The Gathering, page 20
Her skin crawled. “What?”
Mowlam smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re a little on the old side, but your young friend…” He glanced toward the back of the church.
Colleen raised a hand. “Don’t you—”
The church windows exploded inwards in an avalanche of glass. Colleen shrieked. They both fell to their knees, covering their heads as the razor-sharp slivers rained down. Snow and wind squalled through the broken panes.
“What the hell?” Mowlam cowered under a pew. Some glass had nicked his eyebrow and blood trickled down his cheek.
Colleen forced herself to look away. She could hear something. From above them. Scrabbling sounds, as if a creature was running or crawling over the roof. Almost immediately they were followed by another sound. This time from the front door. Thumping and scratching. Like someone was desperate to get in.
And now Colleen could hear the voices. In her head.
“Let us in. Let us in. Open the door.”
Colleen stared at the front door. She could almost see the wood buckling. She stood. Mowlam grabbed her ankle.
“No.”
She yanked her leg away and strode down the aisle.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he shouted. “You’re going to get us killed, you stupid bitch.”
Let us in. Let us in.
No, she thought. They won’t harm me.
She paused for a moment, composing herself. Then she pulled the door wide open.
The voices abruptly stopped. No one stood outside. But at the end of the path, she could see flames reaching high into the night sky. The cross was on fire. A short distance away, a disemboweled pig lay on the ground, guts steaming in the freezing night air.
Its blood had been used to scrawl a message in the snow:
“WE ARE GATHERING.”
35
Rita beamed. “I hope you’re hungry, because I’ve cooked enough here to feed the five thousand.”
“Oh, I’m always hungry,” Barbara replied. “My mom used to say I’d eat a damn horse if I could.”
Of course, her mom stopped cooking meals when Barbara was about ten. After that everything came out of a box or a can and, eventually, even that stopped when her mom took to the sofa, but that probably wasn’t one to throw into light conversation.
Barbara followed Rita into a living/dining room. Like her host, it was bright and cheery. Lots of indigenous tapestries and pictures adorned the walls. The color scheme was corals and warm, earthy tones. A fire blazed in the hearth and a small round table in one corner had been set for dinner.
“Your home is so welcoming,” Barbara said.
“Thanks. I like to think it’s small but perfectly formed, like me.” A chortle. “We’re all on one level. Two beds. Mom gets the bigger one because that’s kind of her living room, too.”
“How is she? Chief Nicholls mentioned she’s not well.”
“Stage-four ovarian cancer. We’re coping. But she’s eighty-four. She sleeps a lot. She had her dinner early, so she’ll watch a little TV—if you hear any noise, that’s her watching her favorite crime shows.”
Barbara smiled. “Good choice.”
“Oh, she’d bend your ear about your job if I gave her a chance, but I figure you’d like to get home at some point this week! Anyway, dinner will be in about half an hour. Can I get you a drink? Beer, wine, whiskey?”
“A beer would be good,” Barbara said.
It must be hard, she thought, being a carer, especially for a parent. A lot of people struggled with the role reversal, seeing the person they had always relied on rendered so helpless. Many resented it. And it was tough the other way too. “I just hate having to be so damn grateful all the time,” the elderly relative of a friend had once told her. “I wiped his ass till he was ten years old and now he expects me to kiss it just for going to the grocery store for me.”
Rita bustled back into the kitchen. “So, I hear Tucker is back?” she called out.
As Barbara suspected, not much here got past Rita.
“Yeah, with Nicholls out of action, I needed some help.”
Rita emerged back into the room with two cans of beer.
“Right. Well, it can’t hurt, I guess.”
But something in her voice said otherwise. She handed a beer to Barbara. It was ice cold. Barbara took a swig. Damn good.
“How is Nicholls doing?”
“Out of surgery and going out of his mind already. I reckon they’ll have to chain him to the hospital bed to stop him trying to escape.”
“You tell him about Tucker?”
“It came up.”
“I got the impression Nicholls didn’t like him.”
Rita popped open her own beer. “Nicholls is straight down the line. He likes order, rules. Tucker resigned in disgrace. In Pete’s opinion, he shouldn’t be anywhere near an investigation. And twenty-five years is a long time away from duty.”
“Did no one visit Tucker in all that time?”
“Anyone who went near got warned off with a crossbow. After a while, most folk stopped trying.”
“Except you?”
“I don’t give up so easy.” Rita’s face grew more serious. “But a word to the wise—Tucker has spent a quarter of a century hiding from the world. I’m not saying the chief’s right, but you don’t come back from that without some damage.”
Barbara thought about the flask again. Then pushed the thought away.
“Something wrong?” Rita asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “Oh, I meant to say, I bumped into the good pastor on the way here.”
Rita perched on the arm of the sofa. Her feet, in large fluffy slippers, barely touched the floor.
“And what did she want?”
“She wants me to talk to the congregation tomorrow morning, answer questions people have.”
Rita nodded slowly. “You up for that?”
