2 Blood Trail (36 page)

“Yeah?” Mark wet his lips. “And I know Bo Jackson. Hold it right there.”

Henry smiled. “No.” Vampire. Prince of Darkness. Child of the Night. It all showed in Henry’s smile.

The table against his back made retreat impossible; Mark had no choice but to stand fast. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dribbled down the side of his nose. This was the demon he’d shot in the forest. Manshaped but nothing manlike in its expression. “I—I don’t know what you are,” he stammered, forcing his trembling fingers to maintain their grip on the gun, “but I know you can be hurt.”

One more step would move the barrel of the weapon around enough so that Cloud would be out of the line of fire.
One more step,
Henry told himself fueling the hunger with rage
, and this thing is mine.
He raised his foot.

The barn door slammed back, crashing against the wall and breaking the tableau.

“Drop it!” Celluci commanded from the doorway.

Stuart snarled a counterpoint beside him, the effort of will it took to hold his attack while Cloud remained in danger sending tremors rippling across the muscles of his back. Her howl had yanked him from the car before it had quite stopped and pulled him unthinking into the barn in human form where the clothes he wore confined his shape.

The shotgun barrel dipped then rose again. “I don’t think so.”

“What the hell is going on out here?” Carl Biehn demanded, rifle covering the two men standing in the open doorway. He’d heard the car race down the driveway; heard it stop, spraying gravel; heard the howl and known that Satan’s creatures were involved. It had taken him only a moment to snatch up his rifle and he’d arrived at the barn just behind the men from the car. He still didn’t know what was going on, but his nephew needed his help, that much was obvious. “Put the safety on and toss your revolver to the ground.” He gestured with the rifle. “Over there, away from everyone.”

Teeth gritted, Celluci did as he was told. He couldn’t see as he had an option. The snap of steel jaws closing as the gun hit the floor startled everyone about equally.

“Traps,” Stuart said, pointing. “There and there.” The dirt floor just beyond his bare foot had been disturbed. “And here.”

Mark smiled. “Pity you don’t take longer strides.”

“Now move over there,” Carl commanded, “by the others so I can get a . . .” As they picked their way between the traps and into the lamplight, he recognized Stuart and his eyes narrowed. All day he had prayed for an answer to his doubts and now the Lord delivered the leader of the ungodly into his hands. Then he saw Cloud, still crouched behind Henry, ignoring everything but the body on the table.

Then he saw Storm.

He lowered the rifle from his shoulder to his hip, holding it balanced by the pistol grip, finger still resting on the trigger. Keeping the muzzle carefully pointed toward the group of intruders now clustered together at one side of the barn, he moved to stand beside the table. “What,” he repeated, “is going on here? How did this creature die?”

“He’s not dead!” Rose threw herself into Stuart’s arms. “He’s not dead, Uncle Stuart! He’s not.”

“I know, Rose. And we’ll save him.” He stroked her hair, glaring at the younger human who stared at her as though he’d never seen skin before. She needed comfort but, if they were to save themselves and Storm, too, better she have the use of tooth and claw. Silently he cursed the clothing that held him to human form. “Change now,” he told her. “Watch. Be ready.”

“Stop that!” The rifle swung from Stuart to Cloud and back again. “You will do no more devil’s tricks!”

Cloud whined but Stuart buried his hand in the thick fur behind her head and said quietly, “Wait.”

Carl swallowed hard. The pain in the creature’s eyes as it, no, she, gazed up at him added itself to the cry of the creature he had wounded and the weight of doubt settled heavier around his heart. The work of the Lord should not bring pain. He turned and gazed down at Storm with horrified fascination. “I asked you a question, nephew.”

Mark put a little more distance between himself and Henry before he answered—coincidentally moving himself closer to the door, just in case—fighting the silent command that called him to
look at me
. “I assume,” he said with a forced grin, “that as we’ve been assured my guest isn’t dead you want to know, how did you put it, ‘What the hell is going on here?’ It’s simple, really. I decided to combine your policy of holy extermination with a profit-making plan of my own.”

“You do
not
find profit in doing the Lord’s work!” Suddenly unsure of so many other things, this belief, at least, Carl held to firmly.

