hue, like a guarded cat's eye, slanted its gaze on unsuspecting prey.

When I do count the clock that tells the time

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night…

That thou among the wastes of time must go,

Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake

And die as fast as they see others grow;

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence

Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

Shakespeare must have had a dark side. Maybe he'd seen the bite taken out of the moon during bloody sunsets, smearing its stain over the horizon. Or maybe he'd witnessed the wickedness of the full moon, bloated with incantations and causing seas to rise and men to lose common sense. If there was a time of day Akiva liked best, this was it, the teetering on the brink of one night and another morning. There was a hushed expectancy in the air of what might have been and what would be, and it hovered along the breeze and weighted the clouds.

Anticipation surged through his veins as he waited outside the cemetery, leaning against the side of his Jaguar. There didn't seem to be much activity here, but the area's reputation was bad. Robberies, disappearances, voodoo hexes were abundant. But Akiva had nothing to worry about. Others should be frightened of him. Which might explain why the street was empty. Like forest creatures hiding and crouching low when a predator stalked past, maybe the locals sensed danger and retreated inside.

A predator needed patience, and his was stretching in an inhuman way. Waiting had never been his strength. He restrained himself from pacing, from checking the clock on the dash, from leaving. Other vamps didn't adhere to clocks. They moved at their own pace and arrived when they pleased. They never worried about being late or missing out—time was on their side.

A beam of headlights flashed as a truck turned toward Akiva. He remained in his slouched position, in the shadowy depths, and watched the truck drive past. A dark figure Akiva did not recognize leaned over the steering wheel. The vehicle moved at a quick clip past him, but he could hear a Chopin classic: Nocturne No. 2 in E-Flat Major, as the speakers vibrated with each note. He decided this one wasn't the one he was waiting for, but then the red taillights flared, and the truck came to a stop.

A minute, then two, passed before the driver's door opened. Slowly, a man emerged, stood on the pavement, and turned his back on Akiva. He didn't seem to be in a hurry or worried about this dangerous part of town. He fiddled with a cell phone, tossed it into the empty seat, and closed the door with a bang. Finally, he turned and walked toward Akiva, his pace casual, his stance relaxed. But even from this distance, Akiva could see his gaze was as black as a sinful soul and as intense as a panther on the prowl.

When he stood ten paces away from Akiva, the man said, “You wanted to see me?”

Akiva straightened. “You know Stephanos?”

“I do.”

“He said your name is B—”

“I go by Brydon now.”

“Interesting name.”

“So is Akiva.”

Akiva nodded his agreement. “I went with a derivative of my former name.”

The man said nothing, not sharing his reasons or seeming to care about engaging in any sort of conversation. His foot scraped against the pavement. He had those now-familiar black eyes and a bulky frame of solid muscles. This man was strong in his former life, but now changed, he was like a Goliath or Samson. Not impossible to beat, but damn tough.

“How long have you been changed?” Akiva asked.

“Not long.”

“Bet you know the number of days.”

“Forty-seven.”

“And nights. The nights were the longest for me.” Akiva's mouth pinched at the memory of those lonely moments when he'd fought against the raw need of hunger…and lost. “Don't worry, you'll stop counting eventually.”

Brydon's face remained dark and serious. “What do you want?”

Akiva didn't want to reveal his need too soon. If he seemed too eager, then payment would be extravagant. But this new blood wanted to hurry up and get on with it, so he opted for a casual tone. “I'm looking for a guy…Roc Girouard. You know him?”

“Maybe.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why?”

“Looking for him is all.”

“Oh, yeah? Why's that?”

“It's not him specifically that I want. It's what he has.”

“And what's that?” Brydon had a bored tone, and yet there was an edge to it, as if he could slice through Akiva with his next sentence.

“A woman.”

Brydon laughed, a razor-sharp sound, which revealed not even a hint of a smile. “You can get one of those anywhere. What's so special about this one?”

Akiva shook his head. “Not special at all. Rachel took something from me, and she has to pay for it.”

Brydon grunted his understanding. “What do you want me to do? I don't know this woman. I don't even know where Roc is at the moment.”

“He might contact you. If he does, I'd like you to tell me.”

“Why would I do that?”

Akiva quirked an eyebrow. Brydon's answer could be revealed to Giovanni, who would not like it.
Oh
no, he wouldn't like it at all. Loyalty to a human was not tolerated. Did this newly changed vamp know Giovanni, know of his power, his influence over the others?
He asked: “You have loyalty to this Roc Girouard?”

