Darklove

Part One HALLOWED GROUND

It’s cold here. Ice cold. The kind that burrows straight through your skin and jabs deep into your bones. I can’t shake it. I inhale, and that frigid air rushes down my windpipe and bangs into my lungs. It clings to my insides, and I puff it back out. Funny. No frosty air comes from my mouth. I’m more cold-blooded than warm-blooded, I think. My core temperature isn’t even human enough to heat my breath. What does that make me? Hell if I know. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. My eyes drifted shut, and the next thing I know, I’m here, in this place. Something wants me. That much I know. I can feel it.

As I jog up the darkened street, I notice how barren it is here, too. No trees. No grass. No shrubs. Not even a single bird. Only gray concrete, gray sidewalk, gray stone, gray sky. Even as I fine-tune my hearing, nothing happens. No beatings of hearts—not even a rat’s. Is there nothing alive here? Am I? Hell if I know.

I let my hands skim the building’s stone surface as I turn the corner. My body is pressed close to the stone, and I peer ahead. A heavy mist has crept in, fallen over the ground like some white vaporous blanket. It swirls around my feet as I walk, and the farther I go, the higher it climbs. Soon, it surrounds me. I see nothing. I hear nothing.

Then the stench knocks into me, full force. It’s many things, all rolled in one. Rancid old blood. Decay. Rotting human flesh. Scorched tissue. The more steps I take, the stronger the scent becomes. I follow it.

One second I’m on a cobbled road; the next I’m on the river’s bank. The mist rolls across the black water like a live thing, and the stench seems to come from below. The loch. I ease down the embankment. I stop at the water’s edge, and inhale. That horrible smell of death is coming from beneath the water.

“You’re so easy.” A voice sounds from behind me. “Too easy.”

That voice. I whip around, but the speaker’s strong arm has snaked around my throat and pulled me tightly against him. Yeah, a male. Big. Hard. The back of my head presses against his chest. There’s no heartbeat. What a shock.

Just as I move to raise my foot, his muscular leg traps mine. He drops his free arm over my breasts and pulls me closer. He thinks I’m thoroughly trapped. I let him think it. His head drops to my ear.

“I can’t decide if I want to fuck you, then kill you.” His graveled voice brushes against my cheek. “Or just kill you.” He pulls me closer, and I feel his hard cock press into my back. “Difficult decision.”

I look down at the arm holding me prisoner. Leather jacket, leather gloves. Vise as tight as iron. My head falls to the side, exposing my neck, and I move my ass seductively against his crotch. “How ’bout now?” I ask, my voice low, teasing. I peer into the loch, but it’s cloudy with mist. I can’t see his face. I can’t see anything.

His laugh against my throat is deep, more like a whisper. Edged with certain . . . hatred. Yet . . . there’s something about it. I don’t know. “Convince me,” he says. His teeth graze my skin. “Tell me what you’ll do to me if I let you live.” His lips move to the corner of mine, and it’s an achingly familiar gesture. “Make me want you.”

With slow, rhythmic pressure, I move against his groin, pushing against the thick bulge. His body tenses at my movement, and I know he’s turned on. I don’t know why, but I am, too. I gotta get my head back in the game. That is, to live.

“I can make you come without laying a hand on you,” I whisper, and I press my back into his chest.

His arm that is still banded over my breasts slides, and through the thin silk of my bra, his hand cups me. I press my ass against his crotch, and he hardens. “And how would you do that?” he whispers against my jaw.

“Because you’re going to touch me,” I answer, and before the words fully leave my mouth, his hand leaves my breast and skims my stomach. “And when you do, I’ll explode.” A moan escapes my throat, and my vision blurs. I blink. I gotta get it together. “And you won’t be able to help yourself. You’ll come.”

His gloved hand moves over my hip, over my groin, and I thrust against him. He cups me, his thumb pressing against me through my jeans. Just as the climax starts, his grip relaxes and he starts to turn me around. I go limp, and slide to the ground. In the next second, I leap, and I land, crouched, about ten feet away. Through the mist, I blink. The orgasm still lingers, and I will it away.

I look at my captor.

My breath hitches.

My mouth opens to call his name.

“E—”

Just that fast, he’s on me again. His hand encircles my throat, and his face contorts to full-raged vampire. His jaw juts forward, almost broken, and jagged teeth drop from his gums. His eyes turn bloodred, and his scent blends with that in the loch. The air is squeaking from my lungs, so audible I can hear it in the misty air around me. He lifts me, my feet dangling over the water.

“You will die now,” he says, and lowers me to the loch. “And watching the life drain out of you is what’s going to make me come.”