“Bullshit! You reap your rewards in heaven, I want mine. . . Hold it right there!” He gestured with the shotgun and Henry froze. “I don’t know what you are, but I’m pretty damned sure both barrels at this range will blow you to hell and gone and I’d be more than willing to prove it.” White showed all around his eyes and he was breathing heavily, sweat burning in the scratches on his back.

Celluci glanced at Henry’s profile and wondered what the other man could see that had him so terrified. He wondered, but he really didn’t want to know. In his opinion their best chance lay with Carl Biehn, who looked confused and somehow, in spite of his unquestionable ability with the rifle, fragile and old. “This has gone too far,” he said calmly, making his voice the voice of reason, laying it over the tension like a balm. “Whatever you thought when you started this, things have changed. It’s up to you to end it.”

“Shut up!” Mark snapped. “We don’t need your two cents worth.”

Carl lifted his hand from where it lay almost in benediction on Storm’s head and took a firmer grip on the rifle. “And what do you plan to do now?” he asked pointedly, desperation tinting his voice, the question echoing prayers that had remained unanswered.

“You said yourself the devil’s creatures must die. That one,” Mark nodded at Storm, “has been taken care of. This one,” Cloud whined again and pressed close to Stuart’s legs, “I could use as well. Pity we can’t get the big one to change before he dies.”

Stuart snarled and tensed to spring.

“No!” Henry’s command snapped Stuart back on his heels, furious and impotent. With both weapons pointing at them from different angles, an attack, whether it succeeded or not, would be fatal to at least one of their company. There had to be another way and they had to find it quickly for although Storm’s heart still fought to survive, Henry could hear how much it had weakened, how tenuously it clung to life.

“You keep your goddamned mouth shut,” Mark suggested. His hands were sweating around the shotgun but even with his uncle covering their “guests” he dared not wipe his palms. He was well aware that the moment the shooting started and it no longer had anything to lose that creature would charge. This had to be carefully choreographed so that he and his pelts came out in one piece. And if he couldn’t bring Uncle Carl around . . .
Poor old man, he wasn’t entirely sane, you know
. “All right, the lot of you, turn around and line up facing that wall.”

“Why, Mark?”

“So that I can cover them and you can send them back to hell where they belong.” With a sudden flash of inspiration, he added, “God’s will be done.”

Carl’s head came up. “God’s will be done.” It was not for him to question the will of God.

“Mr. Biehn.” Celluci wet his lips. Time to lay all the cards on the table. “I’m a Detective-Sergeant with the Metropolitan Toronto Police Department. My badge is in the front left-hand pocket of my pants.”

“You’re with the police?” The rifle barrel dipped toward the floor.

“He’s consorting with Satan’s creatures!” Mark snapped. The cop would die by a rifle bullet.
Poor
Uncle Carl. . .

The rifle barrel came up. “The police are not immune to the temptations of the devil.” He peered at Celluci. “Have you been saved?”

“Mr. Biehn, I’m a practicing Catholic, and I will recite for you the ‘Lord’s Prayer,’ the ‘Apostles’ Creed,’ and three ‘Hail Marys,’ if you like.” Celluci’s voice grew gentle, the voice of a man who could be trusted. “I understand why you’ve been shooting these people. I really do. But hasn’t it occurred to you that God has plans you’re not aware of and maybe, just maybe, you’re wrong?” As they were still alive, it had obviously occurred to him; Celluci attempted to make the most of it. “Why don’t you put down that gun, and we’ll talk, you and I, see if we can’t find a way out of this mess.” And then, up out of the depths of childhood when his tiny, black-clad grandmother had made him learn a Bible verse every Sunday, he added, “ ‘For there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known.’ ”

“St. Luke, chapter twelve, verse two.” Carl shuddered and Mark saw that he was losing him.

“Even the devil quotes scripture, Uncle.”

“And if he is not the devil, what then?” A muscle jumped in the old man’s cheek. “Would you murder an officer of the law?”

“Man’s law, Uncle, not God’s law!”

“Answer my question!”

“Yes, answer him, Mark. Would you commit murder? Break a commandment?” Now, Celluci used his voice like a chisel, hoping to expose the rotten core. “Thou shalt not kill. What about that?”

