The Immortals (19 page)

Nashville
Midnight

T
aylor was in bed, watching a replay of the late local news. She was fighting sleep, but would succumb at any minute. She'd been awake for thirty-six hours, and even by her insomniac standards, it was time for a rest.

Nashville would never get used to news about dead teenagers. Especially around the holidays and graduation, the nightly news brought stories packed with grief and remorse. Brave girls fighting meningitis. Silly young boys who drank to excess then wrapped their cars around trees. Cheerleaders text messaging their football-hero boyfriends and crashing into oncoming tractor-trailers.

But Nashville had never seen coverage of a tragedy of this magnitude. It was made worse by the extended horrors—nearly two days into the news cycle, when the gaping holes in the collective hearts were beginning to clot and crust, the sweet young face of Brittany Carson, smiling to the masses through the television screen, ripped them open all over again.

Her death had first been reported in a breaking news
alert by a teary-eyed rookie reporter, one too young to have hardened to the nearly daily depictions of death and violence that roamed Nashville's streets. On the 10:00 p.m. news, Brittany's organ donation was the lead story—some vulture inside the hospital reported that she'd signed a donor registration card during a school campaign and the media seized upon it, getting a confirmation quote from her mother, Elissa, still dressed in the red blouse streaked with her daughter's blood.

She wasn't the only one; the entire city had been holding out hope that one of their children would make it through this tragedy alive. Sons and daughters, brothers, sisters, couples, loners, all marked for death. There seemed to be no real rhyme or reason to the victimology, not yet. They had nothing concrete, nothing except the knowledge that a teenage boy gave a teenage girl a pill laced with poison designed to kill her, then masturbated while he watched her die.

Taylor sighed, rolled onto her back to stare at the ceiling.

The images on the screen had been littered with smiling faces, full of hope. It was near impossible to imagine those same boys and girls lying on stainless-steel trays at the medical examiner's, brutal Y-incisions demarking their virginal flesh.

The ME's office was overwhelmed. Parents who'd been out of town returned with the knowledge of their children's deaths weighing heavily on their consciences, needed to say goodbye. They had been camping in the lobby of Forensic Medical until their time came, were ushered one by one into a side room with a closed-loop video feed to identify their dead.

The first official comprehensive toxicology screens were rolling in. All eight victims had high levels of Ritalin, codeine, PMA, MDMA and Valium in their systems, disguised in the small, benign tablet of Ecstasy that Juri Edvin had sold them.

Taylor couldn't stand it anymore. She flipped the television off. She wished Baldwin was with her, imagined him encircling her with his arms. The blank of darkness enveloped her, and she fell asleep.

Midnight

A
riadne glanced at the police car parked in front of her house and sighed. At least they'd let her come home. For a moment there she thought the lieutenant was going to arrest her and toss her in a cell overnight. Instead, she'd been escorted home and instructed not to leave until summoned. That was fine—she had plenty of work to do.

She shut off the lights in the house and prepared herself, taking a long, cleansing bath, rubbing herself with fragrant herbs, allowing her mind to be open and accepting. Once the ritual bath was complete, she went to her drawing room. She built a fire, lit the candles, opened her Book of Shadows and got down on her knees in front of her altar.

“Be true to me, as I am to you. Honor that which I have created, as I honor you. Goddess, hear my prayers. With harm to none, so shall it be.”

She stopped for a moment, let the impact of the words charge through her body. Her deity, the Goddess of the Moon, Diana, was insistent, and she answered. The pulsing energy filled Ariadne, making her gasp.

She'd been chosen early in her practice, when Diana revealed herself during a divination spell. Once Ariadne
knew her path, she became stronger. Strong enough to rise to the position of High Priestess of her coven, before she left.

Sole practice worked better for her. She loved to teach the Old Ways, so she maintained a blog, with thousands of daily followers, and kept herself out of the politics that governed their kind.

But the matters of the past two days were too important for her to ignore. While the rest of her followers gossiped and prayed, she felt compelled to help.

Truth be told, the lieutenant fascinated her. She had no idea just how dominant she really was. If Ariadne could only spend more time with the woman, alleviate her skepticism. But no. Taylor Jackson was an empirical being, solid to the core with belief and justice. Even with proof of the other-world, her mind would find a rational response.