I try to kick, to shout, but I’m paralyzed. Screams not my own pierce the air, and he starts to lower me down. The stench grows stronger. I feel water at my back, and hands upon hands pull at me from below. He holds me there, my face and eyes just beneath the surface of the loch, staring up at him through the water. Had he not been squeezing the life out of me, I would have died from just seeing his face. Full of hate. Full of loathing.

A monster.

It’s Eli.

As I thrash about, and what little air is left in me seeps out, my lungs explode. Unseen hands grab me from the depths of the loch, and before the blood vessels burst in my eyes, I see the others who have gone in before me. . . .

“Hey, Ri.” A familiar voice seeps into my conscience. “What are you doing?”

For a moment, I’m speechless. Slowly, I open my eyes. I can’t focus. I can’t speak.

He grasps my forearm and squeezes gently. “What the hell’s wrong with you, darlin’?”

I blink and focus. It’s only Noah. And we’re in a cab.

Noah flashes his big white, wolfish smile at me. “Anything I can help you with, babe?”

With a heavy sigh, I push my thumb and forefinger into my eye sockets. “No. Bad dream is all.” I shake my head. “Are we there yet?”

“Yeah, we’re here. You okay?” he asks.

Weird. I remember driving along on the A-96, looking out across the Moray Firth. That’s it. As I glance out the window into the night, I see we’ve ended up on Montague Row, at the guesthouse Jake Andorra, our boss, rented out for us. Rented the whole damn guesthouse so we wouldn’t look so suspicious coming and going like we do.

WUP. Worldwide Unexplained Phenomena. That’s what we do. It’s an elite organization Noah and I, and a handful of others, belong to. Weirdly enough, I’m probably the most normal of the group. WUP is made up of vampires, werewolves, ancient Pict immortals with wicked skills and sick fighting abilities. Then there’s, well, me. A human with vampiric tendencies. So far, I’m the only one. Jake Andorra, a vampire with lethal skills, asked me to join. Although I’m pretty sure most of my team members would argue my tendencies have gotten way the hell out of control. But damn—I’ve been bitten by three powerful Strigoi vampires from an old Romanian family, as well as my vampire fiancé, Eli. All of their DNA bound with mine, and I took on a little of each one of their traits. I can now speak French and Romanian fluently. I guess my mind control is the strongest trait I’ve acquired, and I’d be a big fat liar if I didn’t confess to thinking it was cool as shit. Anyway.

WUP members are dispatched and assigned the most difficult of cases involving things humans can’t even begin to grasp. Basically, we’re hunters. Anything involving supernatural beings vs. humans, we’re on it. Vampiric situations are the most common, although there’s a pretty big werewolf war going on farther west in the Highlands, which is where the rest of the WUP team is right now.

A werewolf war. Sounds pretty big, right? Apparently, two clans have waged war between themselves, and once again, innocent mortals inevitably get in the way. Werewolves are bat-shit crazy and unpredictable as all holy hell. WUP will need every spare set of hands they can use. But under Jake Andorra’s orders, me and Noah have been assigned here, in Inverness. Our mission is simple: Take out the rogue vampire or vampires wreaking havoc on innocent humans. Noah’s strength combined with mine is more than enough to wrap up this job. Usually, they’re newbloods—humans newly transformed and just coming into their vampirism. And totally fuck-wild with bloodlust. It’s not too uncommon, rogues. They travel, hardly ever staying in the same location long. But any time is too long. They kill. Innocents die a horrible death.

So me and Noah will hunt down these rogue vampires and make the humans and city safe again. Shouldn’t take long. But there’s something else I have to do here. Something I have to do alone. And the selfish part of me says it’s more important.

Sometime between the Firth and here, I dreamed. Again of my fiancé, Eli, except this time was different than the others. It was . . . bizarre. That’s another thing I do—I have wicked dreams that sometimes place me in real situations, and sometimes in other bodies. I almost experience things others have experienced, and it is intense as hell. I shake it off and finally answer Noah. I give a nod. “I’ve never been better. Let’s go.”

Noah stares at me a minute, with those calculating mercury vampiric eyes. Finally, he leans over me and opens the cab door. “After you.”

I climb out, and the chilled air bites through the black leather jacket I’m wearing. It’s not uncomfortable, the chill. Lately, I welcome it. Seems I’m always hot lately.

“Here, grab these and I’ll get the rest. Here are the keys to the back entrance.” Noah hands them to me and nods. “Just up the walk there, turn left down that alley.”

“Yeah, okay,” I answer, and grab the two duffel bags containing our gear.

