Plain Fear: Forgiven: A Novel (11 page)

“He fell during one of our exercises,” Roberto explained.

So his brother was making up stories too. Nothing was as it seemed, which disturbed Samuel the most. Had everyone lied to him or misled him? He rubbed his forehead, trying to put the pieces all together. Where would it all end?

Roc tossed the clipboard back on the table. “We’re working not only on the physical aspects with strenuous workouts and fighting techniques, but also with the mental, emotional, and spiritual preparation. For this plague we are dealing with, we must be as fully prepared as we can be.”

“So why the surprise attack when I arrived?” he asked.

Roc crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the table. “We take security very seriously.”

“I got that.” Samuel rubbed his still sore shoulder.

“Unfortunately, because we are new, we only have a few rudimentary security measures set up to surprise and detain. What we are doing here is top secret and there are many who would like to destroy us. Hopefully, once we have more funds, we’ll add security cameras and other high-tech measures. But that all takes funding.”

“Funding from where?”

“We rely on donations,” Roberto said without elaborating.

Samuel glanced back at the room with the cots and remembered all the men who had pounced on him when he’d first arrived at Roc’s. “Where do these folks in training come from?”

“All over.” Roberto scratched his jaw with his thumbnail. “We get referrals from priests, those who believe in evil, those who’ve experienced these supernatural events, or some of our members we’ve acquired by word of mouth.”

“Most of the men here,” Roc added, “have experienced the supernatural and have personal reasons for wanting to see this evil eradicated. Most have lost loved ones.”

Roberto nodded his head. “But so far, many men of the cloth have closed their minds to this pandemic. It’s a sad state when the church has quit believing in evil and quit training in exorcisms and combat. Because make no mistake, we are in a war.”

Samuel nudged one of the ropes, which swung sideways and back. “What do you do with these?”

“Training.” Roberto smiled.

Roc straightened. “You’re welcome to find out, if you want to join our fight.”

Fog crept in over the valley like a serpent surveying the land and readying itself to strike. Brydon watched from his perch in a crypt of a room that wasn’t much larger than a coffin. There was nowhere for him to run. No one whom he could run to. The only vamp capable of helping him was Giovanni. And he was dead. Besides, vamps only acted if it benefitted them, and Brydon had nothing to offer. He was completely and utterly alone.

From New York, he’d headed north to one of the most remote locations he could find. All in an effort to stay alive. If that’s what this changed life could be called. Or maybe it was simply a different kind of hell. But he feared what worse torment awaited him if he was eventually destroyed. When he’d almost died at the hand of Roc Girouard, he’d glimpsed darkness, true darkness, and the endless torture awaiting him in the hereafter.

For the first time, Brydon was the hunted, not the hunter. During his days as a police officer in New Orleans, he’d hunted criminals. Not always easy, but sometimes easier than he admitted. It mostly took patience and determination. Then he’d been changed, changed into a predator of a different kind. His hunting skills had come in handy as he fed off the indigent, lost, and helpless. At first, he’d kept to those who wouldn’t be missed or who had such a crappy life that death seemed a step up. It hadn’t required much patience or skill to find prey. But now, life had once again flip-flopped on him. And he was the prey.

Those he’d chased in a previous life—murderers, robbers, rapists—deserved hell. He knew that unequivocally. Yet now, he too had killed. Was he to blame as well? He hadn’t killed out of rage or passion or anger or plain ol’ meanness, only as a matter of survival, no more or less than when a wolf killed a rabbit.
Was
he
now
to
suffer
the
same
fate
as
the
scum
he’d tracked down, arrested, and put in prison for so many years? Could the good he’d done as a cop outweigh his sins?

And
who
was
this
Jezebel? A leader like Giovanni? What did she want?
He’d probably violated some secret vampire code, the way Akiva had. Forgiveness wasn’t common in the vampire community. The only forgiveness was death.

Brydon had never feared death, at least not when he was alive. He’d faced the wrong side of a gun and the pointed end of a knife when he’d been a cop, often enough to know death wasn’t an
if
but a
when
. He’d accepted his own inevitable death when Roc had sliced his throat. He’d allowed it. He’d wanted to die—until the darkness began to swallow him.

Then Akiva saved him, provided a sacrificial lamb, whose blood had healed his fatal wounds. Of course, he’d owed Akiva and had helped him find Rachel. But that was where his allegiance ended. When Giovanni arrived on that tiny homestead in Ohio, he had fled, knowing Giovanni was there to kill Akiva. Brydon hadn’t been willing to die for anyone. Now, he wasn’t about to be some patsy or die at the hand of another vamp.

