Not Quite Dead (A NightHunter Novel) (9 page)

"Do you hear it?"

She shivered at the dark undertone of his voice. Her instincts fired on, and her skin prickled in sudden fear. "Hear
what?"

He shouldered the door open and stepped out into the dark night, pulling her with him. He shoved the door shut, and the night descended upon them.
"Listen
.
"

The screen door swung shut behind them, clattering gently against the battered wooden doorframe. Eric's fingers were light around her elbow, and he scanned the woods around them, his gaze intent, and his entire body taut with readiness.

The night was dark, the moon barely reaching through the thick tangle of trees ahead. Heavy dampness hung thick in the air, clinging to Jordyn's flesh. The parking lot was half-empty, and the remaining vehicles were mostly old pickup trucks, trying to hold together for one more day. Behind them, she could hear the hum of insects in the swamp, a buzzing that reverberated through the dark night. "Listen to what? The insects?"

"No." He moved closer to her, pulling her into the shield of his body.

Something flashed in his hand, and she saw that he was holding a knife against his thigh. It looked like an ancient weapon, with runes carved in the blade and on the handle. There was a black stone embedded at the end of the handle, and it was glistening even though it was dark out. It almost looked like it was glowing with a faint green light...and so did the blade? Frowning, she looked closer, and she saw that there were shadows undulating in the blade, as if it were alive. Her heart started to hammer. "Eric, what is that?"

"
Listen.
"

The edge to his voice made her stiffen, and she looked around again. The dirt road was empty, disappearing on the far side into thick woods and marsh. The shadows loomed dark and menacing, just like they had when she was a kid. Suddenly, memories of the monsters that lived in the bayou came flooding back, and she shut her eyes, cutting off the visual distractions.

For a moment, she concentrated on the feel of Eric's fingers on her elbow, using his touch to ground herself. His grip was light and warm, but solid. She could hear his breathing, and he was so close she could feel the heat rising from his body as he used it to shield her from the night.

Trusting him to keep her safe, she let her focus drift from fear and from him. She allowed her mind to reach out into the dark night. The noises of the swamp seemed to swell, pressing down upon her. The splash of a gator as it slipped into the water. The anguished scream of a mouse as it met its demise. The low hoot of an owl.

And then she heard a sound that made the hair on her arms stand up. A low growl, so faint that it almost blended in with the swamp. A menacing, terrifying sound she hadn't heard since she was a child running from her nightmares. She'd never heard it in real life, but it slithered over her with chilling familiarity. "Oh, my God," she whispered.

"You hear it?"

"Yes." Again, the menacing growl. It was distant, but if she could hear it, maybe it could hear her, too. Her heart started to pound, and a memory flashed through her mind, a memory that she hadn't had to face for so long, but there was no doubt in her mind what she'd heard. Her stomach turned, and her eyes sprang open. "We need to get out of here. Now!"

Eric didn't move. He was staring into the woods, his face grim. "That's the sound I heard in the swamp before that woman screamed."

"You heard the scream? Oh, God." She tore herself out of his grasp and raced down the stairs. "Come on!" She was halfway to her rental car, when Eric caught up.

"My truck," he said.

"But—"

"I need my stuff. Come on!" He pulled her toward a massive black pickup truck parked near the door, ten times the size of her subcompact rental car, and so much more capable of handling the swamp.

"Okay." She raced beside Eric, barely even noticing the high heels that had been killing her feet only moments before he'd walked into the bar. He unlocked the truck remotely, and she flung herself in the driver's side, scrambling across his seat while he leapt in behind her.

He gunned the engine. Dirt sprayed up from the tires as the truck flew backward. Then he jammed it into drive, and it sprang forward.

"Turn right," she said, leaning forward, her hands clenching the dashboard as she searched the road ahead of them. White mist was drifting across the road, smoky tendrils that undulated as if they were alive. "The mist," she whispered, dread gripping her more tightly. "I didn't even think of it."

"Think of what?"