Ariadne lit a candle, stared into the flickering flame, conjured a mental picture of Taylor Jackson. The eyes were what stood out. Athena's eyes, the gray of a stormy afternoon, clouds roiling in the sky. The right darker than the left, the variation even more pronounced when she'd gotten angry. Her nose, slightly off, and that wide, mobile mouth. There was power, hidden behind the fringe of dark lashes. Power that the woman wasn't aware she possessed. She was fair without being judgmental, skeptical but willing to accept help. So rare to find in any person, much less a cop.

Ariadne's cat slid sinuously around her legs, drawn to the energy she was putting out. She picked her up, cuddled her face for a few moments, then blew out the candle. She'd invited her subconscious to bed, would let her dreams tell her what she needed to know. She'd felt dread this afternoon, strong and vivid, and was afraid of the consequences.

Still, she must try.

She must.

Midnight

R
aven stood in the cemetery, Fane at his side. They'd drawn the circle, called the corners, done their spell. They had bound Ember, both from saying anything about their actions, and from leaving. It was a very powerful spell—Raven felt sure Ember would be at his house when they returned.

Raven was worried about Thorn. No word from him, and he was the lynchpin. They'd bound Thorn to them, as well.

Just to be extra safe, they'd buried their witches' bottle in their sacred circle. They'd originally made it a year earlier, and Raven had stored it on the shelf in his closet. Full of dark essences, the special herbs—chamomile and sage, belladonna and mandrake, peppercorns and rosemary—for protection and balance; shavings of their favorite Crüxshadows CD; crushed eggshells and the discarded claw from Fane's cat; tacks and nails, razors, the shards of a broken plate. Once the pieces were in place, they'd filled it to the brim with first-morning urine collected from both of them. Raven added in his semen, then they'd cut their arms and dribbled their blood into the bottle. Sealed tight with black
wax and then electrical tape, it was an incredibly powerful deterrent of negative energy.

They'd been forced to make the bottle after one of their classmates had beaten Raven up. That threat was neutralized now, soon to be rotting in the earth, but it seemed sensible to charge the bottle and bury it, deep into the earth, far away from their daily lives, to draw any negative forces away from them.

Wiping sweat from her brow, Fane asked, “What are we going to do if it doesn't work?”

Raven turned to her, drank in the beauty of her face, shining in a sliver of moonlight.

“That's easy, my love. We'll kill them.”

Nashville
November 2
7:00 a.m.

T
aylor woke with the sun, her mind already deep into her case. She'd dreamed of the dead last night, the ghosts of the children sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at her.

Eight dead. How would a troubled teenage boy mastermind such a crime? Her gut told her he hadn't, that there was someone else, someone older, more devious, who was the guiding hand behind this. The vampire king, Barent? The so-called witch, Ariadne?

She wondered when the funerals would begin.

That was enough to drive her out of the bed. She showered, dressed in her most comfortable pair of Tony Lamas and Levi's, pulled on a black turtleneck against the chill. She wound her wet hair in a bun, taking care that all the strands were caught back from her face. The nightmare washed from her body, she went downstairs to make some tea.

She sipped the fragrant Earl Grey, staring out into the backyard. It was raining; the soft pattering on the leaves of the river birch made her want to go right back upstairs and get into the bed. She poured some cereal in a bowl and ate
it without tasting, peeled a banana, knowing she'd need energy to get through the day.

She had just attached her gun and badge to her belt when the phone rang.

Baldwin.

She answered with a smile, just happy for a chance to hear his voice.

He caught her up on his hearing in the most general of terms. She could tell there was something bothering him.

She filled him in on the killings in Nashville, expecting him to be more interested. She finally said, “Hey, what's wrong? You are a million miles away.”

“No, I'm right here. I just have to tell you something. I got a call from North Carolina a few minutes ago.”

Fitz. She felt the dread course through her. She missed him so much. Not having Fitz around was like having a piece of herself missing. He'd always been the grounding force in her cases, the sounding board. He kept her focused, and stable. She wanted to throw everything to the wind, get in the car and drive to North Carolina, help search for him. God, if something had happened to him…

Baldwin was quiet, and she felt the agony begin to build, her heart racing as adrenaline showered her system, the very real sense that her blood pressure had spiked, the pit of her stomach gone to water. She heard her heartbeat in her ears, felt it in the back of her throat. She swallowed, hard.