I could have sworn we got in that taxi over an hour ago. It’s only been twenty minutes or so since we landed. Wicked-ass dream that was, and I damn sure don’t want to have another like it. It left me not only aching for Eli, but fearing what he may have become. Stepping away from the curb, I sling one pack over my shoulder and head in the direction Noah indicated. It’s dark, well after sunset. The old gray stone of our Edwardian-era guesthouse blends in with the pale haze lingering in the air. A sign hangs on an iron post that reads ABERNANTHE GUESTHOUSE. NO VACANCY. As the breeze catches the metal sign, it creaks back and forth. The typical city sounds surround me, but I tune them all out and listen close as I walk. Every noise ceases except the very, very faint ones. The lapping of the firth against the shoreline. Seabirds cooing as they bed down for the night. Pigeons. Gulls. Rats scuffling along the cobbles.

I turn down the narrow close leading to the guesthouse’s back entrance, and a soft breathy sound reaches my ears. My skin breaks out in goose bumps. The fine hairs on my arms and neck stiffen. I’m on total alert, and my eyes scan. I see nothing, but I hear. Breath, but no heartbeat. Shadows reach, stretch in awkward lengths. It’s hard to tell where the stone ends and the shadows begin. Something’s here. I feel it.

Out of nowhere, a hand encircles my throat. I drop my bags. My feet leave the ground.

Apparently, there are wily, ballsy vampires afoot in Inverness, Scotland.

“When all is said and done, Ms. Poe, you’re nothing more than a glorified human armed with pointy little weapons.” The bloodsucker knows my name? He squeezes my throat tighter, lifting me higher off the cobbles. “You can still die.” His lips pull back, gums recede, and a dozen razor-sharp teeth drop from his top jaw, jagged and lethal as shit. What the hell? I’ve only been out of the cab for three minutes. He pulls me closer. His breath alone nearly knocks me out. It reeks of old metallic blood, flesh, and decay. Sounds like a cool name for a heavy metal band. Blood, Flesh, and Decay . . .

And the smell is familiar. Like from my dream.

“When all is said and done,” I repeat his words, gasping for breath at the same time, “you’re still nothing more than an asshole.” My voice is raspy as it pushes past his fierce grip against my windpipe, and my feet aren’t even touching the ground when I rear one leg back and knee this bloodless prick in the groin. His grip loosens, just enough, and his pupils dilate. I see the pain there, in their depths. It’s all I need.

From the waist of my jeans I palm my silver blade, flip it, and jam it straight into his heart. All within, no lie, the blink of an eye.

The vampire drops me and falls to the ground. He is seizing, quivering, gurgling. His body starts to smolder, disintegrate, and finally, bubble into that disgusting pile of white junk they become when they meet their end.

He didn’t even see it coming. Funny how male vampires are way more male human than they like to admit. Target their wieners and wham—on the ground they go.

Glorified human with pointy little weapons? Kiss my ass.

“Riley, what the hell?”

I glance behind me. Noah Miles is standing on the street side, scowling down the narrow alley I’m standing in. He swaggers toward me, his gaze lowering to the quivering pile of used-to-be vampire. Mercury eyes flash so angrily, they almost glow in the dark. Ever since Edinburgh, he’s smothered the hell out of me. Edgy, watchful, and overly mother hennish. He gets on my fucking nerves. Everybody does, actually.

“I liked you better when you were just a horny, whimsical old vampire,” I say under my breath, and then sigh with frustration. “I’m fine.”

“Riley. You left me, like, ten seconds ago.”

I look at my WUP partner. “I was just . . . walking by. Heading inside.” I incline my head to the heap on the ground. “He grabbed me.” I shrug. “I let him.”

Noah mutters under his breath, something annoyed and unintelligible, and stares at me. “Come on, let’s make like a tree and get out of here.” He grabs the bags I dropped and shakes his head.

I watch Noah Miles’s broad back as he retreats to our guesthouse’s back entrance. The way he moves tells me he’s waiting on me to follow. Slow, careful, on full alert. One thing I can say about him: When he makes a vow, he damn well means every solemn word of it. A vow to protect me, keep me safe, no matter the cost. This he made to Eli, back in Edinburgh when the very real threat of the Black Fallen killing all of us lingered.

“He knew my name,” I say to Noah’s back as we stand at the door.

Noah’s shoulders rise and fall, as though he’s taking in a long, exaggerated breath. “That really doesn’t surprise me, Poe.” He glances back at me. One eyebrow lifts. “At all.”

I move ahead of him and through the door. “Just saying.”

Inside, I find the switch on the wall and flip it on. The light illuminates a small kitchen area. I move to the hallway and flip another switch. It shines on a staircase, and I head up. At the top, I find a corridor with doors. I throw open the first one and hit the light. Big bed. Fireplace. Terrace overlooking Montague Row. I throw my pack onto the fluffy pink duvet and open it, withdrawing a leather case. I open it and stare down at my cache of pointy little weapons.

“I’ll stay on the first floor,” Noah yells up.