"The mist." She searched desperately ahead of them, praying that she wouldn't see a shadow flit across their path. "Most of the time, it's just innocuous fog, but sometimes, it's more. It hasn't been more for a really long time." Was that what David had wanted to talk to her about? What had he noticed? Of course he wouldn't have wanted to talk about it in front of Eric, an outsider. Who would believe the stories that coated this region? Even she didn't want to believe them, but she knew better. Her grandmother, Oba, had told her too much for her not to believe it.

"What do you mean, more?" The fog grew thicker, winding around the truck until they could barely see the road. Eric slowed the truck, his headlights reflecting uselessly off the water droplets coating the air.

"Don't slow down," she said urgently.

"I can't see—"

"I don't care! You have to keep going!"

Swearing under his breath, Eric obeyed. The truck hurtled onward, the tires spinning ruthlessly on the slippery dirt. Jordyn held her breath, her gaze riveted to the fog closing around them. "We have to get to my house. I mean, the house I grew up in." Even the words sent a chill racing through her. She didn't want to go back there. Ever. But there were things there that she needed, things that had been gathering dust for decades, things that her grandmother had warned her she would need someday.

She didn't want to need them.

"What the hell is going on?" Eric's flirty arrogance was gone, replaced by the steely focus of a man on high alert. "What was that thing growling?"

"I don't know for sure," she hedged.

He glanced over at her. "What do you
think
it was?"

She bit her lip, not even wanting to talk about it. No one in this town would ever talk about it. "Around here, people think it's bad luck to talk about it," she said.

"Talk about
what
?"

She sighed. "Evil." She waited for him to laugh or snort in derision.

He didn't. He simply nodded grimly. "What kind of evil?" He asked the question as if he knew. "A vampire? It was a vampire, wasn't it?"

"Vampire?" She looked out the window into the dark. "No, not
a
vampire. One particular vampire. Le Cicatrice. It means the one with the scar. For over four hundred years, he ravaged the area. He drained mostly young girls, and left them for dead. People started sending their daughters away to live with relatives. Then, the boys started disappearing...and then coming back as vampires. Nighttime became a time of terror..." She looked over at him. "Until he found a way to come out in the daylight. Then the real horrors began."

Tension flashed across Eric's face. "He's dead?"

"Yes." She looked out the window. "But my grandmother always said he wasn't really dead. She said that there are some vampires you can't ever kill. I used to hear that growl in my dreams, and my grandmother said he was trying to find an anchor to bring him back. He knew my name, and would whisper it to me. She always told me to wake up when I heard it, to take my mind back before he could own it." She hugged herself, still watching the fog. "I still don't sleep well," she said. "I'm afraid of sleep." Even in Walter's arms, she hadn't slept well. As powerful as Walter had been, the ancient vampire was something more evil, more powerful, and more terrifying. "The mist forms because the earth is disturbed by his presence." She bit her lip. "He can't be back," she whispered. "He can't be—" But even as she said it, a sudden, horrifying thought occurred to her.

She looked sharply at Eric, whose hands were tight around the steering wheel. "Could Tristan resurrect him?"

"I would have said no."

Oh, God. That wasn't the answer she'd been hoping for. "Except—"

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and flicked to an image. "I found this burial site," he said. "Tristan was there, and I think he resurrected whatever was in the grave."

She took the phone and studied the picture. With growing dread, she flipped through the images, until she came to the last one, a carving that was so battered it was barely recognizable...except that she knew what it was. The jagged tear. The sharp incisors. The drip of blood. "It's the sign of Cicatrice," she said. "It's the ward that one of the ancient voodoo queens created to protect against him." She looked up. "This headstone marks his grave, Eric."

"It's empty now. I checked it carefully."

"Oh, God." She sank back against the seat, holding her breath as the fog began to thin. A respite. A chance to recover. Not that it really mattered, because if Cicatrice was really hunting in the bayou again, there was nowhere safe. Not for anyone, but especially not for her.

"If Tristan resurrected him, what would he do to Tristan?" Eric asked.

