Enlightened (Love and Light Series) (36 page)

“I want to see Wolf,” she stated flatly.

He looked up with helpless eyes. “That’s not up to me.” His voice was empty.

She cocked her head, as if listening. “He’s here, on this floor,” her voice clipped.

I will let you see him one last time, but you cannot touch. We both know that is not a good idea.
Modore’s thought slithered through her mind and she suddenly understood he had been there before—in the shower, on the mountain.

Of course.
Her thought was heavy with malice.

“Come with me,” the jean-clad shapeshifter said.

She followed him to another door at the end of the hall. When he opened it, there was Wolf, slumped over in a wooden chair that made her think of an old fashioned electrocution chair. She started to run to him. A too thin figure blocked her way, his waxy white face smiling down on her with strange eyes, like whoever was behind them wasn’t all there.

“Modore.”

“Yes, dear.” His smile crept across his face like pooling blood.

She shivered. “Let me see him.”

“This is far enough.”

He stepped to the side, and Wolf sat ten feet away. He lifted his head slowly, the curtain of black hair hiding half of his bloody face.

“Take the silver off of him,” she instructed.

The two lycanthropes looked to Modore, who gave them one curt nod. They approached as if expecting something, and Wolf hissed, baring his fangs. They glanced at Modore, who waived a dismissive hand. The shaved-head guy put a hand to Wolf’s forehead and pulled a length of silver chain, like the kind you’d hang a heart locket on, from a long gash. Loti clamped a hand over her forehead as it ripped from the wound. The skin and tissue knit itself back together before her eyes; the burning subsided to a throb which faded to nothing. She ran her hand over her forehead while keeping her eyes on Wolf.

The one wearing the Yankees baseball cap reached for Wolf’s chest, and he snapped like a dog. Yankees-Cap jerked his hand back, growling, “I’ve been bitten too many times, boss.”

“Shut up and do what you are told,” Modore snarled.

Loti glanced at his eyes flaring with a strange light, boring holes through her. Yankees-Cap took a noisy breath and dug his fingers into the wound on Wolf’s chest. Wolf hissed through his teeth, but watched warily as the silver pulled free one link at time, the wound healing behind its egress.

“He heals wonderfully!” Modore exclaimed and Loti jumped. “Much faster than any vampire I have ever known.”

Loti ignored him, speaking to Wolf. “I’m sorry, Wolf.” Her body juddered with the need to hold him, at least touch him, and she let her shield evaporate.

His eyes hard, his jaw clenched, he stared at the door behind her, but his shield dissolved until they were naked in their minds—exposed and vulnerable.

 “I love you,” she said.

He looked at her then, his eyes yielding.

“I know you can’t say it. It’s okay. I know how you feel.” She smiled sadly. “Whatever happens, just know that I know.”

His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

“All right, you can take me back.” She turned to Mr. Jeans, who escorted her out the door and back to Patrick.

Patrick waved her into the middle of the circle, his face taut like he was holding his breath. Once she was inside the circle, he chanted a spell, some of which Loti understood. He was calling on the effulgent Light. Mr. Jeans, the shapeshifter, stood by the metal door, arms crossed and staring at them as if they were holding him up.

The plain room was longer than it was wide, with unpainted cinder block walls. No windows. The door opened and Modore breezed in, his unnatural gate emphasized by his rigid arms. His fingers and thumbs chafed in mindless circles and his translucent skin hinted at a network of veins and capillaries. His washed-out eyes glowed with madness, and his dark hair was tussled like he just rolled out of bed.

“We need to hurry, Patrick.”

Patrick did no more than glance at the vampire, intoning the entire time. A grimace burst through his controlled face, and Loti narrowed her eyes. His prana flowed like . . . her eyes went wide, and she opened her mouth, but Patrick shot her a warning look. She closed her lips and her eyes softened as the air pressed against her skin, thick and oppressive. Unsnapping her jacket, she shrugged it off and dropped it on the floor. Sweat trickled down her back. She pulled the blue fleece over her head and dropped that, revealing the long-sleeved white thermal underneath.

An acrid, meaty, rotten smell filled the room, like . . . ah god. She gagged. She’d smelled it once before, imbued with sandalwood, in the thick greasy clouds of smoke that rose from the funeral pyre by the Ganges. She trembled as Modore stepped into the circle, and Loti stepped away.

“No need to be afraid, my dear. We will be quite enamored with each other very soon.” And he bit his wrist. The blood welled sluggishly, tinged with purple. She repressed the urge to yell out, curling her hands into fists.

“I won’t.” She clamped her mouth shut.

Modore smiled. “Of course you will. If you don’t, you will die.”

Loti cut her eyes at Patrick, who kept his gaze on the floor, still chanting. A sweat stain bloomed on her chest. “Then I’ll die.”

“That would be a shame, after all of this effort.” Modore’s voice quaked with a bit of hysteria.

He moved faster than she could see, and he crushed her back against his front, his wrist in her face. Jerking her head sideways, she strained to get her face as far away as she could from the oozing wound. She pressed her ear into his chest to get away from his bloody wrist that reeked of a sweet rottenness, like overripe banana.

She wrinkled her nose. “Bathe lately?”

He laughed too hard, his head flinging back, his mouth abysmally wide, revealing long, wet incisors. Loti dug out the bag of vervain she had stuffed in her jean pocket back at Nan’s house. She tossed it over her shoulder and into Modore’s open mouth. He gagged and coughed a plume of powder like ash and dirt exploding from the side of a collapsing volcano.