“No. Please, no. Tell me they didn't find his body.” Her voice sounded far away, not her own.

“I'm so sorry I can't be there with you right now, Taylor. I know this is hell for you. They didn't find his body, honey. But they did find something. It's relatively recent, within the past week. An RV, left unattended in a campground up near Asheville. They're tracking the rental records right now.”

She spoke between clenched teeth. “What did they find, Baldwin? Tell me.”

“They found a note. Addressed to you. It said,
‘Ayin tahat ayin.'
”

“What's that mean?”

“It's Hebrew. It means an eye for an eye.”

“An eye for an eye? Do you think it was from the Pretender?”

“He signed it that way, yes.”

“What the hell kind of game is he playing? An eye for an eye?”

“I don't know.” He stopped talking again. Taylor heard him swallow, followed suit herself, trying to contract the muscles of her throat to force the gorge down.

She felt a calm steal over her, that sense of disbelief, the out-of-body feeling she got when she was about to receive bad news. “What is it, Baldwin? I can tell you're leaving something out. What else did they find in that RV?”

“Honey, it's… They found an eye, Taylor. They found what they think is Fitz's eye.”

O
nce she calmed down, she'd forced Baldwin to call his friend at the NCSBI back so she could talk to him directly, gleaned every tiny detail she could from the man. They were changing the scope of the investigation, were on a search-and-rescue mission now, tracking the man they only knew as the Pretender. Hoping they could get Fitz back in one piece, instead of twenty.

We have a strong team in place, ma'am. We promise, we'll find him, ma'am. We're sorry we went in the wrong direction for a while there, ma'am.

She had to believe them. Baldwin assured her his friend was one of the best.

The thought of Fitz in pain, being tortured, made her want to scream, to tear her hair out. But that wasn't going to solve anything. It wouldn't bring him home.

Baldwin was quiet on the other end of the phone, letting her work through her thoughts without interruption.

“Tell me the quote from Exodus again,” she said.

He shifted toward her. “Exodus chapter twenty-one, verse twenty-three through twenty-seven—
‘If any harm follows, then you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.'
”

She moaned softly. “He's going to kill him.”

“I don't know, Taylor. The verse goes on.
‘When the slave owner strikes the eye of a male or female slave, destroying it, the owner shall then let the slave go, a free person, to compensate for the eye.'
”

“What are you saying? You think he's been set free? Then where is he? Why hasn't he been in contact?”

“I don't know what to think, Taylor. The Pretender is still hell-bent on you, that's for sure. He's doing things he knows will hurt you directly.”

“I have to focus on these murders in Nashville. But as soon as I'm done, I'm going to go join the hunt.”

“Do you think that's wise, Taylor? These men and women know what they're doing.”

“It's not like I'm going to get in the way. I'm a law enforcement officer, too. I know the protocols. I can help.”

Baldwin sighed deeply. “Taylor, that's what he wants. That's what the Pretender is counting on. He knows you, too damn well for comfort. He knows that if he leaves you a bit of bait, you're going to run headlong toward it.”

Her chest tightened, frustration making her stomach clench. She knew she was responsible for this. She knew she'd gotten Fitz hurt. It was her fault. She didn't need to be reminded.

“Low blow, Baldwin.”

“I don't mean it as one. If it were you out there, and the police were finding pieces of your body, you don't think I'd do the very same thing? I would hunt him down, tear the bastard limb from limb. But you can't do that. You're his target. You are what he wants. We need to keep you in Nashville. On your own turf, with your force to back you up. If you ever go out on your own, you're vulnerable.”

“I'm not that vulnerable, Baldwin. I have a gun. I know how to fight.”

He raised his voice. “You knew how to fight on our wedding day too, and where did that get you? Tied to a bloody chair in a warehouse in New York.” She could practically hear him gritting his teeth, biting back the caustic
words he'd never be able to take back. Her own temper rose unbidden.

“Don't you
dare
yell at me. I wasn't on my guard then. Who would have been? I was in a fucking wedding dress, on my way to marry
you.
” She was feeling hot, furious and uncomfortable. They'd never had this argument before; she didn't know he considered her weak for being captured.

“I know, Taylor. Jesus God above, I know. If it weren't for me, none of that would have ever happened.”

