Blood Brothers (3 page)

“After all this time,” he murmured again. “And now I'm too late.”

Lucy was at a complete loss. One minute ago she'd been ready to turn him in; now she felt as if
she
were the intruder.

She glanced longingly toward the door of the mausoleum, judging her distance and her odds. The young man's eyes had closed; his body was very still. He didn't seem nearly as dangerous as he had before, only empty and sad and tired.

“I wouldn't, if I were you,” he warned her.

Lucy froze. How had he known what she was thinking? His eyes were still shut, his face turned from her own. Once more an uneasy feeling grabbed hold of her, as though not only her body were vulnerable to him, but her thoughts as well.

“You're not very good at being quiet.” The effort of conversation seemed to be becoming too much for him. “And I doubt you'd get very far.”

He opened his eyes and tried to focus on her feet. As Lucy followed his gaze, she realized that she'd actually inched closer to the doorway, without even being aware. But obviously
he
had been aware—even without watching.

“So what are you saying?” Feeling braver, she took several more steps toward freedom. It was obvious he couldn't even stand now, much less pursue her. “Why wouldn't I get far? Are you going to stop me?”

“No. But something out there will.”

Lucy stared at him. She could see that his eyes had shifted yet again, peering out through the shadows and tentacles of fog, far beyond the open gates of the mausoleum. Terror clutched at her heart. And when she finally spoke, her voice shook with anger as well as with fear.

“I'm going. I don't know who you are, but you're not Byron's brother. And I'm calling the police, whether you like it or not.”

She made it as far as the door when she saw it—the slow, subtle movement beneath a nearby overhang of trees. It seemed to slink among the graves, a long lean silhouette, low to the ground, then silently disappeared behind a headstone. Lucy felt the hairs prickle at the back of her neck. She'd had that feeling earlier of being followed, and she'd managed to convince herself that it was only her imagination. But now . . .

“It's only a shadow,” she said firmly. “There's nothing out there but shadows.”

Yet glancing back, she saw the young man struggling up from the floor. His face contorted in pain, and with a feeble gesture that was almost protective, he motioned her to come closer.

Lucy stayed where she was. In a rush of indecision, she wondered which would be worse—to take her chances in here or in the cemetery. She couldn't see anything moving out there now . . . whatever she thought she'd seen was gone. If, in fact, it had ever really been there to begin with.

There was no time to make up her mind. She heard a groan behind her—scarcely louder than a sigh—and as she turned around, the stranger sank to his knees and collapsed. Only this time, as Lucy's eyes swept over him, she noticed the trail of dark liquid spreading out from his side, pooling across the floor.

“Oh my God.”

She was beside him in an instant. She whispered to him, but sensed that he was far beyond answering. With growing horror she gazed down at the large wet stain on his jacket, then carefully lifted it away. His T-shirt was soaked, plastered to his side. His body and clothes reeked of blood. Taking a deep breath, Lucy began peeling the T-shirt from his skin, bracing herself for whatever she might find.

But nothing could have prepared her. Not even in her worst nightmares.

With a shocked cry, Lucy whirled away. Bile rose into the back of her throat, and she covered her mouth with trembling hands. And though his critical condition was instantly clear to her, it still seemed an eternity before she was able to compose herself and turn back to the gruesome sight.

At first she thought he'd been stabbed.

But then, as the true horror of it sank in, she realized that something had bitten him.

Bitten savagely into his side, leaving sharp, jagged teeth marks around a gaping hole of raw flesh and stringy muscle, gnawed bones, and dangling shreds of skin.

Dead leaves were mashed into the wound. Leaves and grass and dirt all mixed together into a bloody paste, as though some primal instinct had guided him in a desperate attempt at survival.

How he'd managed to survive even this long was past her understanding.

Lucy couldn't stop shaking. As she tilted her head back and drew in an enormous gulp of air, she willed herself not to throw up. What could have happened to him? What sort of creature could have done this? With an instinctive reflex of her own, she pulled off her wool scarf and coat and the sweater beneath it. Her undershirt was light, but she scarcely felt the cold. In fact, she didn't feel much of anything now except a strange sense of unreality.

She wadded her sweater into a ball. She lowered it to his side, then hesitated a moment, steeling her nerves. From some deep level of anguish he moaned again, as though subconsciously aware of what would come next. And as she pressed the sweater carefully against his wound, she felt a warm flow of blood, slick on her fingers.

“I'm sorry.” Despite her resolve, Lucy's voice quivered. “I don't mean to hurt you . . . but you've got to stay very still.”

She didn't expect him to answer. But when he did, his words chilled her.

“Nothing . . . nothing you can do . . .”

Lucy's heart sank. Was he telling her it was hopeless? Could he feel his life slipping away, even as she fought to save it?

“Shh . . . don't talk.” As gently as she could, she worked the scarf under him and around him, using it as a makeshift tourniquet, tying the sweater firmly in place. Then she covered him with her coat and tried to think what to do.

Whoever this young man was, she didn't want to leave him. She couldn't bear the thought of his lying here cold and suffering and all alone, maybe even dying before she could get back. Yet there was no way she could manage him by herself. And even if she could, just moving him would probably do more harm than good.

Lucy made up her mind. “I'm going for help. I'll be back as quick as I can.”

Had he heard her? He was lying so still, his eyes closed, and he didn't appear to be breathing. Terrified, she pressed her fingers to the side of his neck and searched for a pulse.

