The Gathering, page 32
Barbara raised the gun in her other hand. Then hesitated. She needed to get a clear shot or the UV light might fry Tucker too. She trained the gun on the pair, finger poised.
“Dammit,” she muttered.
But for once fate was on her side. With a stuttering buzz the lights in the bar suddenly sprang back on. Jacob reeled back, shielding his eyes. Barbara pulled the trigger. The flare threw him across the room. Flesh sizzled. She smelt burning. She walked over to where Jacob lay, curled on the floor, by the window. Half his hair had been burnt away and the skin beneath was raw and blistered. His face was a charred mess.
As she approached, he opened his eyes.
Barbara kept the gun trained on him. “It’s over, Jacob.”
He pushed himself to his feet, reached up to his head and cracked it back into position.
Like the goddamn Terminator.
“It’s never over,” he croaked.
The UV gun must have seared his vocal cords. His voice was hoarse and cracked. No longer that of a young boy, but something more ancient. Barbara thought about the faded photographs. The skinny boy who looked so familiar.
“You had a good run,” she said. “You’ve been killing for what—a century?”
“I’ve been killing since before your grandparents were born.”
Barbara felt her finger itch on the trigger. “Well, it’s good that you’re familiar with death. Because there’s only one way this is going to end.”
“This ends when I decide it ends.”
“So you can go on killing, for kicks?”
“This is who I am. It’s who every vampyr is. They’ve just forgotten—and they need reminding.”
“And that’s what you’re doing?”
His lips twisted. “Every time I kill, it creates more hatred between humans and colonies.”
“You want a war?”
“A Gathering. Except this time, we win.”
“You’ve already lost.”
“You can’t kill me.”
“Everything dies, Jacob. Everything has its time.”
“NO!” It came out as a ragged roar. “You die. Humans. You die and rot. Not me. I’m fucking immortal.”
He turned and leaped for the window. Barbara fired just as he crashed through in a hail of shattered glass. Snow gusted in through the broken panes.
“Fuck!” Barbara glanced back at Tucker, who was sitting up groggily, face a mask of blood, nose oddly off angle but mostly intact.
He stared up at her. “Guh after him.”
Barbara didn’t need to be told twice. She ran for the door, fumbled it open and burst outside. She squinted against the storm, trying to take in the scene.
Christmas lights illuminated the street. Jacob crouched on all fours in the snow, dripping blood. A short distance away, another slight figure stood, motionless: Athelinda. Clad in tattered animal furs and hiking boots, blonde hair blowing around her porcelain face. She held a large axe in her hands.
“Hello, Isaac,” she said.
Jacob looked up at her and laughed bitterly. “Really? After everything they did to you?”
“This isn’t about them.”
He stood, swaying in the wind. “Then what?”
“Aaron and his kin are dead because of you.”
“No. Because of them.” He pointed back at Barbara. “They’re the ones who killed your kin.”
“You let the Colony take the blame for the boys. You used us.”
“I saved you.”
“And I’ll always be in your debt.”
“Then fuck them.” He raised his arms. “We could kill all of them. Right now.”
Athelinda smiled. “Believe me, I’ve wanted to.”
Jacob took a step toward her. “Then do it. You’re a killer, Athelinda. Like me.”
They stared at each other. Barbara raised the gun.
“No.” Athelinda shook her head. “I’m not like you. You are like them. This needs to end.”
Jacob sneered. “Vampyrs don’t kill vampyrs. It’s forbidden. I know the rules.”
“You’re no vampyr…” She lifted the axe. “And here, I make the fucking rules.”
He lunged toward her. Then stopped, jerked upright like a marionette yanked by its strings. A steel arrowhead burst through his chest, piercing his heart from behind. Jacob looked down in shock. He clutched at the arrow, realization dawning. Something like a smile spread across his ruined features, and he crumpled gently to the snow.
Beau Grainger walked out of the shadows, holding a heavy metal crossbow. He looked down at Jacob and wiped a trembling hand across his mouth. “Vampyr scum.”
Athelinda regarded him dispassionately. “Is it my turn now, old man?”
Beau turned to her. He looked bad, Barbara thought. Face gaunt, dark shadows beneath his eyes. Like he was already the walking dead.
“They told me to come here,” he croaked. “The voices in my head. They won’t give me any peace.”
Athelinda nodded. “You’re dying. That’s why you hear them—what you kill eventually becomes a part of you.”
“Make it stop.”
“I can’t.”
He pointed the crossbow at her. “Make it stop.”
She laughed. “You think I fear death? I’m four hundred fucking years old. I welcome death.”
Beau made a strangled cry and flung the crossbow to one side. He dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “You want revenge for your kin. Kill me.”
Athelinda looked down at the axe in her hands. She licked her lips, gold incisors glinting. Then she shook her head. “You don’t deserve my fucking mercy.”
She threw the axe to the ground. Beau grabbed it.