Maybe all wasn’t yet lost. Maybe he could still get away, make a life, and live alone. This wouldn’t be such a bad place.

Holed up in a cold, stone monastery high in the mountains of Nova Scotia, he stared out the open window, watching the slow progression of fog. The crimson morning sunlight gave it an eerie iridescence and enflamed the valley. The chill rippling through him had nothing to do with the weather.

A knock on the door turned him away from the window. A monk usually brought coffee, boiled egg, and scone for breakfast. All of which he discarded. Otherwise, they left him alone. “Come in.”

The heavy key turned the lock and the wrought iron handle creaked. Head lowered, a monk entered the room, carrying a tray. He wore a brown tunic. Brydon faced the window again. The monks were accustomed to visitors not being verbose, as many sought spiritual renewal and tranquility here among the mountains and valleys. They respected one’s privacy.

At the click of the door closing again, he moved to the desk, finding the tray on the desk as he had expected. But he stiffened at the sight of the monk still in his room. Not just one monk, but two others had joined him. Together, they moved forward. Instantly, Brydon recognized the black gazes.

He took one backward step toward the open window. “Hello, boys.”

The three did not speak. They separated, the two on the outside arcing around the edges of the room to outflank him.

“How do you like the cold—”

In the middle of his question, Brydon lunged for the window, morphing into a winged creature. But before he could completely transform, talons sunk into his neck. The valley stretched out before him, and like a squadron of fighter jets, the group soared over the tree line with Brydon helpless to escape.

Sweat rolled down his sides, and still Samuel raised the ax, swung it over his shoulder in a high arc, and brought it down with a hard slant. The blade bit through the pulpy wood, splitting it down the middle, until the ax hit the chop block and jarred his arms, shoulders, and back. He tossed the spliced wood into a pile, grabbed another thick piece, and chopped it in two.

The heavy scent of smoke hung in the air, and he paused long enough to throw more feed bags onto the burning trash pile. With the wind almost nonexistent on this sunny spring day, it was a good time to get this chore accomplished. It, coupled with the wood chopping, helped him burn off his confusing emotions.

Anger and fear wrestled within him. Periodically, one got the upper hand. He often felt the prickly sensation of being watched. Noises startled him. Nightmares haunted him. Then his thoughts lingered on the lies Pop had told, how he’d packed up his family and wrenched them away from home, family, and community. Part of Samuel had always wanted to return to Pennsylvania. But now, where did he belong?

He wasn’t sure he believed in what Roc was doing. Should he discuss it with Levi? Or not? Levi had also lied. Confused and unsure, Samuel didn’t know what he believed or who he trusted.

He’d hoped a change of location—the land of his childhood, the growing fields and yielding crops, the pastures dotted with docile cattle—would settle whatever had been stirred up inside him months ago and he’d feel at peace once more. But now tension knotted his muscles and uncertainty rocked his stomach.

What
was
he
to
do? What should he believe? Should he shun whatever knowledge he’d garnered or did it require him to act? Levi lived in both worlds. But could Samuel?
He felt caught between the two.

Footsteps sounded behind him. His heart jolted. Without another thought, he whipped around, raising the ax in a defensive motion, surprising himself and Naomi.

Her prayer
kapp
in place, her apron clean and ironed, she greeted him with a calming smile, not seeming to notice his wild look and agitated stance. She carried a tray with apple slices, muffins, and a tall glass of lemonade and set it on the chopping block. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

He swallowed his heart, which had lurched into his throat. “
Danke
.”

Laying down the ax, he wiped his sweaty palms on the back of his trousers, then swiped a sleeve over his brow. He gulped down the tart liquid, which left a surprising sweetness on his tongue.

“You were thirsty,” Naomi noted with satisfaction. “I’ll come back later to collect the tray and bring you more lemonade.”

“Why don’t you take a break yourself?” He spoke before he thought, but he realized he didn’t want to be alone with his questions and insecurities anymore. Company would at least distract him. And maybe this was the moment he’d been searching for. “Surely, you could use a snack too. I know you’ve been working hard in the house.”

She eyed the whitewashed home. “The babies are napping, as are Hannah and Levi. Maybe it would be good to stay out of the house so I don’t wake them.”

Samuel flipped over an empty plastic bucket for Naomi to use as a seat, and he plopped himself down on the ground next to the chopping block, feeling bits of wood chips beneath his trousers.

“Hannah’s been wearing herself out fussing over Levi,” Naomi said. “But he seems to be healing in good time.”

“It’s good to see them again. To see them both happy.”

“They are sweet together,” Naomi agreed.

Samuel reached for a blueberry muffin. He peeled the muffin paper off the bottom, and crumbs flaked around him. The little cake was fluffy and light, and the sweet berries burst inside his mouth. “Mmm,” he mumbled. “This is good.”

