Desired by Shadow (A Shadow Walkers Novel) (4 page)

Maggie nodded. Picking up her wine, turning away from the long, polished glass bar to survey the patrons, she caught a smile from the bartender. “Anything else, miss?” He looked to be in his twenties with short black hair and dreamy blue eyes.

She stuttered, “No thanks. I need to be going.” If Jones or one of the other men saw the enchanting guy being friendly to her, it wouldn’t go well for the bartender. Giving him a small smile, she caught sight of herself in the mirrored wall above the bar.

Nice. I look like a homeless urchin.
She dispassionately took stock of her reflection behind the bottles. Long fire engine red hair up in a ponytail, green eyes with purplish-looking circles under them, pale skin and an average if curvy body. Average about summed it up. When she’d waitressed, Maggie thought she looked pretty good. Not beautiful but pleasant to look at. She’d finally been happy—maybe too happy—and it had been snatched away in the blink of an eye. Truth be told, she looked at least ten years older than her twenty-five years, but given the current circumstances she wasn’t surprised. The past year had aged her. Made her relinquish the hopes and dreams that had sustained her for so long. Her mouth turning down at the corners, Maggie turned away from the mirror and looked over the crowd.

The music was giving her a headache. Hours had passed, and she hadn’t seen anyone out of the ordinary. Most nights she didn’t. The guys took full advantage and partied until whatever club, pub, or other rattrap they were in, called last call and closed down for the night.

A loud pop sounded near her ear. Instinctively ducking, she looked around to locate the source of the noise. Maggie saw one of Bruce’s men fall to the floor. Screaming broke out as the patrons of Velvet realized shots had been fired. Guns might be illegal in the United Kingdom, but the criminals got hold of them easily enough. Pandemonium ensued and guests fled, stampeding towards the exits.

Pushed against the wall, she stayed out of the way to avoid being trampled. Jones grabbed her arm, his hand slipped out of hers, and he fell. He was thrashing, desperately holding his throat as blood spread across the scarred floor. He’d been cut from ear to ear. The wound was nasty, gaping open as blood drained like spilt wine on the floor.

“That’ll teach you to cheat me at cards.” A man stood over Jones with a broken beer bottle in his hand, another tucked in his belt, and an ugly snarl on his face. He looked at Maggie and advanced towards her, the jagged glass raised, blood dripping onto the black-and white-tiled floor. No escape. There were too many people. It was like wading through glue. The murderer was gaining on her. Jones’s two counterparts were nowhere to be seen.

“Ow!” Maggie clutched her shoulder where she felt a sting. Her hand came away bright red. He’d cut her. Fear drove her, giving her strength to pull out of the man’s grasp. Adrenaline fueled her to push and shove her way outside. Exploding out of the exit door, Jones’s partner, Donald grabbed her, roughly shoving Maggie into the waiting Hummer. They sped off back to the townhouse. A small hiccup escaped as she imagined her blood dripping in time to the frantic beating of her heart.

“Bruce is going to have my ass.” Donald chewed his thumbnail, looking worried. Back at the house, a shower helped process the surreal scene she’d witnessed. Wincing from the pain, she changed into the only other clothes she owned, pulling on fresh jeans, a tee shirt, and a thick navy hoodie. With only soap and a washcloth, she’d cleaned the wound as best she could. Donald had handed her two aspirin as she went upstairs and told her to keep quiet, he was in enough trouble already. Her shoulder was throbbing, the cut deep. It really needed stitches.

Good luck with that. They wouldn’t take her to a doctor, and no way was she letting one of them put a needle through her skin. The shoulder would have to wait. Back in her room she noted Gloria and Jean’s cots were still empty. It was unusual for both of them to be out later than her. Worried, Maggie tossed and turned, groaning when her shoulder made contact with the lumpy mattress before falling into an exhausted, fractured sleep.

Waking up, she rolled over. Big mistake. She saw little goblins dancing in front of her eyes, bile rose up, and her stomach threatened to revolt. Swallowing several times, she waited for her body to realize she didn’t need to flee. The feeling remained. Voices screamed in her head—not safe, run. What was happening?

There was a shadow under the door to the room. Maggie listened, trying to decipher what woke her. Voices.

“Jean didn’t point out one of those slippery bastards tonight. The bitch let him kill Frankie. I saw him when he made himself visible to talk to the pub owner and pay for the damage, otherwise she would have gotten away with it. Gloria lied for her, saying she didn’t see anyone either.” Shaking his fist, Bruce continued, “They won’t be working with us anymore. I took them both to the basement.”

Donald’s voice sounded weak and reedy when he chimed in. “I lost Jones. Some bloke he cheated at cards. The freak said she didn’t see anyone tonight, hasn’t for the past month. Maybe the ability wears off after a time?”

“Maggie’s lying, or she’s useless. Either way, it’s time. Take her to the basement then grab a few hours’ sleep, you look like you’ve been on a three-day bender.”

The men shut off the hall lights. Maggie stayed still as a statue, listening to the footsteps receding down the corridor. Her thighs shook, muscles clenching, the salvia pooling in the back of her throat as she fought not to retch.

Gloria and Jean were dead.

She was next.

Thursday, November 2
^nd

The next thing Robert knew, it was exceedingly early, the sun was barely awake, and his blasted powers were gone. He was in a cell he was very well acquainted with—the dungeon of Edinburgh Castle.

Dank, filthy, and dim. He shook his head, it was bad enough to relive it, couldn’t the gods at least let the bloody floor be clean? Sighing, he lifted his foot as a rat scurried across the straw and ran into a cell next to him.