“Oh, shit.” Barbara started down the steps, but she was already too late.
Beau swung the blade back at himself, slicing deep into his own neck. Blood spurted. His head flopped backward, tendons and muscles severed, throat gaping in a violent scarlet howl. For a few seconds, he remained kneeling, head lolling on his spine, eyes staring at the stormy sky. Then he collapsed sideways. Gurgling noises bubbled from his ravaged throat. His hands flapped limply around in the bloody snow.
Athelinda stared at him. “You stupid old fuck.”
With a heavy sigh, she marched over, snatched up the axe and brought it down cleanly on Beau’s neck with a soft, wet schlop. She bent and picked his head up by the hair.
“Wait,” Barbara shouted, stumbling into the street. “What are you doing?”
“Taking him,” Athelinda said flatly. “You can have him back when the rest of my kin are returned.”
Without waiting for a reply, she strode away down Main Street. Halfway along, she paused and stared at the sparkling Christmas lights, as if only just noticing them. For a moment, illuminated by twinkling stars and prancing reindeer, her face seemed aglow with a childish wonder.
Then she glanced back at Barbara: “Your Santa is jerking off. You might want to do something about that.”
And as Barbara watched, she disappeared into the snowstorm, small boots leaving faint bloody marks in her wake.
60
48 HOURS LATER
The storm had passed. Outside, a pale sun made the snow glisten.
“So, I guess you’re heading off then?” Rita said.
Barbara nodded. “Al’s on his way. He’ll drive me to Talkeetna. Then I’m on the plane back to Anchorage.”
“You going to visit Nicholls?” Rita asked.
“I thought I’d drop in, take him some grapes.”
“He hates grapes.”
“Oh.”
“Take him some Saltwater Taffy. He loves Taffy.”
“Okay.” Barbara smiled. “You going to be all right here?”
“I’m sure we’ll do just fine with Tucker holding the fort.”
Barbara glanced at Tucker. His nose was bandaged, but his face didn’t look too bad. Only she knew how much of a beating he had taken. Otherwise, well, questions might be asked.
“Maybe you could stick around?” she said. “Nicholls needs a deputy.”
“I’ll think about it. For now”—he picked up a large crate—“I’ve got a delivery to make.”
They all looked at the crate. “Athelinda will be happy to get them back,” Barbara said.
“And make sure you come back with Beau,” Rita said. “Jess wants an open casket, and I’m having trouble putting her off.”
Barbara and Tucker exchanged looks. Then Barbara held out a hand.
“Good working with you.”
Tucker shook it. “You too.”
“Maybe I’ll catch you again sometime.”
He winked. “You could try.”
She watched him walk out of the station. Then she turned back to Rita.
“Well, then…”
“I guess that’s everything wrapped up,” Rita finished.
“Guess so.”
The state police had found Mitch Roberts’s mutilated body covered in a tarp in the back of the pickup. His throat had been ripped out. They figured that Jacob and Roberts must have had some kind of dispute. Roberts was a thief and a fraudster, not a killer. Maybe he got cold feet about the murders, so Jacob killed him and decided to flee, dumping the body on his way. However, instead he lost control of the truck in the snow and crashed.
All evidence seemed to point to Kurt Mowlam being responsible for the Doc’s death, maybe to stop his involvement in the artifact dealing from getting out. The coroner had ruled out suicide and Mowlam hadn’t been too careful about leaving trace evidence around the Doc’s house.
As for who killed Mowlam? Barbara glanced across the hall to where Grace sat on a chair, just outside the cells. She was dressed in more regular teenage clothes—jeans and a sweatshirt—and a small backpack sat at her feet.
Colleen Grey had cut and run. Just upped and left in the middle of the night, leaving only a note and Grace behind. The theory was that Colleen and Mowlam had been having an affair (Mayflower wasn’t the only one who had noticed clandestine comings and goings). Mowlam had threatened to expose the affair and Colleen killed him.
Something about that still didn’t sit quite right with Barbara. Colleen had seemed too composed for a crime of passion. But then, innocent people didn’t usually do a midnight flit.
They had contacted Grace’s mom, who hadn’t signed anything saying her daughter could be taken out of state, but, more to the point, didn’t care. Grace was going to stay with her grandparents, who had been out of their minds with worry ever since she ran away and were more than delighted to have her.
“She saying anything yet?” Barbara asked.
“Nope. Not a word.”
Barbara sighed. “Well, it might take time.”
“Yeah, and all that time Colleen is making her way who knows where.”
There was an APB out on the Reverend, but Barbara had a gut feeling that Colleen Grey had already disappeared, if she had ever really existed. They couldn’t find any official details for anyone with that name. No social security number, no previous employment, birth certificate, bank account. The woman was a ghost.
And there was something else.
“Don’t suppose there’s any news on the other artifacts?” she asked Rita.
“No.”
Somehow, in the midst of the carnage that followed Jacob’s and Beau’s deaths, the vampyr body parts from the Grill had mysteriously gone missing. Mayflower swore she hadn’t taken them and no one else had claimed responsibility.