“Oh, don't be stupid. You weren't the cause, any more than I was. It was a situation, and I mishandled it. Believe me, I'll never make that mistake again.”

The moment the words were out, she regretted it. “That's not what I mean,” she said, softer now. “I mean I'll always be on my guard. I'll always be watching for him.”

“So you do still want to marry me?”

She tried to calm her breathing.

“Of course I do. I'm wearing your ring, aren't I?”

His voice was bleak. “When all I bring you is danger? You're a hard woman to keep safe, Taylor. What I do, the people I have to associate with, all of it brings you into harm's way. Look at Aiden. If the Pretender hadn't killed him, where would we be?”

“I don't know. We'd—”

“Be running from the bastard, that's where!”

She modulated her voice carefully. This could easily spill out of control, and she didn't want that, not now. Not over the phone, where the smallest turn of phrase could be misconstrued.

“Stop shouting at me, Baldwin. You have no idea where that might have led. Stop imagining the worst and let me do my job.”

“Your job is to stay in Nashville, or have you forgotten that? Your caseload, your team. You have responsibilities there, Taylor. You can't just run off willy-nilly on a wild-goose chase.”

He huffed to a stop, biting back the words.

Taylor had learned the hard way that fighting with someone you love has rules of engagement. She'd learned never to say the first thing that popped into her mind. Or the second. Or even the third, for that matter.

Finally, she took a breath, calmed herself, then said, “You think Fitz is dead, don't you?”

“I don't know. But I do know that if you fall for this, if you run off after him, you might be. And I can't lose you, Taylor. Not like that. Not to someone like him.”

“So are you going to forbid me to go? Put your foot down, assert your rights over me?”

“No. I'd never do that. But I can ask, can't I? I can ask you, beg you, to stay away from this case. To stay in Nashville where I can breathe easier, knowing you're surrounded by people I trust to help keep you safe. All I can do is ask that you'll keep me in mind before you do something reckless. Will you, Taylor? Will you please, please think about what you're doing before you do it?”

Could she do that? The other thing about love, she'd quickly learned, was that you had to think about the other person first, then think about yourself and your own desires. Every bone in her body screamed to get in the car and drive, to get to that campsite, to see what was happening, to make sure they were doing everything right. But Baldwin had a point. The Pretender was trying to draw her out, to get her off balance. She would be no use to Fitz if she were captured or dead.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Okay. I'll stay here.”

“Thank you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You know I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe. You're my own heart, Taylor.”

 

There was a puddle of water forming at the base of the driveway. A cheap penny saver, delivered to the wrong house by accident, floated in its plastic bag. She drove over it, out of the drive, up the street, wipers on, lights on. Mind completely and utterly off.

Poor Fitz. Being used as a tool in this ridiculous game. Knowing she'd caused him to suffer was overwhelming, and she realized that's exactly what the Pretender had in mind. The suffering of those she loved was to be her penance until he was ready to face her.

She picked McKenzie up from his house, grateful that he could recognize she had her mind on things. He stayed silent until she finally spoke.

“Where are we on the case?”

He flipped open his notebook. “I think we're very close. We've got all the players. Juri Edvin will be booked for the murder of Brittany Carson. His girlfriend, Susan Norwood, is cognizant of his actions—she was trying to help him run away. We get a confession out of him today about the other seven kills and we can wrap this all up.”

“I still think there's something else going on.”

“Like what?”

“This is all too sophisticated for a teenage boy to pull off. I think we should look harder at our vampire and our witch. Marcus applied for a warrant to the vampire's house. I want to see what he had stashed there.”

“Ariadne's not involved,” McKenzie said, a note of finality in his voice.

“How can you know that? She's completely out there. How do you know she isn't leading us down the primrose path?”

“A gut feeling about her, that's all. I did a little research into her last night while you were at Vanderbilt. She has no history of interjecting herself into cases. She was a very powerful political figure in the Wicca movement, a high priestess who doubled as a judge on a disciplinary committee. But she dropped out several years ago, citing personal conflicts with the direction of the religion.”

“Then she may have a grudge.”

“I don't think so. I think she's telling the truth.”

“You think she can read minds and conjure energy?”

“I don't know about that. I think she believes she can
help, though. Just do me a favor and listen to what she has to say. I asked her to come in later this morning.”

Taylor parked the car, and they crossed the street together. As she swiped her key card in the back door, she turned to him.