“Yeah, okay,” I answer absentmindedly. I pull off my leather jacket and toss it on the bed, too, leaving just my black leather vest on. I truly prefer nice soft cotton, but it can’t hold my blades like leather can. Swiftly, I remove and secure on my person multiple silver daggers, knives, dirks. In my vest, the waist of my jeans, front and back. Grasping the lightweight leather holster, I push my shoulder through and secure the strap around my waist. I snug it tight. Then I eye the one remaining weapon I have.

Right now the most important.

My scatha.

What’s that? you ask. Well, in the wise words of the great Inigo Montoya, let me s’plain. From the beginning.

When I think of who I used to be, it seems as though I’m looking at someone else in an old high school yearbook or old photo album. I barely recognize myself. The line separating my old life and this one is hazy, muddled, and most of the time I don’t know if I want either one of them anymore, if given the choice. I feel icy cold inside now. Ever since Eli’s death.

In my full-blown human days, I used to be a juvenile delinquent. Then I found my mom murdered, and it set me right. With the help of loving surrogate grandparents, albeit root doctors, I became a successful tattoo artist and businesswoman. I raised my baby brother, Seth, to near adulthood. My business thrived.

Then the vampires descended upon first my brother, then me. Some vampires good. Some very, very bad.

One . . . perfect. But he’s gone now. Eli. My fiancé. He was killed by a Black Fallen—a fallen angel whose soul is darkened by the most evil of magic. My friend Victorian Arcos, a powerful Strigoi vampire, was killed, too, by a Black Fallen. The Fallen were taking over Edinburgh, seeking complete mortal power, and killing a lot of innocents to do it. They sought an ancient book of dark magic, and then, well, WUP got in their way. Eli and Vic especially. God, I’ve never felt so out of control in my life as when those fuckers took Eli and Vic away from me.

Yet Gawan Conwyk, a thousand-year-old Pictish warrior and swordsman, has given me a shred of hope that maybe, just maybe, they’re not so dead after all. Once an Earthbound angel, Gawan earned his mortality by offering himself as a sacrifice to save a mortal’s life. Not only is he wicked fast and lethal with the blade, but he knows things the rest of us don’t. He knows about Heaven, Hell, and in between. According to his theory, Eli and Victorian might just be suffering in an alternative plane akin to Hell itself. Or purgatory. I’m not sure I believe it just yet. In my heart, I feel emptiness. I don’t feel Eli there anymore. I think I’d feel him inside me, were he still alive. Gawan, though, knows it’s possible. That the Fallen would have thought it more torturous to send them there, to a realm where they have no control, vs. simply killing them. Yet I can’t ignore the emptiness I feel, too.

I feel . . . nothing. Two hours ago, leaving Edinburgh, I had hope. Where did it go? Even Athios, the wrongly accused Black Fallen who saved me and turned out to be not such a bad guy after all, encouraged me. But I feel a hole inside me. A gaping, lifeless, aching hole. Now that I’ve lost Eli, I only have Seth, my surrogate Gullah grandparents who raised me, Nyx, my friend and coowner of my ink shop, Inksomnia, and, well, Eli’s family. And Noah.

With so many to love, why do I feel so cold and empty?

I pick up the scatha. It’s an ancient Pict weapon, fashioned sort of like a combination handgun/crossbow. It has cartridges the size of a ChapStick container filled with mystical holy water from St. Bueno’s Well. Once I’m in that weird, hellish alternative plane of a world, I can obliterate anything that comes near me with it.

And I have to do it alone.

I tuck the scatha into the holster, shrug my leather jacket back on, and zip it up to my neck. Just as I turn to head out, I pull up short. Noah’s standing there. Staring.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

I meet his silvery gaze. “Out.”

Noah’s face hardens. “Ri, it’s only me and you here. Not the whole team, just us. We have some rogue vampires to take care of, remember?”

“I already took care of one by myself.” I go to move past him. “Your turn.”

His muscular arm juts out and braces against the doorjamb, catching me right at the throat. I pull up short, and our faces are inches apart, and I stare into his eyes. Before Noah was a vampire, he was a cunning soldier in the Revolutionary War. He may have the most beautifully carved-from-stone face, mesmerizing mercury eyes, and sun-bleached dreadlocks, but Noah is clever as hell. He misses nothing. And when he’s got your back, he’s got it.

Even when you don’t want him to.

Which means I gotta do what I gotta do, too.

Noah’s pupils dilate just before my thoughts reach his.

I give a dismal grin. Too late, my friend. Paralysis. I give this command to Noah in my mind. He goes absolutely, rigidly still. Rigor mortis still. His facial muscles freeze. His arm is still braced against the doorjamb. But I know he hears me.

“I have to try this,” I tell him. His eyes are focused on me, and he might even see me. But he can’t move. Not a solid inch. That’s one tendency I’ve mastered over almost all vampires I come in contact with. Mind control.