Grimacing, Robert consoled himself with the thought it would all be over in twenty-four hours and he could go back to his life. Every year unless the unthinkable happened, Shadow Walkers relived their death anniversary and were powerless for the twenty-four time period surrounding the event. Then it was over until the next time. Good thing. There was a particularly valuable shipment of artifacts he was to pick up and deliver to Wales. The black market thrived and the more things changed the more they stayed the same. Though he never thought he’d live to see the day England and Scotland would be physically separated. Towards the end of the nineteenth century there were catastrophic weather events, the tectonic plates of the very earth shifted, causing incredible change and damage. Now there was a channel between the two countries and while devastating for all who lost their lives, it was a godsend, time wise for sailing. Instead of going all the way around, he simply went across and took care of business.

During his first life as he liked to think of it, vices prospered while regular folk struggled…whoring, gambling, drinking and smuggling. The same debauchery was still popular and even more profitable today.

“Ready to hang, pirate?” Captain Rawlins Huntington stood at the door to his cell.

“Robert will suffice. My offer stands. Simply leave your post unattended for a few minutes, ensuring the cells of my men and I are unlocked, and I’ll make you rich as kings. What say you?” He would gladly give his entire fortune to free them all.

“How it must rankle the great pirate to be brought so low by a mere woman. If only you could keep your wick in your breeches, you might still be sailing the seas. Though I’m sure Her Majesty’s Navy would capture you soon enough. I don’t need your bloody fortune. It will be celebration enough when the lot of you hang.”

How the whole death-anniversary thing worked he hadn’t a clue other than the twenty-four hours. It was as if that day was overlaid on the current moment in time. No one but those who were present could see it or experience it. For Robert it played out the same every year, it couldn’t be changed—and he’d bloody well tried, hundreds of times over the ensuing years. Well, there was one way…hell no, not going to happen, so forget about it. Bollocks.

“Suit yourself. I’m ready; shall we?” He adjusted his clothing. It never ceased to amaze him how he could be wearing jeans one moment then be back in his pirate attire every year. No mobile phone, keys, wallet, nothing. It was all exactly as the day he died. Made getting home a chore. You couldn’t dematerialize as your powers were gone for a full day so you had to find another way. Robert usually had one of his men waiting at the castle to retrieve him. After hundreds of years, he had this bloody inconvenience down pat. Stretching, he stood and moved to the door of the cell.

Walking out into the early-morning light, he blinked after the darkness of the dungeon. He’d relived this hundreds of times yet every year he got a lump in his throat seeing his men all nod to him. Afterwards, he’d done the best he could to take care of the families, providing them with gold and employment as needed. There had only been one family he’d lost track of and couldn’t find. To this day, he had descendants of those same families working for him. It was a sick joke of the fates to have Rawlins still in the picture causing trouble, and as a Day Walker no less. He wondered—was the man standing before him the same jerk of today? He didn’t think so but it made his head hurt to try and figure it out. If he ever had a civil conversation with Rawlins before he beheaded him, he’d ask.

Day Walkers were the darkness to the Shadow Walkers light in the fight for humanity. They existed to destroy humanity. He and his brethren were sworn to save every last person. The enemy was ruled by Dayne, a god and a mean sonofabitch to boot, and while Robert also reported to a god, at least the guy wasn’t quite as unpredictable. Robert swallowed hard. Every year on the anniversary of his death, he had to relive it to signify his rebirth as a Shadow Walker. Fuck me, couldn’t Thorne have simply had them light a candle or say a prayer of thanks? Thorne was the god of shadows. It was he, in the darkness of the Shadow realm, who offered Robert the choice to become a Shadow Walker. Wanting to take care of the families his crew left behind, wanting revenge, he gladly made the bargain, accepting the curse, swearing to protect humanity from the Day Walkers and became immortal, keeping his soul—for the soul is the energy life force within. It is all that remains behind if we refuse to move on to the next realm.

The crowds jeered, screaming obscenities, throwing lettuce and other less savory things at him as they marched him to the scaffolding. Looking around, he was always pleased to see such a large turnout. Get through this next dodgy part, and it will all be over. He hated being hanged, the feeling of suffocating; it was a terrible way to die. Casting a look heavenward, he said the same thing he did every year, “Let it be quick.”

The platform shook. The bang registering as the trap door opened and the rope jerked, pulling tight, cutting off his air supply as he fell through the opening.

Maggie moved her leg, wriggling her toes. The pins and needles feeling slowly dissipated. She’d lain rigid in bed for hours, waiting, planning. It was really early or exceedingly late depending on how you looked at it. For a few minutes she stayed motionless, listening to the sounds around her. The house silent. Satisfied everyone was still asleep she rolled off the cot cringing at the squeaking noise. Crouching next to the bed, Maggie held her breath. When no one appeared after a few minutes she pulled her shoes on and grabbed a small backpack. There was nothing to take with her other than a toothbrush, hairbrush, and a couple of ponytail holders. The only other set of clothing she owned had been ruined earlier that night. There was no one else in left in the women’s dorm-style room to alert the guards she was trying to leave. Donald had been angry and distracted and had forgotten to lock the bolt on the door. Maggie retrieved the bobby pin she’d had hidden under her bed for almost a year and popped the lock. With a loud click, it swung open. Again she waited, hoping no one had heard the sound. Slipping out the door, Maggie softly pulled it closed behind her and pushed the lock in again.