She looked over at him. She didn't want to say it. But there was no way around it. "He'd turn him," she said thickly. "Tristan's ability to resurrect the dead would be a powerful asset. A lot of vampires were killed in this area at the time of Cicatrice's death. A reunion would probably be a great time for them." Numbly, she noticed they were coming up to a turn they needed to make. "Make a right up ahead," she said.

Eric swung the truck around the corner, the tires churning relentlessly on the gravel-covered road. "If Tristan has been converted, will he be evil? Can we save him?"

She looked out the window at the dark swamp as the trees flashed by. "My grandmother said there was always a chance."

"To bring him back from being a vampire?"

"No. He'll always be a vampire." God, Tristan, a vampire? She prayed they weren't too late. "But if his will is strong enough, he can fight the evil and hold onto his humanity, as long as he gets an anchor to hold him."

"What kind of anchor?"

She shook her head. "An emotional anchor. Someone he loves. Someone so pure and good, that they can help him fight it off."

Eric looked over at her. "He loves you."

"No." She hugged herself. "We're just friends."

"He resurrected you eight times. How much did it cost him?"

She thought back to how Tristan had been the last time she'd seen him. His face had been gaunt and gray. His hair had lost its luster, and he'd lost so much weight he'd looked like he was on the verge of death. "Almost his life," she said quietly.

"How long had you been dead?"

"Three days, the first time he did it. He came after me. He said he'd felt my death, and he came after me, but it took a few days to get there. After that, he pulled me back within minutes of my death each time."

Eric hit the brakes so hard that the truck skidded across the dirt before it stopped. "He
felt
your death?"

"That's what he said."

Eric swore under his breath and leaned his head back against the seat. "What are you doing, Tristan?" He muttered. "What the
hell
were you doing?"

"What?"

He looked over at her, as he started driving again. "The only way he could feel your death is if he connected the two of you on a metaphysical level. He bound you to him, Jordyn, which means your lives are intertwined. If he dies, you hold him in this life. If you die, he holds you in this life. He made you his anchor. Shit. No wonder he worked so hard to save you. He needed you alive."

"No." Jordyn felt sick, as if there was a noose tightening around her throat. "We were friends. He saved me because we were friends. He wouldn't have trapped me like that." She couldn't be bound to another man. Not to Tristan. She'd trusted Walter, and he'd trapped her against her will. She'd trusted Tristan as well. "Why would he do that? It doesn't make sense."

Eric looked over at her, his face grim. "By using you as an anchor, whenever he drains himself too much doing a resurrection, he pulls on your life force. If he continues to resurrect people, he will drain you until you die."

She stared at him, her mind swiftly going back to the times over the last year when she hadn't felt well, or had been too tired to drag herself out of bed. No, that hadn't been from Tristan. It was just the ups and down of life, right? "No, he wouldn't—"

Eric slammed his fist into the steering wheel. "No, the brother I know wouldn't have done that, not without a damned good reason." He hit the gas, and the truck sped forward. "I'm going to find out what it is."

Jordyn sank back against the seat, her heart thundering in her chest as she gripped the door handle. Another man had trapped her? Tristan had saved her life. She
trusted
him. And he'd bound himself to her forever? "If he's been turned by Cicatrice and is working for him now—"

"He'll be resurrecting a lot of old vampires, I'm guessing." He didn't state the obvious, but they both knew it.

If Tristan was getting busy raising the dead, it would cost him. She could be dead within days. Hours, even, depending on how much Tristan drained her. A cold fear shivered down her spine. "We have to stop him. Cicatrice. Tristan. All of it." No longer was it about saving Tristan. If he were a vampire who had been co-opted by Cicatrice, there was no salvation for him. She had to kill him. It was the only way to end it. If he was working for Cicatrice, she had no choice. Tristan had to be stopped.

Kill the man who'd given her life, eight times?

How could she do that?

Why would he save her life at great cost to himself, only to then prey on her until she died? It didn't make sense that he'd saved her so he could siphon her life away. "Couldn't he have connected with someone else instead of me, if I'd died?"