Pisses them all off.

“I’m taking the scatha and going to St. Bueno’s Well,” I tell him. “Gawan said the ground’s hallowed there, and old as Heaven and Hell itself. A portal to a place Eli and Vic might be.” I stroke his chin with my forefinger. “He said I have to go in alone.” I close-mouth kiss him on his lips. “I promise I’ll be safe. And back ASAP. Then we’ll kick some more vampire ass. Promise.”

I stare into Noah’s eyes for a few seconds longer. I see them flash a bit, darken to stormy gray, and I know inside, he is boiling friggin’ mad as hell. At me for going, and at me for being stronger at mind control than he is. With a final glance, I duck under his arm, jog downstairs, and head out into the night.

I’m in the narrow close behind the guesthouse, where I’d killed the vampire earlier, and I stop a second. Tying my hair up into a ponytail, I take a deep breath and think. It’s close to eleven p.m. I fish my cell phone from my rear pocket, pull up Google Maps, and check out my route. St. Bueno’s isn’t on any map, and it’s not in any tourist book, either. But Gawan Conwyk of Castle Grimm told me how to get there. And according to the map, I need to highjack some wheels. I could hike it, but, eh. Why bother when I can drive? It would be a pain in the ass to run with all my blades flapping all over the place anyway. Besides, I’m edgy. Anxious to find Eli, or at least a trace of him. I’d probably fall and impale myself.

I walk out to Montague Row and glance one way, then the other. A dark blue Rover is just pulling up to the curb in front of a guesthouse three homes down. Perfect. I walk over, just as the driver is getting out. A man, midthirties. He leans in and grabs a paper sack of groceries. Mind control time.

Give me the keys to the Rover. Don’t report it missing, even if it’s gone in the morning. Just call a cab. I’ll bring it back when I’m finished. You won’t even notice me. Nod once if you got all that.

The guy looks at me but doesn’t really see me. His eyes are kinda glassed over. He nods once, and when I hold my hand out, he drops the keys into my palm.

Go inside. Forget you’ve seen me tonight. Carry on, my wayward son. There’ll be peace when you are gone.

The guy turns and crosses to the front entrance of the stone house. He opens the door and closes it behind him. The interior hall light extinguishes, and I can hear his feet moving up the stairs inside his flat.

I waste no time jumping into the Rover, starting the engine. Sweet, the Rover has a GPS. I put in the address Gawan Conwyk had given me, and head out. Jake Andorra gave me U.K. driving lessons before leaving Edinburgh. Even though I drive a manual at home, this one’s automatic, and I’m sorta glad. Roads are narrow as hell here. But no sweat. I got this.

The streets are quiet as I pull out of Montague Row and follow the GPS out of the city. I hit a few roundabouts before I take the A-9, cross over the Beauly Firth, and through dense mist head toward the foot of Ben Wyvis and the small villages of Dingwall and Strathpeffer. According to the GPS, they’re about fifteen miles out of Inverness. I hit the gas and make myself remember to stay to the right. A few random cars pass, their headlights obscured until close proximity because of the heavy Highland mist. Soon, though, I see no one. All shops are closed up for the night. I speed up.

I’m now weaving through the small village of Strathpeffer. Gawan Conwyk had explained that it had at one time been a Victorian spa town, and that the people of the time had believed the natural spring waters contained magic. Like, life-eternal kind of magic. It is still in existence. Gawan said it wasn’t so much a spa, and that it was more of a place people brought their crazy relatives in hopes of a miracle cure. A huge insane asylum Victorian-era town. Very Stephen King–ish. And the architects of the spa weren’t giving magical therapy. As I drive through the quiet village and notice the tall, dark-stoned Victorian homes set back upon tree-ensconced hills, I can only imagine the creepiness of the times. Ice-water dunkings in the springs, or, nicely put, hydrotherapy. Craniotomies. Whatever. Victorians, Gawan said, were a “weird and morbid lot of folk.” I believe it, and coming from me, that’s sorta hypocritical and funny as shit.

No sooner have I left the village of Strathpeffer than I see a small white sign with black letters for Dingwall. My British-accented GPS speaker directs me pretty easily, and before long I’m winding through the town center. More narrow streets, stone walls, stone buildings. I pass several stores, a few takeouts, a haggis shop, the police department, and a school. Soon I turn at a car dealership and start up a steep, high hill. At the top, I follow it left, and I’m still climbing a bit as I skirt several small farms. The smell of sheep poop and hay, mixed with whatever that nice herby, clovery smell is of the Highlands, wafts through the vents of the Rover. Too bad this whole trip to Scotland is a WUP mission. Too bad I’m headed into some heinous underworld that I may or may not escape alive from with my fiancé and friend. I might actually love it here. There’s something breathtaking and mystical about Scotland. Something unexplainable. A feeling, I guess.