“Well, there’s only so much I can share, but I know the town is hurting and people want answers.”
Or perhaps what they really wanted was to be told something was happening. That someone was doing something. That they were being listened to.
“If you’re happy to do it, I’ll be there for support,” Rita said.
“Well, hopefully no one will turn up with their pitchfork.”
Rita grinned. “We keep those for summer. It’s burning torches this time of year!” The grin faded a little. “While we’re talking work, you asked about the Bone House.”
Barbara raised an eyebrow. “I thought that was history.”
A sigh. “Look, I don’t know how it’s relevant and, like I said, it’s not something folk here like to talk about, but I dug out some old photos of the town. You might find some of the Bone House in there.”
“Thanks, Rita.”
“Sure. You can take a look after dinner, while you rest before dessert.”
“I’ll need to rest?”
“Oh, trust me—you’ll need to rest!”
36
Tucker hadn’t meant to end up in the Roadhouse Grill. But then, there were a lot of things in life he hadn’t meant to do.
He shouldn’t really be drinking. It didn’t have the same effect it used to, and it upset his guts. But old habits die hard.
The Grill was pretty empty. Still, Tucker felt the atmosphere shift, tension cut through the air as he walked in. Faces turned at his approach.
Carly stood behind the bar. Older, thinner (if possible), but the scowl was just the same.
“Tucker. Well, to what do we owe the displeasure?”
“I’m helping out while Chief Nicholls is in hospital.”
“That detective must be really desperate.”
He smiled pleasantly. “I guess so. A double bourbon, please.”
The scowl deepened. Tucker was sure the thought of not serving him crossed Carly’s mind, but she obviously needed the customers. She poured bourbon into a shot glass and slammed it on the bar in front of him. No ice.
“Thanks.” He pulled some crumpled bills out of his pocket.
“That’ll be six dollars.”
His eyebrows shot up. He pulled out some more notes. Carly snatched them and crossed to the till.
“Keep the change,” Tucker said.
“Wow. I’ll buy a penthouse.”
He sighed and walked to a table in a far corner. He felt people’s eyes move with him. He deliberately kept his own averted. He was a big man, but he avoided confrontation. Tried never to be the one to start the fight. As a black male, that was something you learned from an early age. Don’t provoke. Don’t give them a reason to pull a knife or a gun. Don’t give them an excuse to claim it was self-defense. If the police stop you, do what they say, never turn your back or walk away. They say drop, you drop. Survival. Self-preservation. Yeah, he knew all about that. Just like the Colony did.
He sat down with his drink and took a sip. It burned his throat and his guts ached. But it still felt good. There was a lot to mull over. Dalton trying to instigate a Colony cull to profit from the carnage. That made sense. But was Barbara right about Marcus’s killer? Tucker had never heard of a vampyr serial killer, but he supposed it was possible. Humans killed for kicks, so why not a vampyr? And it explained the connection to Todd.
He let his mind drift back. He could still picture Todd Danes with his scruffy blond hair and freckles. A slight, quiet kid, something of a misfit in Deadhart.
He had a younger sister, and his parents ran a motor-home park over in Talkeetna. After Todd died, people talked like they all knew him, like he was one of their own. The truth was that Todd was bullied at school and didn’t have many friends aside from Nathan.
The family left town a few months after his death. Tucker didn’t blame them. Deadhart hadn’t been kind to Todd when he was alive. Little wonder they couldn’t stomach the place now that he was dead.
Aaron was also something of an outcast. A curious kid, he was drawn to the human world. A lot of younger colony members were. They craved the comforts and technology that the colonies didn’t have. They wanted more. What kid doesn’t? Just like Todd wanted more than Deadhart had to offer. Unsurprising, in a way, that the pair found each other. And friendship—love—shouldn’t be wrong. It wasn’t so long ago that interracial relationships were illegal, and still, in some places, you could expect to attract stares and comments.
It took time for things to change. Yes, Todd and Aaron were minors, and Tucker would have advised Todd to wait before he took a momentous decision like a turning. But ultimately, kids will always push boundaries.
Tucker often wondered if the anger directed toward Aaron was partly because the town couldn’t accept that two boys, a human and a vampyr, could be in a relationship. Todd’s desire to be turned was a rejection of everything they stood for. A rejection of humanity. Of course, it didn’t change the fact that the relationship got Todd killed. But was it Aaron’s fault, or did Tucker get it wrong? And had another kid paid the price for his mistake?
He reached for his drink.
“Tucker?”
He looked up and felt his heart still.
“Jess?”
The last time Tucker had seen Jess Garrett she had still been Jess Grainger. Twenty-two years old, with a head of wild blonde curls and an attitude. She had her father’s temper and piercing blue eyes, and her late mother’s intelligence and fine bone structure. A winning combination.
Back then, he had expected her to leave Deadhart and move to the city. Some people just seem too big for small towns. Instead, she had stayed and married Dan, an out-of-towner who had turned up one summer to start an adventure business and then stuck around.