Naomi smiled and crunched into an apple slice. “I’m glad you like them.”

He nodded as he finished off the muffin. “It’s good you’re here to help out. It’s lots of work though.”

“Taking care of the babies doesn’t feel like work at all. It’s a pleasure.”

For a moment silence settled between them. But it was a comfortable silence, like sitting by a fire in the cool evening. Despite the tension Samuel felt with Levi, he was glad to be home in Promise again. He’d missed his old district and his friends and extended family more than he’d allowed himself to realize.

Had he missed Naomi too? When he’d been younger and visited Naomi in the middle of the night, as many Amish did when they courted, he’d felt awkward and unsure. He’d been naïve to the ways of men and women, hadn’t known what to do or how to act. Andi had taught him what
English
women liked and the fine art of seduction. He was not the same boy who had attempted to court Naomi so long ago. He was a man now. Naomi was a woman, not the young girl he’d known, but she was plain. Not just in dress but in matters of the heart.

“You said you still write some?” he asked, trying to find any of the common ground they’d once shared.

“Not much, no. But sometimes words come to me in a prayer or poem.” She shrugged and chose a muffin.

“I liked your poetry. You should write more.”

“I have no one to read it to now.” Her eyes widened and locked with Samuel’s until she looked away. The telltale signs of embarrassment stole up her neck and flamed her cheeks. Was she remembering the quiet, tender moments they’d shared at the creek? Or was she embarrassed that she had no one to listen to the words of her heart?

“You could have written me in Ohio,” he said. “I would have liked that.”

She kept her head bent as she picked at the paper stuck to the muffin.

“I’m sorry.”

She looked at him, curiosity brightening her eyes. “For what?”

He shrugged. “For not writing you. I was never good that way.”

“You were better than you thought, Samuel.”

“It’s been three years since I’ve been back in Promise. A long time. I didn’t contact anyone. Not even my friends.”

She accepted his confession with a nod. “Paul will be happy to see you. As well as David and Eliam. You four were always together, like peas in a pod.”

He finished off the rest of the muffin. “And usually in trouble.”

She chuckled. “Not overmuch, I’m thinking.”

His head tilted as he studied the soft line of her jaw. “You were always quiet and good.”

A tinge of pink brightened her cheeks and she stared at her lap, twisting a tie of her
kapp
between her fingers.

At her silence, he regretted saying such. Maybe he’d said too much. Or maybe he hadn’t said enough. Doubting his motives and unsure of his intention, he changed the subject. “What’s Paul been up to? Has he found himself a girl yet?”

The color in her cheeks brightened even more. Was she seeing Paul? That jarred him until finally settling into irritation, even though he had no right to feel such. Amish teens tended to keep their affections to themselves. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh no. It’s all right.”

“I shouldn’t have said—” He didn’t know what to say. “Sometimes I don’t know when to quit talking.”
Like
now.

“I’m the opposite. I never know what to say.”

He reached for another muffin. As he unwrapped the base, he said, “Someone has to be quiet, I expect, so those of us who blather on will have someone listening. But I have a feeling you’re busy thinking of things to write.”

Her eyes twinkled. “I always think of things to say in my head, but by the time I get them to my mouth, they jumble into a tangled mess, much like my knitting.”

He laughed and filled his mouth with part of another blueberry muffin.

She rubbed her thumb against the palm of her other hand in a back and forth motion as if trying to erase a thought that wouldn’t go away. “Samuel,” she spoke again, this time her tone somber. “I never had the chance to speak to you about…”

Her gaze met his, and her words trailed away. He braced himself for some confession that she was seeing Paul or one of his other friends.

She swallowed hard, licking her lips, before continuing. “About your brother…Jacob. I am awful sorry for your loss. And it’s probably too late to say anything. There’s nothing I could say to take away the pain, but I didn’t know how or when or…I should have written you maybe. Or maybe I shouldn’t have. And now maybe I should have just stayed silent and not said anything at all.”

Her words were rushed and breathless, and yet they wrapped about him, a soothing bandage on the wound in his heart. His throat tightened. Finally, he nodded his understanding.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to upset you by speaking of it and yet…” Her voice trailed off. He wished she would go on talking because now he couldn’t seem to find the necessary words. Finally, she added, “I have prayed for you.” An awkward pause hummed between them. “For your family.”

Emotions of the past three years rose up inside him. He’d hoped to forget or at least banish his questions, and all this had done was twist his tangled emotions into a tight knot in his belly.

Suddenly, she stood and dusted off her apron. “I better get back to work,” she said in a rush. She left the tray and hurried toward the house.