Ahead, a small dip in the road, then to the right I see a sign: IVY CROFT AND COTTAGE. It’s a narrow paved drive, and I hit the headlights off and turn in. I pass a relatively large two-story house, and at the smaller cottage at the top, I park the Rover and pull the emergency brake. The moment I open the door, the scents assail me. Clover. Floral. Pungent. Perfect. Quietly, I close the car door and scan the shadows. A half-moon hangs over a field, and while it’s not totally dark, the mist makes it hard to see more than fifty feet. According to Gawan’s directions, I have to travel on foot behind the barn I’m standing in front of, up the hill, and after passing a set of ancient standing stones, cross into the wood. I glance behind me, to the house at the foot of the hill. Lights are out, and all is quiet. Hopefully, I’ll be in and out before the family wakes up.

My hands fly across my body, checking all of the blades holstered onto my person. I double-check the scatha, zip my leather jacket, and with a deep breath, take off behind the barn. I leap over the fence, startling a few dozing sheep. They jump up, bleat, and herd away from me. There is a trail close to the fence, and it slopes up the hill. I start off across the spongy, wet ground. Something tells me I should’ve worn rubber boots vs. my leather ones.

The half-moon light slips through the mist just enough for me to make out the sheep path I’m running on, and as I climb the hill and leap one metal fence, I see the crooked silhouettes of the standing stones ahead. I’m moving fast, and within seconds I’m beside them. The wind howls, and in the distance, a set of wind chimes dong. A feeling overcomes me, starting at my feet and moving up through my body. It’s like a small jolt of electricity, a low hum vibrating and attaching to every single nerve ending I have. I almost feel nauseated, but . . . not really. I recognize it. It’s holy ground. The ancient, old-as-hell kind of sacred. It’s so strong, so powerful, it’s almost as though whispers emanate from the stones themselves. Way ahead, a hill, or as the Scots call it, a pap. And to the left, a dark, ominous mass of blackness. The wood. According to Gawan, that’s where I need to go. Even without his direction now, I can tell it. The same force that lies beneath my feet and hums through the standing stones beckons from the forest. More whispers. They’re calling my name . . .

Bounding over stones, dead clumps of heather, and prickly gorse bushes, I make my way to the shadowy edge of the wood. My whole body is humming now with whatever supernatural power lies within this hallowed ground. I stop, unzip my leather jacket, and grasp the scatha. It’s loaded with six cartridges. I have six more stored in the pockets of my cargos. Hopefully, I won’t have to use them all.

The moment I cross the wood line, a shift in the air hits me in the gut. No longer guided by Gawan’s directions, but on pure instinct, I take off, leaving the footpath and weaving through the mammoth Scotch pines. Deeper into the forest I move, branches scraping my face, catching my ankles. My insides are seized with pain caused by the hum of supernatural current. It almost doubles me over. It’s like an overdose of déjà vu. I’m close. Close as hell. But I keep pushing, the scatha tightly gripped in my palm.

The moonlight shifts, and a single beam shines through the canopy of trees ahead. I see it. The entrance to St. Bueno’s Well. I move closer. Slower now. Cautious.

I feel the sonic boom move through the trees before I see it, and I stiffen and dig my feet into the ground. When the wave hits me, I rock, nearly lose my footing, and teeter for a moment. A raging wind cuts through the trees following the boom, and I’m forced to close my eyes. The wind is so vicious it takes all of my strength to remain upright. My breath catches in my throat. It’s harder to breathe now.

Then, as fast as it began, it stops.

Open your eyes. You must move fast.

My eyes open and my head jerks. I know that voice. It’s Athios, one of the not so willing Black Fallen who basically saved my ass back in Edinburgh. What the hell?

I focus now, and everything changes. The massive Scotch pines crack, split at their bases, and all begin thundering to the ground. There’s nowhere to run as the ancient trees splinter and crash, and I stand rigid, clutching the scatha tightly. I know it’s not real, but it goddamn looks and sounds real. I can even smell fresh exposed pine flesh lingering in the air, as if just chopped for firewood. The scent is so heavy it nearly chokes me. I force my eyes to stay open. They sting and begin to water.

All at once, the last tree falls. The mist hovers and swirls over the downed forest, obscuring the browns and greens with a white blanket. In the next second, it begins to recede, and in its wake, darkness. It’s almost as if my vision is blurred, and I can’t make out figures, forms, or shapes. I even scrub my eyes with my free fist.

