Plain Fear: Forgiven: A Novel (14 page)

“Let’s go outside.” Naomi spoke calmly, although she felt exasperated. Taking Matt’s hand, she led her five-year-old brother out of the kitchen. He’d come with her to Hannah and Levi’s house for the day and had managed to upturn a bowl of flour onto himself. She dusted off his shirt and pants while he wiggled and squirmed. Straightening, she planted her hands on her hips. “There now. You’re a sight better.”

He wrinkled up his nose and plopped down on the top step. “How long do I have to wait?”

“Until…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze latched on to Samuel. He walked out of the barn carrying a bucket. When he saw her, he waved and headed in their direction.

“Who’s that?” Matt asked.

“Samuel Fisher, Levi’s brother.”

“Don’t he live somewheres else?”

“Not now.” She straightened her apron. “Good morning, Samuel.”

He gave a nod of greeting.

“Have you met, Matthew?”

Samuel held out a hand, and the five-year-old stuck out his to shake the larger one. “Nice to know you, Matthew.”

He shot an aggravated look at his big sister. “Everybody calls me Matt.”

She pursed his lips. “He came to help me today.”

“I see.” Samuel grinned. “Were you helping grind flour?”

Naomi brushed her fingers over her young brother’s hair. “He wanted to see what I was making and turned the bowl over.”

“Why don’t you let Matt help me?” Samuel asked. “Do you like chickens?”

Matt jumped to his feet. “Sure do.”

“He likes to chase them,” Naomi warned.

Samuel crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you like eggs, Matt?”

“Not so much.”

“You like cake, don’t you?”

“Yeah!”

“Me too. Peanut butter is my favorite. What’s yours?”

“Lemon.” Matt grinned. “With lots and lots of frosting.”

“That does sound good.” Samuel bent down to Matt, bracing his bandaged hands on his knees. “Did you know eggs are in cake?”

Matt’s eyes widened.

“If you scare the chickens by chasing them, they won’t lay eggs. Then no more lemon cake.”

Nodding his understanding, Matt raised a finger and declared, “No more chasing chickens.” His focus shifted to Samuel’s bandages. “Did you fall off your scooter?”

Samuel laughed. “Not exactly.”

“Did you need stitches?” Matt scratched his head. “My big brother got stitches. Busted his chin wide open. Blood everywheres. Papa took him to the clinic. They stitched him right up.” He leaned closer to Samuel. “Do they have special needles for that?”

“Probably.” Samuel held out the pail toward Matt. “Here, you can carry this.”

Matt looped an arm through the handle. The pail clattered against his short legs.

“You sure you can carry that?” Naomi asked.

“I can do it.” Matt waddled as he carried the pail toward the chicken coop.

Samuel stayed behind with Naomi. He grinned, and she felt her stomach flop over. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of him.”

“I’m not worried so much about Matt but you.” She watched her little brother and laughed. “He can be a handful.” Cupping her hand to her mouth, she called after Matt, “Mind Samuel now.”

“We’ll be fine.” Samuel jogged toward Matthew. Turning, he offered her a wave and a shared smile. “He’ll keep me in line, I’m sure.” He ruffled the boy’s blond hair. Man and boy walked side by side. Naomi overheard Samuel say, “If we give your sister some time, then we’ll sneak in the kitchen and swipe some batter from that bowl.”

Naomi returned to the house with a smile and a spring in her step.

Brydon waited at the door, staring at the skull knob and waiting for it to turn. The young woman they’d brought to this freakish compound had been returned. She swayed unsteadily. The grime had been washed away, her hair brushed into long, dark strands, and new clothes provided. She looked paler, her skin pearlescent. Her eyes appeared vague and disconnected, as if she’d been placed in a trance or given a tranquilizer. Even though she wore a skimpy dress, revealing bony arms and legs, she no longer shivered. No longer screamed either.

For a brief moment, he wondered what her name was, why she’d been living on the street, what her hopes and dreams had once been. It was an odd thing for him to consider. It didn’t matter. In a few minutes, whoever she was would no longer exist.

Her gaze sought out Brydon’s. What was he supposed to do? He had his own problems. He was at their mercy. Even if he could do something, he wouldn’t. Whatever heroic traits he’d once possessed had now vanished.

Brydon figured they were both on their way to their own executions, although he wasn’t at all sure his would be quick or painless. He remembered the warehouse with the gutted, beheaded bodies dripping blood.

Now, the door opened, and through the opening Brydon glimpsed what looked to be a cobweb-infested dungeon, except these decorations didn’t come from a cardboard box. Spiders peered at him and skittered away from the intrusion of light. Torn and tattered purple velvet curtains hung from the vaulted ceiling. A rat’s beady eyes glinted from a shadowy corner.

The homeless woman, who had been docile and unsteady, bolted. Kachada grabbed her. The scuffling and subduing gave Brydon his one chance. And he seized it.

With a bold kick against Kachada’s groin and a hand chop to Walden’s throat, Brydon lunged for Lamandre, seized his head, and yanked. Dark, tainted blood spewed. The body remained standing for a moment before collapsing. Walden bent double, gasping for air. But Kachada subdued the woman. Brydon tossed Lamandre’s head toward Kachada. He hesitated but at the last second released the woman and caught the head.