She jumped as his hand brushed hers. There were no visions this time—only a brief sense of fading light, like a candle burning low, or the moon slipping behind a cloud. The feeling was gone in an instant, and she wondered why she hadn't seen him move, why she hadn't felt even the slightest shifting of his body.

“Not . . . safe here...” he murmured. His eyes were still shut, and, to Lucy's horror, a trickle of blood oozed from one corner of his mouth. Bending closer, she smoothed the damp hair from his forehead and willed herself to stay calm.

“That's why you need a doctor. I've got a phone in my car, and I'll come right back, I promise. And then we can get you to the hospital—”

“No . . . please . . .” Even in his whisper, Lucy heard desperation. He tried to lift his head, but couldn't. His face was drenched with sweat, and the scar slicing his left cheek was like a jagged crack through ice.

“Listen to me,” she said firmly. “You've
got
to go to the emergency room.” Didn't he realize what was happening? Didn't he realize how seriously he was hurt? “I think you're going into shock—you're bleeding really badly—”

“No . . . no hospital.”

“Don't you understand what I'm telling you? You could
die
!”

“Not . . . dying. Not . . . what it seems . . .”

He was rambling now, she was sure of it—out of his head with pain, making no sense whatsoever. But as she started to get up, his desperate whisper stopped her once again.

“Don't . . . leave me here. Please . . .
please
. I'm begging you. For Byron's sake.”

All the argument went out of her. In stunned silence she gazed down at his face, a face that could have been Byron's own death mask, a face growing blurry now beyond her quick swell of tears. Then at last she sat back on her heels, surrendering with a reluctant nod.

“What do you want me to do?”

His lips barely parted. “Somewhere . . . safe.”

“But that's what I'm trying to tell you—I
am
trying to take you somewhere safe—”

“Close . . .”

“There's
nothing
close!” Frustrated, Lucy stood up and gestured futilely toward the gates of the mausoleum. “There's only
here
—and—and the
cemetery
! And my
car
! And—and—that old
church
over there!”

“Church?”

Perhaps it was only a trick of the shadows, but for a second she could almost have sworn that his eyes opened, fixing her with a wide, dark stare. And though he'd barely managed to utter that one word, it seemed to hang in the air between them now, like some strange and ominous echo.

“Church,” he murmured again. “Yes . . . take me there . . .”

But she
must
have imagined that unnerving stare of his, because he was still sprawled there like a lifeless doll, and his head was turned away; he wasn't even looking at her.

“It's only used for storage now,” she tried to explain. “I don't even know if we can get in.”

He didn't answer. Suddenly fearing the worst, Lucy dropped down beside him again, her voice urgent.

“Please! Don't give up! You've got to hang on!
Stay
with me!”

Despite his wounds, she shook him violently. The smell of blood was stronger now, rusty at the back of her throat. She realized it was all over her—on her jeans and shoes and shirt, her hands, even strands of her hair. She wiped her palms across her thighs, but the red stains wouldn't come off. Terrified, she shook him again and was relieved to see a flicker of movement behind his eyelids.

His breath was so shallow; she could hear a faint gurgling in his lungs. She pressed one hand to his chest, just to make sure his heart was still beating. Feeling more frantic by the second, she tucked her coat snugly around him, then got up and hurried to the door.

Soft gray light was spreading through the mausoleum. Outside the fog was beginning to lift. Yet despite the urgency of the situation, Lucy hesitated and peered off through the crooked headstones and fading shadows of the cemetery.

Lucy choked down a taste of fear. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered violently.

“It's gone now,” he whispered, and Lucy spun around, startled.

She was absolutely certain this time that he hadn't moved. Hadn't turned his body even a fraction of an inch, hadn't lifted up his head. He couldn't possibly have seen her watching the graveyard, couldn't possibly have heard her silent thoughts.

Which made it even more frightening when he whispered to her again.

“Hurry . . . before it comes back.”

As Lucy ran through the cemetery, a bad-dream feeling ran with her, clawing with icy fingers, tearing at her mind.

A twisted reality all too familiar.

A trapped-in-a-nightmare feeling that had become her life.

Neither thoughts nor things made sense anymore.

There was only madness and evil. Darkness and danger.

And a hell she would never escape.

These were the ideas that mocked her as she ran—swift, sharp flashes of panic and hopelessness that numbed her long before she reached the old church. Her lungs burned with cold, but she swallowed the pain. She couldn't feel her legs, but her body kept going. She stumbled over neglected graves that pressed close to the side of the building; she wove through a maze of nameless headstones crowded together at the back. And as she finally reached the entrance, she couldn't help but glance in every direction, just to make sure she was alone.

How had he known, she wondered—how had the stranger known about that invisible presence back there in the shadows? That presence lurking so near, on the other side of the fog? And the way he'd spoken about it . . . warned her about it . . . almost as though it were something . . .

The word whispered through her head, and Lucy shuddered. Scrambling for a foothold on the icy stoop, she grabbed the door handle and pulled.

The church was locked.

She wrestled with the latch, but it held solid; she could hear no sounds at all from inside. Once more she glanced toward the sidewalk and the dead-end street beyond.
This is insane! That person you left back there is going to die! His life is in your hands, and you've let him talk you into something completely stupid! He needs to be in a hospital! You're wasting precious time!

Furiously chiding herself, Lucy took off around the corner of the building. There had to be another way in—a back door, a window, something!