His scream ricocheted around the room, inhumanely loud. Loti’s ears rang and her nose and eyes burned as she bolted for the door. The air itself caught her as if it were a sticky trap. Pushing as hard as she could, she only managed to pull one foot up behind her, her chest straining against the hot thickness. The room heated up like a brick oven. Modore collapsed in the circle, falling on lit candles, his white silk shirt catching on fire. He let loose a strangled scream.

Mr. Jeans tramped toward her with no apparent difficulty and grabbed her by the arm, dragging her back to the circle. Both arms limp by his side, Patrick stopped chanting, his prana flowing fast, pulsing irregularly. Loti pleaded with her eyes and his pleaded back just as dreadfully. Mr. Jeans slung Loti at Patrick while Modore beat out the flames. Patrick caught her, both of them almost falling. Modore wheezed as he stood with difficulty, his hands shaking with violent spasms. His lips red and raw, his face blistered in blotches like he’d been sprayed with acid. He stalked toward Loti and stumbled. Lifting her chin, she glowered.

He grabbed her and sank his fangs in her neck in one swift movement. She screamed. It hurt, just hurt. No peace, no pleasure, no soft easeful flow. He gulped her blood, and her eyes fluttered, a pale awareness of Wolf trembling in her mind. There were no words between them, just a diaphanous touch of minds, a pulling apart. He was moving.
Where are they taking you?

But he was gone.

Her throat tightened, her eyes burned, and not from the vervain. Modore yanked his fangs from her neck and backhanded her, sending her flying across the room. She slammed into the block wall and fell forward, smacking her face on the cement. There was an audible crunch and a stabbing pain flared in the middle of her face, hot blood running down her lips and the back of her throat. She coughed as she tried to breathe through her wet, bubbling nose.

Modore staggered toward the door, still wheezing and coughing. “I need to go to ground. Finish it.”

“She’ll die without your blood, once . . . ”

Loti crawled toward Patrick, who reached down with tentative limbs, and she clasped his forearm with both hands, her face a bloody mess. Purple stains spread across her cheeks.

“I will send someone with a bottle. She can choose. Live or die, I don’t care,” he rasped, and slammed the door behind him. The ringing echoed.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“There they go,” Fiamette cupped her eyes as she peered through the Jeep glass. “Come on.” She leaped out slamming the car door. Marcus and Korinna were already outside, glancing nervously at the dark clouds.

“Sunrise is—” Korinna started.

“I know, coming. We’ve got to hurry. Take us to wherever they’re going and fly back to the ashram.” The two vampires looked at Fiamette with disbelief.

“How are you three going to save Wolf all by yourselves?” Marcus asked.

“We don’t have any options. We have to try.” Camille snaked her arms around his waist. He wrapped one arm around her and kissed her forehead.

“Let’s go!” Fiamette barked. “We’ll lose them.”

The couple wrapped their arms around her, lifting off into the clouds. Korinna and Justin held hands and took off like Peter Pan and Wendy. They flew over the blue work van that wound its way through the back streets of the Lewiston warehouse district by the river. It took an entrance ramp to the main highway and sped along heading east. After a few miles, it exited into farm country.

The van turned down a long dirt road in the middle of miles of plowed fields dotted with the occasional outbuildings and long lines of trees. The van trundled along the dirt road, stopped at a gate. An occupant jumped out, yanked the lock off its chain and swung the gate open. After another few minutes, they pulled over by a freshly plowed field and opened the back doors.

Three men drug a bundle of silver netting out and let it fall to the ground. It wiggled while they hoisted it onto two of their shoulders, steadying it with both arms. The two men carried it out into the field, the third one on the other side, supporting Wolf. They dumped their load with a thunk. Wolf lay still. Two of them pulled the netting away, revealing Wolf curled into a fetal position, wrapped in thick links of silver. Fiamette and the others landed by a wooden outbuilding, a few hundred yards away.

“They haven’t spotted us,” Justin whispered.

“We have to go,” Korinna muttered in a choked way.

Marcus nodded, his eyelids struggling against the day sleep.

“Then go.” Fiamette crouched by the corner of the building, peering around at the three men who sauntered a safe distance away from Wolf. She waved Justin and Camille forward. “Okay, I don’t see any other way than to try to nab him and bring him back here. At least we can get him out of the light, somewhat, until we can track down Katie. She’ll know what to do.”

“I know a spell that should keep him from burning . . . at least until we can get him to ground,” Camille offered.

Fiamette nodded. “Okay, so we have to get him away from the goons.”

“Fiamette, be careful,” Marcus touched her shoulder.

Fiamette glanced over her shoulder, a shrewd look in her eye. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

Camille rubbed the back of her neck and face. “Go. Now.” She shoved Marcus away and Korinna and Marcus fled the rising sun.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Margarite, Guided, and Professor stood outside the warehouse, waiting while Hammer talked on his cell phone.

“Right.” He pocketed the smartphone. “They’ve got Rachel and are five minutes away.” He glanced at the brightening sky. “I wish witches could fly.” He laughed nervously. “And we had some werewolves.”

“No, you don’t,” Professor slapped his shoulder. “Too unpredictable. When they change you never know who’s going to be kibble.”

The air shimmered around them.

“There’s some powerful magic going on in there.” Margarite scanned the sky. She closed her eyes, reaching out and sighed. “I can’t get through whatever it is.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Loti lay on her side, curled up in a fetal position. An amber pint bottle with a flip-top stopper sat beside her, and Patrick stood over her, gazing sorrowfully down. His face contorted in pain, wrinkles deepening around his eyes and mouth in an agonized grimace.