The woman looked to Brydon as if he were her savior.

Wrong.

He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her behind him into the dark dungeon.

After a day of hoeing a field at Levi’s farm, then climbing ropes and throwing knives at Roc’s school for crazy vampire hunters, Samuel hooked up with his old friends: David, Eliam, and Paul. They all had the same bowl-cut hairstyles. Both David and Paul wore traditional Amish trousers and plain, black work boots. David had shed his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his white store-bought shirt. Paul had untucked his shirt but still wore his suspenders. Eliam, however, was more the rebel, wearing faded jeans that looked torn and ragged but which had cost him a hefty sum. He’d doffed his Flo Rida T-shirt and showed them a cross tattooed on his bicep.

David leaned forward to get a better look, his eyes widening in the moonlight. “Your folks know about that?”

“Not yet.”

Samuel had expected at least a nipple piercing from all the lead-up to the revelation. “You done anything really wild and crazy lately?”

Eliam laughed. “That not enough for you? What about you? What have you been doing in Ohio and since you got back?”

David grabbed the last biscuit from the bucket. “You waited long enough to say you were back.”

If only his friends knew half of it. “Nah, nothing much. My life is boring.”

“Eliam’s gonna get a nose ring next,” Paul said.

“Can’t hide that from your mamm,” David cautioned.

“My girlfriend has one through her belly button,” Samuel admitted.

Paul shook his head. “Don’t get it. Met a gal who had her tongue”—he stuck out his tongue—“pierced.”

“You know what they say about that—”

Eliam punched Samuel in the arm, right on a ripe bruise, and interrupted him. “Your girlfriend, huh? Must not be Amish.”

“Probably not my girlfriend anymore either. Can’t say she was happy I was coming back to Promise.”

“Maybe she should come”—Paul leaned an elbow on his knee, grinning and giving a knowing nod—“here.”

“So she’s
English,
huh?” David asked, missing the sexual reference. “She hot?”

“What do you think?” Eliam took a pull on his beer.

The field where a goodly amount of Amish teens hung out most nights was dark with only a smattering of stars overhead. Cars and buggies congregated around the truck, and teens meandered, some hooking up, others single. Somebody’s radio blasted rap music. Booze, cigarettes, and weed were passed around.

Samuel leaned back against the tailgate of Eliam’s truck. His head felt woozy from too much beer, his belly full of greasy fried chicken. The empty bucket lay on its side in the truck’s bed.

Paul drew deeply on a brown cigarette and passed it on. His eyelids looked weighted. “Thinking”—his voice sounded tight—“I’ll go see Sara Stutsman tonight.”

“She wouldn’t give you the time of day or night with you all stoked.”

“You keep saying that about Sara.” Eliam shook his head. “But you haven’t done nothing about it.”

“No use bothering now.” David crushed a beer can beneath his shoe. “She’s seeing Reuben Sommer.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Since when?”

“Last Sunday’s singing.”

“Maybe you should think about Naomi Wagler.” Eliam leaned back against a bag of feed. “She’s awful pretty.”

Samuel’s muscles tensed.

Paul coughed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“What’s wrong with Naomi?” Samuel asked. She was pretty, sweet, attentive. If he weren’t busy with all the chores at Levi’s and training at Roc’s and if he didn’t have a relationship already with Andi, then it would be natural to be interested in her. But, of course, he wasn’t.

“Oh, well, nothing.” Paul grabbed another beer out of the cooler. “Nothing at all, if you’re aiming to settle down and get married. She don’t put out though.”

“Is she seeing someone?” Samuel asked before he could stop himself.

“Doubt it.” Paul eyed Samuel carefully. “She keeps to herself.”

“Maybe she has standards,” Samuel snapped.

“You high and mighty now too?” Eliam challenged.

“He’s got that
English
girlfriend,” Paul said, “remember?”

“Go back to your wet dream.” Eliam reached for the weed.

“Why do you care about Naomi Leave-Me-Alone Wagler?” Paul asked, still staring at Samuel. “How many girlfriends can you handle at one time?”

“Oooh!” David laughed.

Samuel leaned sideways on a small stack of feed sacks. “She’s a nice girl, is all.”

Paul crossed his arms over his chest. “Uh-huh.”

“What’s wrong with—” Samuel’s defensive question was interrupted by Eliam poking David with his boot.

Eliam laughed. “Think David’s hiding something.”

Paul pushed up with his elbow, which slipped, and he clunked his head on the side of the truck, which led to a round of rumbling laughter. When they’d all settled down again, Paul narrowed his gaze on David. “What? What are you hiding?”

“You seeing somebody?” Samuel asked, eager to turn their attention away from Naomi.

David flushed red.

“You are! Who is it?” Eliam heckled. “Does she give—”

David shoved Eliam.

He fell over laughing. “Oh, he’ll never kiss and tell. He’ll be married before he loses his virginity anyways.”