Then I blink, and my vision sharpens. I’m standing at the end of a street. Dark, shadowy, desolate. No cars. No trash cans. No storefronts. Just a street. At the far end, a derelict church. Ruined stone buildings flank me, along with cracked and torn-up sidewalks. Windows are glassless, and rotted two-by-fours crisscross the gaps. The air around me is dead still, yet some of the windows have tattered drapes that flap in a breeze that doesn’t exist. My eyes search every angle, every sharp edge, every shadow. I glance down, and at my feet, see a dead raven. Half of it’s smashed into the broken pavement, its wings unnaturally bent backward. The eyes have been burned out. Nothing but a singed hole looks up at me.

I step over the dead raven, and it begins to flap its broken wings. Billy Squier’s “The Stroke” starts booming from one of the broken windows above me. My eyes scan the gaping holes, and I see nothing. I take a long breath and move forward. I can’t let this world get to me. Besides, I love Billy Squier. What the hell?

No sooner do I move five feet than my heart seizes. I feel it thump, heavy, like a chunk of lead, and my first and immediate thought is Eli. My eyes latch onto the church at the end of the street. He’s in there. I know it. I feel it.

My legs react before my brain does, and I start to run. Only then do the cracks in the sidewalk break wider, and distorted, shadowy shrouds writhe out of them and move toward me. Their screams pierce my ears, and I feel like my eardrums will explode. The figures emerge from the cracks and take new forms and charge me. One has a shrunken cat’s head on a long, willowy body and long, jagged fangs. It hurls itself at me, and I point my scatha directly at its head and fire off one cartridge. The body drops in midair. The head is obliterated. Another one from the left lunges, and I fire. It drops, too. I’m closer to the church. Closer to Eli. I feel him there. Waiting for me.

I’m hit from behind and taken to the ground. Something sharp, cold, jabs into my back and straight through to the pavement beneath me. The pain is white-hot, almost blinding me. I gather all of my strength and explode upward, the thing still attached to my back. I flip, my back facing the ground, and we crash down. Quickly I roll, jump, and fire the scatha. Obliterated. I don’t bother looking around me. I take off. The church is ahead, maybe fifty feet. One of the double doors is caved in. The stone is charred, as though it’s been burned. The screams of the shadow creatures surround me, calling my name in such deafening tones I think I’ll lose my fucking mind. I push it all aside and speed up. With the dark shrouds all around me, with their little shrunken cat heads and distorted bodies grabbing for me, I leap the last fifteen feet in midair and crash through the double doors. One roll and I land in a crouch. The cat heads stop screaming my name. Even Billy Squier quiets. All is silent for a few seconds, and I search the inside of the decaying remains of the kirk. It smells like rotting flesh, death, and moldy wood. A creaking sound above me makes me look up. My heart crams into my throat. My body is paralyzed. My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. Eli! Vic! I say in my mind. No answer.

My vampire fiancé, Eligius Dupré, and vampire friend and WUP team member Victorian Arcos are hanging from the rotted rafters above. Tied at the wrists, they’re both completely naked. Their pale bodies are so covered by scorched whip marks that the stark slashes make it nearly impossible to tell their limbs apart. Some of the slashes are gaping. Made by blades. Holy hell . . .

The moment I decide to move, the sound of beating wings makes me pause. From a rafter close to Eli, a giant black gargoyle sweeps toward me. Its screaming talons and fangs are aimed for my head. I drop to my knee and fire the scatha, and the moment the cartridge hits, its body flies backward and crashes against the derelict stone wall. Black ashes fall to the floor.

Another one comes at me, from Victorian’s side, and it’s close, moving fast, and I have to free-run over broken pews and crumbling stone to get a good shot at it. I leap, half twist, and aim the scatha at the screaming thing. The cartridge knocks it back, too, and turns the creature to ashes. I’ve got eight cartridges left, and I’ll need every one of them to get us all out of here. I waste no time free-running, leaping off whatever solid thing my feet can find hold of, to reach the rafters above. I reach Eli first.

Hanging by one hand, I have no choice but to holster my scatha. I do so quickly, and gently grasp Eli’s jaw with my now-free hand. “Eli?” I say, and my vision is blurred by the tears that are filling my eyes. I can’t believe I’m looking at his face. His live face. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. “Eli! Can you hear me?”

A low groan emits from his throat, and that’s all I need. All in one motion, I wrap my legs around his waist, grab a blade from the back of my jeans, and cut the rope binding his wrists to the rafter. We start to fall, and I notice his body is colder than usual. We drop twenty feet to the floor, and I swing under him just before we hit, landing on my feet. He’s heavy as hell, but I’ve got him. I crouch with him and lay his head gently down, his dark hair falling over his still-closed eyes. But he’s alive. My love is alive!

“I’ll be right back and we’ll get the hell out of here,” I whisper to him, and graze his lips with a kiss. They’re cold, too, and I shake the chill off and gather my strength. Finding a foothold on an overturned pew, I free-run up the wall and leap over to Victorian. Mimicking my movements from before, I wrap my legs around Vic’s naked body.