“I have loyalty to no one. Not unless I owe them something.”

“And do you owe Roc Girouard?”

“If I did, I don't anymore.” His voice had a biting chill. “So what you gonna give me in exchange?”

“You're new. There's much you don't know. Much you don't understand yet. Information is power. Especially in this new world of ours. But I can help you. In fact, I want to help you. I can introduce you to those with power.”

“Oh, yeah? And who's that?”

“Giovanni. I can introduce you. Can't manage in this new life without knowing
the
man
.”

“We've already met. What else you got to offer?”

A coldness settled over Akiva. He tried not to reveal surprise over this ingénue already meeting the most important vampire in the area. Now his collateral wasn't worth much, and he had little else to offer. So he asked, “Instead of wasting time, going back and forth, let's just get down to it. What do you want?”

Brydon smiled then, but there was an arctic fierceness in the look.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

Her rescuer was dying. Rachel was lost, alone, helpless. But she feared for her baby more than for herself.

While whispering the twenty-third Psalm as a prayer, she kept an eye on both the roadway and Roc. He was pale and sweating, not to mention still bleeding. His eyelids lowered slowly then jerked open again, and the car swerved in and out of its lane. The last time she'd felt this helpless in a car, Jacob had been behind the wheel and under the influence. But Roc hadn't been drinking. He was seriously injured, and he leaned forward against the steering wheel as if it held him upright. When his car veered into the next lane, Rachel gently touched the wheel and straightened out the car's trajectory.

First a right turn, then left. Roc seemed to know where he was headed, but he was also dazed, almost unconscious.
Did
he
know
where
he
was
going? Were they both helplessly lost? If he died, what would she do, how would she find help, how would she ever get home?
She prayed the good Lord would keep Roc alive. The prayer seemed selfish, so she added another for the man's wound to be healed and for God to keep her baby safe.

Then he turned the car once more, into a parking lot of what appeared to be a church. She missed the full name, as they passed it too quickly and hit a bump, which made the car jounce and sway. A stark white steeple rose into the night sky like a beacon of hope. When the car came to a jarring halt, she drew a calming breath and whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. At least they were someplace. Maybe someone here could help them.

As if in slow motion, Roc leaned forward and rested his head against the steering wheel. His right hand slumped against the gearshift, palm upright and defenseless.
Had
he
passed
out
again? Died? What should she do?

“Roc?” She leaned forward, thought she heard him breathing through his mouth. Carefully, she touched his arm. “Can you hear me?”

She glanced over her shoulder and peered out the back window. No one appeared in the deserted parking lot. There weren't any other cars in sight. All seemed quiet. Peaceful. The windows of the church remained dark.
What
if
no
one
was
here? What if Roc simply stopped because he couldn't go any farther?
Maybe she should try to find someone to help him.

Fumbling with the lock, she yanked on the handle, and the heavy door swung open. But Roc grabbed her arm, his grip, fierce with urgency, pinching her flesh. His eyes were wild.

“I'm not leaving you,” she reassured him. “I'll be back. I promise. I'm going to find someone to help you.”

“Anthony.” His voice sounded raspy.

“What?”

His eyes burned with fever. “Get Anthony.”

“Anthony who?”

His grip slackened, and his head lolled against the steering wheel again.

“Okay. Anthony. I'll find him.”

“He's the priest. And he…” Roc's eyelids fluttered, and his gaze fought to focus on her. He mumbled something else, but she couldn't understand him. A lock of hair fell across his forehead, and he looked vulnerable, like a lost little boy.

She reached out then stopped herself, her fingers curling into her palm. “I'll be back, Roc.”

More than six months ago, she had lain in her marriage bed, so afraid she was losing her baby. Josef had gone for help and she'd prayed for her baby. But not for her husband. Once again, guilt tightened its grip. She hadn't known he needed prayers.
But
would
prayers
have
saved
his
life?
Now, she simply prayed for them all.

Easing out of the car, she felt the small of her back pinch, and she rubbed the spot but kept moving toward the first building. She knocked politely at first and then louder, but no one came. She waited and glanced over her shoulder toward the fancy car. She could see Roc's shadowy frame slumped in the seat and feared waiting much longer. He needed help now. After pounding on the door, she abandoned it and moved onto the next, hammering against the wooden slab.

After a long moment, she heard a muffled, “Just a minute.”

Her heart minced the minutes as she waited. When the door finally opened, it gave only an inch or two. An older man with rumpled gray hair wore a blue terrycloth bathrobe. “Yes?”