“Not me.” Paul hooked his thumbs in his waistband. “I’m doing exactly what you were with that
English
girl. What’s her name anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Samuel chugged the rest of his beer, trying to drown his past and the helpless feeling he got when he thought of Naomi.

The floor was strewn with body parts and dried blood. Brydon strode down the center of the vast room, dragging the nameless woman behind him.

The smell of fresh blood sent Brydon’s pulse racing. His head felt woozy from hunger. Flies buzzed around a nearby corpse. Candles flickered ahead of him. Tarnished silver candelabras and dead roses surrounded a solitary casket. It sat on a dais. The wooden exterior was ornately carved and polished. The lid creaked open. The inside shimmered with inlaid mother-of-pearl and white satin. The candles’ flames quivered with anticipation and dread.

Brydon strode straight for the casket even though he heard the fluttering of wings, stamp of feet, and gnashing of teeth, as bloods swarmed out of crevices and shadowy nooks and flooded through the doorway behind him.

A body emerged from the casket—a woman—sitting upright. She leveled a pair of heavily lashed black eyes on him. Arching her neck back, she rose out of the casket, arms outstretched as she descended slowly to the dais in front of the casket. She had long white-blond hair and, despite her small stature, had a commanding presence. With one finger raised, she silenced those crowding the hall.

Her beauty was exquisite, especially when she smiled. Which she did now—closed lips tugging to one side, as if intrigued and amused. Brydon summed up this blood. She was old, older than most here, certainly far older than he, and possibly many centuries. After all, she’d established this fortress and had a conclave of bloods to serve her. Her territory far outreached Giovanni’s. Yet she had not aged since her awakening. But life for her, Brydon determined from keen observational skills, had become dull and uninteresting. Yet he’d managed to surprise her.

Steadily, he walked toward her. Her lips were the color of blood, which made her skin appear even paler and flawless. He flung the woman forward, and she slid across the floor until she lay sprawled and unmoving at the base of the platform.

“A present for me?” Jezebel asked, her tone amused. Her voice held the tiniest trace of an English accent, subtle and yet carrying an air of sophistication and superiority.

Brydon returned her reserved smile. “It can’t be easy to find live bait way out here. Unless you dine on vermin.”

“As much as I like it when dinner puts up a fight, I prefer fur not to fly.” She folded her hands together. She had long, graceful fingers, giving her a delicate look, but he was not fooled. “So”—she assessed him with a long gaze—“you are Brydon.”

He gave a slight bow out of respect. “And you are Jezebel.”

“Have you heard of me?”

This one had an ego. “Hasn’t everyone?”

“If they’re wise.” She drew a hand along the length of her hair. “And what have you heard about me?”

“It isn’t for the faint of heart.”

She laughed, apparently delighted. “Now that we have that straight, who’s who, and such….” She tapped her long, slim index fingers against her lips. Her gaze slid over him, like a long caress. “And I have heard of you too.”

He cocked an eyebrow at that.

“Not exactly how I imagined you, but still…” She elongated the last word as if tasting it like a fine wine.

It felt like she was dining on him, swallowing him with those luminous eyes. He cleared his throat, not wanting to consider if vampires were cannibalistic. “These fellows said you wanted to see me. All you had to do was ask.”

“And what would your reply have been?”

“Curiosity. And”—he paused, stoking her curiosity—“an offer for dinner.”

“A dinner date?” She laughed, a gleeful sound full of sinister undertones.

“A vamp like you should go out on the town. Or are you a homebody? In your”—he glanced at the cobwebs and shabby dwelling that appeared a remake of
The
Addams
Family
—“dungeon.”

She tapped her index fingers against each other, and her mouth curled in that amused manner. “Do you like it? My little joke. I like to greet all new arrivals here. It’s what many expect.” Whatever hint of a smile there had been disappeared, replaced by a stony expression. “You killed one of my staff.”

“Lamandre?” Brydon shrugged. “You will not miss him.”

“And why is that?”

“He spoke of you in a dishonorable way. What was I to do? Allow such insolence?”

Her eyes narrowed to slits.
What
could
she
say? Who would ever know the difference? Would someone defend Lamandre?
Doubtful. Brydon’s defense of her honor provided a way of reaffirming her position. But he waited, unsure how she would react, unsure what Lamandre had really meant to her. Maybe he had been a lover, or maybe just a simple lackey sent to carry out her demands.

The moment stretched like the fragile thread of a spider’s web. Finally, she said, “That is the price one pays for shame.” The slightest head tilt signaled a blood hovering nearby. “Have Lamandre’s body strung up, drained, and burned.”

The servant bowed before disappearing behind a black velvet curtain.

“Now”—she focused on Brydon—“what shall I do with you? A renegade.”

“I wasn’t running from you.”

“You ran, didn’t you?”

“I was attacked. What did you want me to do? Submit?” He tsked. “Not my style. And I suspect it isn’t yours either.”

“I can see that’s true.” Again, her gaze trailed over him in an appreciative manner. “So what am I to do with you, Brydon Renegade?”

He gave her a cocky smile. “Anything you’d like.”