“Guess that’s going to remain a mystery,” Rita said.
“Guess so. Probably get a good price for them in certain markets.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that.”
“No.” Barbara smiled. “How’s your mom?”
“Got her on some new meds.”
“That must cost a lot, even with insurance?”
“Yeah, well, we get by.”
“Really? I mean, you don’t get paid for being the mayor. It’s more of a title than a job. You must only get a small salary for helping at the police department. It’s got to be tough.”
“Sometimes.”
“And you’ve got no other income.”
“Okay.” Rita’s voice hardened. “What are you really asking me?”
Barbara eyed her more keenly. “You’ve lived here all your life. You know everyone in this town and everything that goes on. I find it hard to believe the Doc and Mowlam were trading illegal vampyr artifacts right under your nose. And the Doc’s plan, to get a cull authorized and steal the bodies? Someone in authority would have to have been involved. Even if they didn’t get their hands dirty.”
Rita stared at her. “So, you think I was taking bribes? That is a mighty big accusation. You got any proof, Barbara?”
“Nope. And I’m sure if I came to your house and asked to look in your basement, I wouldn’t find anything illegal stored down there, would I?”
Rita swallowed. “Of course not.”
“Good.” Barbara nodded. “Do the drugs work?”
“For now, they’re helping.”
“What happens when you need more?”
“I always keep a little something aside for a rainy day.”
“I bet you do.”
“We all done here now, Detective?”
“Yeah, I guess we are.”
Outside, a horn beeped. Barbara picked up her bag. She walked to the door and then paused.
“You know, I wouldn’t hold on to those ‘rainy day’ things for too long, Rita.”
“Why’s that?”
“They might start to whisper.”
* * *
—
Barbara climbed into the back of the cab next to Grace. Al dumped their bags in the trunk and sat down in the driver’s seat.
“I hear you caught the vampyr that killed those boys.”
“I had help—from the Colony.”
He shook his head. “I guess they ain’t all bad then.”
“No, sir.”
He shook his head. “Next thing you know, one of ’em will want to be a police officer.” He chortled at the thought.
Barbara smiled. “Now that would be crazy, right?”
“Oh yeah.”
Al started the engine and pulled away, big tires making light work of the mushy snow.
Barbara turned to Grace. “You all right?”
The girl folded her arms and looked out of the window. It was going to be a long journey. Al started to talk about the storm and canceled flights. Barbara let his words wash over her. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out the note that Colleen had left in the chapel. It had been addressed to “Detective Atkins.”
Dear Barbara (if I may call you that)
I’m sorry I couldn’t make your acquaintance for longer. But the time has come for me to leave. Quicker than I would have liked, but when God calls, his children must listen.
I have decided that it is better if I continue my journey alone. Grace has been a loyal companion, but now she must find her own path. I trust you will take care of her.
For now, I am leaving you this. You might think it odd, but for a long time before I found my true calling, this item was a symbol of hope for me. Something I clung to in the darkest of hours. Maybe, if you wish to know more, you should take a trip to a small town in Oregon called Madeline Springs. There’s a house there, in the woods, where I lived, for a long time.
Yours,
Colleen Grey
“Guess she really was mad as a box of bats,” Rita had said when she’d read the note. “And why in hell did she leave you that thing?”
“I have no idea,” Barbara had said, staring at the small plastic knife.
But Colleen was right. She would like to know more.
The girl had hitched across the states. No real aim but to get far away from the place she had been held captive for so long. She met other travelers along the way. Humans and vampyrs. Some she had befriended. Others she had killed. It was in her nature. Even though she longed for it not to be. She longed to be saved from herself. She longed…to be human.
Her time in captivity had not made her hate humans, or even fear them. Far from it. She had seen the alternative. While she was grateful to her Rescuer, she had also been repulsed by him. They were not the same. She knew nothing of vampyr ways. But all her TV watching and reading had educated her in the human world. That was where she wanted to live.
She had filed her teeth, forced herself to endure more and more hours of daylight and to sleep during the dark hours. She even managed to hold down small amounts of food without being ill. But it still wasn’t enough.
And then she had met a priest. An inspiring man, God rest his soul. He had convinced her she could overcome her nature. With the love of God. God was all-forgiving. God could perform miracles. The devil had been an angel once. Why couldn’t a devil become an angel? She just had to prove her faith.
This had become her mission. To show God she was worthy of redemption, of being released from her curse. She would cleanse the world of vampyrs and, in doing so, prove herself worthy of a miracle.
It was a role she had found she was uniquely suited to. She had certain gifts that meant she could entrance congregations. They listened to her, followed her, donated generously to her churches. She traveled the country, using new names, building new places of worship in colony towns, inspiring people to rise up against the demons in their midst. She had, indeed, found her calling. And of course, no one suspected that a preacher was actually a vampyr.