“Anthony?” she asked.

The man's weary brown eyes narrowed with what appeared to be suspicion. “You know Anthony?”

“No, my friend”—she pointed back toward the car—“he does. You see, he needs help. He's hurt. And—”

“Get out of here. Now.”

“But—” He was going to close the door! Panic arced through her. “I need help.” Her voice cracked. “Please—”

“Call the police. Hospital is five blocks south.” He stepped back, and the door closed.

“You don't understand!” She splayed a hand against the door.
How
could
she
take
Roc
to
a
hospital? What would she say? He was attacked by a rabid young girl, a…vampire?
“Please, I need to speak to Anthony.” She banged on the door. “Roc wants to see—”

The door jerked open again. “Look,” the older man hissed through the crack, “Anthony disappeared. He's gone! And I was brought here to fill in for him. So go away. I can't help you.”

Hope crumpled inside of her. She had no choice. She would have to take Roc somewhere, find a hospital somehow. That was his only hope. Otherwise, he might die. And if he died, then she might too. Her death mattered little. But not her baby.
Please, God, not Josef's baby!
But how would she get to the hospital?

When she stepped back off the step, she collided with something solid, and her heart jolted up into her throat.

“He disappeared?” Roc asked, standing behind her. He braced one arm against the brick wall, propping himself upright.

“Who are you?” the old man asked, his face pinched.

“A friend.”

The old man's face blanched.

“This is the friend I told you about,” Rachel said breathlessly, relieved to see him awake and standing, and yet afraid to be too hopeful. “He's looking for Anthony. We need your help. He's injured…bleeding—”

The door lurched closed. Roc lunged forward, shoving an arm past Rachel, and banged the door open, making the old man stumble back a few steps. Roc staggered inside, and Rachel followed him into the building, which she realized was a home.

“Where is he?” Roc asked. “Where's Anthony?”

The old man touched his forehead then belly, and each shoulder consecutively. His withered lips whispered something.

“He said Anthony disappeared,” Rachel explained to Roc.

“When?”

The old man's eyes were wide. “What happened to your arm there?”

“When did Anthony disappear?” Roc repeated, his teeth clenched.

“T-two weeks ago.”

“Who are you, then?”

“F-father Paul.”

“You're his replacement?”

The man nodded.

“They didn't take long, did they?”

“A flock needs a shepherd, and this flock had been ignored by—”

At the look Roc shot Father Paul, the words died on his lips, which he flattened.

Roc walked farther into the house, leaving Rachel in the narrow hallway with the old man. His earlier anger having disappeared behind a frightened mask, he stood there trembling in his house shoes. He pulled a string of beads out of the pocket of his robe and mumbled words Rachel couldn't understand.

In a moment, Roc returned, his face flushed. “Where's his stuff? What'd you do with Anthony's stuff?”

Father Paul's throat convulsed. “I gave it to the p-poor. What was salvageable, that is. And…”

“And?” Roc stepped closer to the man, who was now shaking. Maybe the older man couldn't see what Rachel saw—that Roc was barely standing as he leaned forward, bracing a hand to steady himself on a table behind Father Paul.

“He had books…and things. An abomination.”

“Where are they?”

Father Paul's chin lifted a notch, and he met Roc's gaze solidly, as if he had no regrets about his actions. “I burned them.”

Roc's elbow buckled, but he caught himself.

“Anthony,” Father Paul whispered, “was into witchcraft, and whatever happened to him…I suppose he opened himself to it. And if that is what you are into, young man, repent now. You can still be saved.”

Roc grabbed the collar of the man's robe, clenched it in a fist, and leaned heavily against the old man's chest. The strength he'd managed at the beginning of this encounter seemed to be fading. Rachel reached out to help him, but he shrugged off her hand. “Anthony was worth more than you'll ever be. Don't ever say another word about him. Not one.”

The older man swallowed hard. “I speak only the truth.”

“You speak out of ignorance.” Roc stumbled toward the door and grabbed the handle for support. “Rachel, let's go.”

“We have to get you help.” She wrapped an arm around his waist, and this time he allowed her assistance, leaning against her, hooking his good arm around her shoulders. He was breathing hard, his heat burning into her. Fear for his life mounted. “Where are we going?”

“To find a friend.”

She opened the door, and the moist New Orleans heat smacked her in the face. “We have to go to the hospital.”

“Later.” He walked along beside her toward the car, his footsteps heavy and unsteady. “First, we'll find Brody. He will protect you. In case I can't.”