“Okay. I trust you.”

A small smile gleamed on his face, but he didn't say a word.

 

Paula Simari was sitting in the Homicide office, chatting with Marcus Wade when Taylor and McKenzie walked in. She was on a roll, gesticulating wildly to make her point.

“You can always judge a man by how he treats his dog, Wade. All you have to do is watch. Does he jerk its head to keep it in line? Does he yank a little too hard when he's training, or is it justified? Dogs like to work, you know. They like to have a purpose, a job. Max knows what his job is, and he's happiest when he's working. But I'll be damned if I'll yank his head like that.”

“Morning, you two,” Taylor said. “What's up?”

Simari turned with a grimace, deep black circles under her eyes. “Animal cruelty case rolled in overnight—I got stuck with it. I hate these bastards who chain their dogs and claim it's good for their character. Asshole was training his Rottweiler, yanked a slip chain around the dog's neck so hard that his neck broke. Didn't kill him, the poor thing, we had to put him down after we got there. I'd like to put his owner down, I'll tell you that much.”

“God, Simari, sorry. That's awful.”

“Yes, well. It's not your problem. I actually came to tag along on your warrant. Wade requested Max and I ride along.”

“Are you up for it? You've been on shift all night?”

“I am. It's all good. We'll rest after.”

“So Marcus, we have the warrant?” Taylor asked.

“Signed, sealed and delivered. Mr. Johnson was the guest of the county last night.”

“What about Susan Norwood, the girl who calls herself Ember?”

“Released into her parents' custody at midnight.”

Taylor slammed her hand against the desk. “Shit. I wanted her held. What happened?”

Marcus shook his head. “Nothing to charge her with. Sneaking into a boy's hospital room wasn't enough. Miles Rose, slippery bastard, talked her right out of the cuffs.”

Taylor chewed on her lip for a moment. “I want an officer on her at all times. She's involved in this.”

Marcus waved his hand at a pile of papers, what she assumed were the guardian orders. “Already done. Juri Edvin passed an uneventful night at Vandy. They think he'll be ready to be released into custody tomorrow. Lincoln's in, he's still working with the video-sharing sites.”

“Excellent. Thanks for running all that down for me. McKenzie, what time is Ariadne supposed to be here?”

“The escort is supposed to bring her back at 10:00 a.m.”

“Then let's get moving. Simari, Marcus, you're with us.”

They left a few minutes later. Taylor drove, McKenzie rode next to her. Marcus was in the backseat, working his phone. Simari followed in her patrol car, Max sticking his nose out the open window, a channel of crisp, fresh air running straight up his black nostrils.

Rush hour was ending, but the streets were still congested with latecomers and two fender-benders. The ride up to Joelton would normally take thirty minutes; they'd already been gone an hour and Taylor was getting frachetty. She hated traffic.

Lincoln called just as they took the exit off the highway. Marcus spent a few minutes listening, then slapped his phone shut.

“Good news,” Marcus said “One of the video sharing sites found a match to the address. They're tracking it down now.”

Taylor looked in the rearview at him. “What do you mean, a match to the address?”

“Remember Lincoln said yesterday that there was a ghost in the IP address that showed him the uploads were being rerouted? There were multiple IP addresses for the uploads, but he's found a pattern.”

“Honestly, no. That one slipped by me.”

“Well, there've been other videos posted by the person who posted the original video. They're tracking the IP addresses now. They think they'll have something concrete by noon.”

“Big Brother is watching,” McKenzie said wryly.

The morning had become glaring and hot. Taylor slipped on her sunglasses. She looked back at Marcus again, amused by the excessive floppiness of his brown hair this morning. The kid hadn't slept much, looked like when he did, it was face-first. “Well, thank goodness for Big Brother in this case, because it may be our only credible lead. Nothing showed up on Juri Edvin's or Susan Norwood's computers, I take it?”

“Susan's hasn't been looked at—her parents are being a bit difficult. But the Edvins were quite forthcoming, dropped Juri's laptop off with Lincoln late last night. He didn't find any links, but he's still looking. The kid was into all kinds of crazy stuff though. His history reads like a who's who of creeps and illegal stuff—some bondage footage, a guide to bomb making, cyanide poisoning, neck breaking. He's studying violence, and violent means of death. He fits the profile we have to a T.”