Maybe it was her mother, already showing the first signs of dementia, that held her back. Maybe it was love. Or convenience. Tucker had only ever met Dan briefly. He was one of those laid-back, outdoorsy types. Easy-going, good-looking in a careless way. Unchallenging. He could see why that might have appealed to Jess. The opposite of her dad. Still, he was surprised the pair had lasted.
She folded her arms, regarding him with a mixture of appraisal and hostility. “So, you’re back? Long time, Tucker. Lot of people thought you were dead.”
“Thought, or hoped?”
A thin smile. “Guess they’ll have to put the bunting away again.”
“You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“No. Ever since the Colony crawled back, I’ve been expecting you to do the same.”
“Nice to know I’ve been missed.”
“You haven’t.”
“And I was thinking you came to see me especially.”
“I was passing. Saw you walk in here.”
He wasn’t sure he believed her. Not that he was flattering himself, but there was history here.
As if confirming his suspicions, she said: “You going to see Dad?”
“I don’t think so,” Tucker said tightly.
“He’s getting old, Tucker. He’s not the man you knew.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“You know he always respected you. Thought of you as a friend.”
“Your dad shot me and left me for dead.”
“You gave him no choice. You let that vampyr loose from jail.”
His hand tightened around the glass. “Because you told me your dad and his lynch mob were planning to storm the police department and take justice into their own hands. It was my job to protect a minor.”
“And my dad was protecting Deadhart.”
“You set me up, Jess.”
Her face softened. “And I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” Tucker nodded at the seat opposite. “Why don’t you sit down?”
She hesitated then pulled out a chair. “What are you really doing here, Tucker?”
“Detective Atkins asked me for help.”
“That’s it? She doesn’t look the type to charm a man out of a quarter of a century hiding in the woods.”
“I was never one for a pretty face.”
“You were once.” She smiled sadly. “But you told me I was too young.”
“You were. I was closer to forty than twenty.”
That wasn’t the only reason, of course. Beau would have never said it to his face, but there was no way he would have let his daughter date a black man.
“And what about now?” she asked.
“Now you’re married, and I’m too old.”
She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, guess we’re both screwed.”
“Jess—”
She waved a hand. “Forget it. It’s just been a day.” She gave him a harder look. “That freak from hell was at my dad’s house last night.”
“Athelinda?”
“She threatened him, Tucker. And it’s not the first time she’s been seen hanging around.”
“Beau report it?”
“No—and you know why.”
“Yeah, I do. Perhaps that’s why she was there.”
“I might have guessed you’d defend her.”
“Your dad killed three of her colony and kept their heads as sick trophies. You ever think she might find that upsetting?”
Jess rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that. The woke brigade can try to paint vampyrs as harmless, persecuted victims, but we both know they’re killers. It’s in them. We spend thousands of dollars on campaigns encouraging us not to be afraid of colonies. To respect them. It’s garbage. We should be afraid. For ourselves, for our children.”
Tucker nodded toward the crucifix around her neck. “That what your church tells you?”
Her hand fluttered to the crucifix and then dropped. “Reverend Grey has been good for Deadhart. If it wasn’t for her and Rita, you’d have a lot more angry people to deal with. They’re the ones that have kept everyone calm. Told them to trust the police to do their job. But if you betray that trust…”
“What?”
“God has his own army.”
“Sounds like a threat.”
“You know what they called the last battle between vampyrs and humans? The Gathering. A battle for people’s very souls.”
It was Tucker’s turn to roll his eyes. “I thought you were smarter than that, Jess.”
Her face darkened. “There will be a Gathering, Tucker. Maybe here, maybe somewhere else. And you won’t be able to stop it.”
He studied her, wondering what happened to that bright, vibrant young woman with ambition and plans. She wore cut-off denims and tiny tank tops in summer back then. She talked about books and British rock music, not religion and vampyrs. Not a damn crucifix in sight.
A figure walked up to their table. A slim young girl with red hair and a pretty face wearing a Nirvana T-shirt and ripped jeans.
“Can I, erm, get you anything?” she asked.
Jess turned. “Mayflower. How are you?”
“Okay.” The girl shuffled a little awkwardly.
Jess offered a cool smile. “You dyed your hair again.”
“Yeah, I wanted a change.”
“Yeah, well, we all want a change sometimes. But most of us go back to our roots in the end.”
They stared at each other, then Mayflower nodded. “Let me know if you want to order anything later.”
She turned and walked away.
Tucker frowned. “Anything I should know?”
“Nothing worth knowing.”
He didn’t push it. That never worked with Jess.
“How’s Stephen?” he asked.
“Okay, considering his best friend is dead and those damn spawn are still alive.”
“I’m truly sorry about what happened to Marcus. But if the boys hadn’t faked that video…”
“What? You’re saying it’s their fault?”
“No. I’m saying it muddies the water, Jess. Atkins, she’s a good detective—”