“Arcos? Can you hear me?” I say close to his ear.

A faint grunt comes from deep within him. Again, that’s all I need for now.

Letting go of the rafter with one hand, I hold Vic tightly, and with one swipe, I cut through his binds with my blade. We fall, and I land, laying him beside Eli. God Almighty, they’re both covered in cuts and slashes. No blood, just dark, sooty marks on every limb, their faces, their chests, almost as if burned with some fiery weapon. Although their flesh is bloodless, it’s filleted open in places. What the hell happened to them?

The sound of beating wings begins, inaudible whispers colliding, but I know what they’re saying. Riley . . .

Time to get out. Now.

I’ve got no alternative but to drag Eli and Vic out by their bound wrists.

A loud beating of wings erupts from outside, and I know when I, dragging two six-foot-plus, hundred-and-eighty-pound naked vampires, explode through what once was the doorway of the church, I will have to have one free hand to fire the scatha. Quickly, I check the bindings on Eli’s and Vic’s wrists, and I cringe at what the paved cracked street will do to their flesh. But I can’t help it. I have to have a free firing arm.

With the screams filling the church, I load the scatha’s ammo chamber with four more cartridges, making it completely full. I then take the long piece of rope hanging from Eli’s bound wrists, and the one from Vic’s, and grasp them in my left hand, then wrap it around several times until they’re snug together. With the scatha gripped in my palm, forefinger on the trigger, I take a deep breath and, using all of my strength, run full force at the doorway. The guys are heavy as mother hell, but we’re moving fast. The moment we clear the kirk, there are tiny-headed, fanged cat creatures all over the street. They’re still as death, just staring at me with vertical pupils, and three lunge at once. I rapid-fire three rounds off, and three headless creatures fall to the ground. I take off, ignoring the groans I hear coming from both Eli and Vic. I have no idea what kind of condition they’re in. I don’t care. They’re alive and that’s all the info I need for now. I just need to get us the fuck out of here.

The street seems to have grown longer, and I don’t know what to do except keep running toward the end of it, away from the kirk. There are more shrouded creatures writhing up from the sidewalk cracks—too many for the number of cartridges I have left. I keep running, only firing at the ones who get too close. My arm feels like it’s being torn off, and I glance back to make sure both Eli and Vic are still there. A cat creature has landed on Eli’s back and is gnawing on his ribs. I stop, drop to one knee, and fire the scatha, blowing it off Eli. Quickly, I load the remaining cartridges. I have three more left.

Shit.

Frustration clouds my judgment. What the hell do I do? I run toward the end of the street, but it stretches out long before me, like it’s never going to end, and distorted shadows grab at me, folding the darkness in on me. It’s now pitch-black, and I can only see the glowing eyes of the creatures hiding, preying, stalking us. I keep running, Eli’s and Vic’s bodies bounding limply behind me. They are heavy as shit, too. Like a ton of bricks. I fire another shot at something that flies at me from the shadows. Sparks flutter. I haul ass. One more cartridge left.

Then darkness settles at the end of the street. A pitch cloud, clustering together. First one pine tree, then another emerges. The woods! The goddamn woods! I draw every ounce of speed and strength I have and make my way there. One more creature leaps out at me, and I fire just before it knocks into me. I’m out of ammo. Almost there . . .

The moment my feet hit the spongy forest floor, that sonic boom wave flashes through the pines and knocks me backward. The rope entwining my wrist to Eli’s and Vic’s breaks, we all separate, and I fly hard through the air until a tree trunk stops my body. My shoulder pops, and I fall to the ground. Shaking my head, I try to stand, fall back down, stand again. Everything looks blurry, and my knees feel like rubber, and the pain in my shoulder screams as I lift my free hand to my eyes and scrub them. My other hand still grips tightly the scatha. I shake my head again.

Something’s wrong.

My frantic eyes search the forest floor.

Eli and Vic are gone.

A cold, sick wave of nausea sweeps over me, and I run, fall, get up, and run some more. I search everywhere, and I’m going in a big circle. Finally, I’m at the opening to St. Bueno’s.

Eli and Vic are nowhere in sight. I know they came with me through the boom. Where the hell did they go?

I sink to the ground. I can’t catch my breath, almost like I’m hyperventilating. I try to inhale deeply, and I can’t. After several tries, I realize it’s because I’m sobbing hysterically.

Finally, I lean back on my heels, draw a long, deep breath, and my lungs allow it.

“Eli!” I call out.

The sound resonates off the trees. Bounces off St. Bueno’s caved walls. Smacks right back into me.

It doesn’t even sound like my voice.

All is quiet. Not even a single rustling leaf cracks the silence.

When no answer follows, I slump against the tree trunk, drop the scatha, and close my eyes.