Mark had escaped death twice already this night. From the moment he’d recognized the creature that had attacked him in the woods, he’d known that escaping death a third time would take more than luck. In order for him to live, everyone in the barn would have to die. And he was
going
to live. This goddamned bastard of a fucking cop was manipulating the one thing he needed to pull his ass out of the fire and still be able to make a profit. The old man as a live stooge was preferable to the old man as a dead excuse.

“Uncle Carl . . . ” Stress the relationship. Remind him of where the blood ties lay, of family loyalty. “These are not God’s creatures. You said so yourself.”

Carl looked down at Cloud and shuddered. “They are
not
God’s creatures.” Then he raised his tormented eyes to Celluci’s face. “But what of him?”

“Condemned by his own actions. Willingly consorting with Satan’s minions.”

“But if he is a police officer, the law. . .”

“Don’t worry, Uncle Carl.” Mark didn’t bother to hide the sudden rush of relief. If the old man was concerned about repercussions, then he’d already decided to take action. It was in the bag. “I can make the whole thing look like an accident. Just be careful when you kill the white wolf—dog, whatever—that you don’t ruin the pelt.”

Just a little too late, he realized he’d said the wrong thing.

The old man shuddered and then straightened, as though he were shouldering a terrible weight. “So much I’m unsure of, but this I know; whatever happens tonight will be for the grace of God. You will not profit from it.” He swung the rifle around until it pointed at Mark. “Put down the gun and get over there with them.”

Mark opened his mouth and closed it, but no sound came out.

“What are you going to do?” Celluci asked, voice and expression carefully neutral.

“I don’t know. But
he
isn’t going to be a part of it.”

“You can’t do this to me.” Mark found his tongue. “I’m family. Your own flesh and blood.”

“Put down the gun and go over there with them.” Carl knew now where he’d made his mistake, where he’d left the path the Lord had shown him. The burden was his to bear alone, he should never have shared it.

“No.” Mark shot a horrified glance at Henry, whose expression invited him to come as close as he liked. “I can’t. . . I won’t. . . you can’t make me.”

Carl gestured with the rifle. “I can.”

Mark saw the death he’d been holding off approaching as Henry’s smile broadened. “NO!” He swung the shotgun around at the one who drove him to it.

Carl Biehn saw the muzzle come around and prepared to die. He couldn’t, not even to save himself, shoot his only sister’s only son.
Into your hands, I commend my spir . . .

Cloud reacted without thinking and flung herself through the air. Her front paws hit the middle of the old man’s chest and the shot sprayed harmlessly over the east wall as the two of them hit the ground together.

Then Henry moved.

One moment, almost ten feet between them. The next, Henry ripped the shotgun out of Mark’s grasp and threw it with such force it broke through the wall of the barn. His fingers closed around the mortal’s throat and tightened, blood welling around his fingertips where his nails pierced the skin.

“No!” Celluci charged forward. “You can’t!”

“I’m not going to,” Henry said quietly. And he backed his burden up; one step, two. The trap snapped closed and Henry released his grip.

The arm that stopped Celluci was an impassable barrier. He couldn’t move it. He couldn’t get around it.

It took a moment for the pain to penetrate through the terror. With both hands at his throat, Mark pulled his eyes from Henry’s face and looked down. Soft leather deck shoes had done little to protect against the steel bite; his blood welled up thick and red. He cried out, a hoarse, strangled sound, and dropped to his knees, pushing at the hinge with nerveless fingers. Then the convulsions started. Three minutes later, he was dead.

Henry dropped his arm.

Mike Celluci looked from the body to Henry and said, through a mouth dry with fear. “You aren’t human, are you?”

“Not exactly, no.” The two men stared at each other.

“Are you going to kill me, too?” Celluci asked at last.

Henry shook his head and smiled. It wasn’t the smile Mark Williams took with him into death. It was the smile of a man who had survived for four hundred and fifty years by knowing when he could turn his back. He did so now, joining Cloud and Stuart beside Storm’s body.

Now what?
Celluci wondered.
Do I just go away and forget all this happened? Do I deal with the body? What?
Technically, he’d just been a witness to a murder. “Hang on, if Storm’s still alive, maybe. . .”