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Authors: Theresa Meyers

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Fantasy, #Romance, #Paranormal

The Slayer (21 page)

BOOK: The Slayer
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He tried not to take too deep a breath as he stared up at Alexa. “I can't do this.”
“Yes, you can,” Alexa insisted. “Be still. We haven't time to argue.”
Winn fought against every instinct and lay on top of Yakov's stiff form in the coffin. Boris appeared at the edge with a shovel in each hand and used the wooden handle of one to tip the coffin lid down over Winn with a slam.
Full-blown panic set in that moment, stealing his ability to breathe the instant he heard the patter of dirt as they heaped it over the lid. Winn's heart slammed hard against his ribs. He blew out a steady, slow breath, trying to calm himself. Breathing hard and fast was just going to get him killed.
There was no way there'd be enough air for him to survive, as putrid as Yakov was. The thought of dying in this coffin with Yakov sent his brain into a fever, making his ears buzz and his skin too hot. Winn beat against the wood, not giving a damn if he was heard. He couldn't stay in the box a moment longer—with all due respect to the dearly departed Yakov. “Get me the hell out of here, now!”
The hard thump of a boot hitting the lid and dirt above him drove the panic deeper. “If you want to live, you must hush, Hunter.”
The howls grew closer.
Winn didn't give a damn. He was getting out of that box no matter if he had to claw his way through to the surface. He shoved Yakov aside and began trying to shove the lid upward, even an inch.
It didn't budge.
Desperate, he began scratching at the wood of the lid with his fingernails, not caring if it shredded his fingertips. “I'm getting out of this damn box if it's the last thing I do.”
That would rather defeat the purpose, as we'd just have to put you right back in one if you gets killed.
The contessa's voice echoed in his skull, making Winn freeze for a moment. What the hell and damnation was that?
It's me, Winchester. Your mental barriers aren't as strong when you're panicked.
“Goddamn right they're not,” he yelled, his frustration mounting.
I want you to close your eyes and count to five hundred.
“I can't! Get me out, now!”
Five hundred. Silently. And I will dig you out myself. The werewolves are almost here.
Winn squeezed his eyes shut tightly and visualized a row of whiskey bottles, all lined up. With each bottle, he'd count as he visualized downing the contents. Damn, but he felt mighty parched.
One hundred.
There was snuffling and scratching overhead. The thunder of dozens of paws running and then stopping as they passed overhead, just six feet above him. Sweat popped out on his forehead, chilling his skin even as the temperature in the box grew warmer. His throat seemed to swell shut, and Winn couldn't tell if he could even swallow his own spit.
Two hundred.
The pack howled, one after another. He was trapped, without any hope of escape. Perhaps he wasn't leaving this coffin after all. A horrific screech rent the air, a sound that sent a chill rippling down his spine. There were howls and the thunder of feet, the sound of a battle. Winn beat at the lid and began scraping away with his knife.
Three hundred.
The air was thickening, and his head beginning to pound in rhythm to his heartbeat. The sounds above him came to an abrupt halt. What if Boris and the contessa had both been taken by the wolves? What if there were no one to dig him out? Panic became outright terror, making his skin burn and his lungs feel as if they might burst.
Four hundred.
Stars began to pop and burst before his tightly shut eyes, and he resorted to holding his nose and breathing through his mouth as he counted silently.
Five hundred.
Above the coffin the dirt was scratched and scraped away from the lid. Winn shoved upward with every ounce of strength he had.
A rush of cool night air greeted him as the lid was pulled back, and he scrambled up out of the coffin and climbed side by side with Alexa out of the grave. Once they reached the top he lay on his back for a moment sucking in great gulps of fresh air, his pulse so hard and loud he could hear the roar of it and nothing else in his ears. Slowly his heartbeat lost its frenetic pace.
He opened his eyes and stared up at the contessa. “You're alive.”
Her lips twitched with humor. “No, I'm not, but I am here.”
Winn sat up and glanced around. “Where are the werewolves?”
“The dogs have been dealt with.” He tried not to look too closely at her hands or the dark splotches on her gown. She wrinkled her aristocratic nose and pulled a handkerchief out to cover it so she could breathe easier. “We need to walk up the river.”
Winn staggered upright, his limbs weak. Fear beat the crap outta a man, that was for sure. Those dark, cramped spaces had the ability to reduce him to a cowering twelve-year-old in mere seconds. It wasn't something he was proud of—in fact he hated it about himself. But he'd yet to find a way of staving off the paralyzing fear of claustrophobia.
The mists cleared enough that Winn could see the slender, shining ribbon of moonlit water near the horizon. “River. Cover our tracks. Good idea,” Winn muttered, his head still a bit fuzzy from his fast heartbeat.
“I was thinking to wash off Yakov's odor but,
da
, it will cover our tracks as well.”
“Where's Boris?”
The contessa frowned and pointed up a tree. The stout little man scrambled down through the branches. He jumped down, then quickly brushed away the few leaves that clung to him. He cast a wary glance at the contessa. Obviously after what'd he seen her do, he was now aware of what she was and wouldn't protect her again.
Winn dusted off his Stetson and gave it a sniff before shrugging and pulling it back on his head. “So now where to, Tessa?”
Boris did his best to ignore the contessa and instead focused on Winn. “I will ferry you across the Danube, but no farther. Past this river we are not welcome. The Castle Barranoch is just beyond it.”
Winn deliberately put himself between Alexa and Boris as they tramped the distance to the river's edge in stony silence. The mists grew thicker and the ground wetter, becoming a mushy, soft mud studded with thick sedge grasses as they neared the water. Overhead the moonlight broke through the quickly shifting clouds, making it easier to see and walk through the chilly, dark night scented with the murky smell of marsh water. From the depths of the forest behind them came the hooting of an owl. Crickets chirped. But there was no sign of more werewolves.
Alexa narrowed her gaze, her stare strong enough to bore a hole through Boris's back. Agitation tightened the edge of her full mouth and gave her regal chin a stubborn jut, but the way she nibbled her bottom lip with her teeth told him there was more at stake. Something had her worried.
He leaned close and brushed an errant dark curl away from her cheek, causing her to startle and look at him as if he'd just suddenly appeared out of thin air.
Winn put his mouth next to the delicate shell of her ear. “You don't trust him, do you?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “It's the skiff. I don't cross water well, and I doubt it's going to be stable. Be on your guard. I don't want to fall in.”
Winn relaxed slightly. For a moment he'd been concerned that she'd seen something in Boris he hadn't. Perhaps, like cats, vampires weren't fond of water.
A small skiff, its front snubbed and flat, with only a single long pole for power and steering, was tied at the bank, bobbing with the movement of the swiftly flowing water. The blue paint on the skiff was chipped and faded, and it was barely big enough to hold two, let alone three. They climbed in, and Alexa sucked in an uneasy breath and reached for the edges of the boat as it rocked. Boris gave an impatient grunt and used the long pole to lift the tie and set them adrift.
Under the moon's fickle light Winn got the impression he was crossing the River Styx. The only thing that destroyed the illusion was Boris's gold earring glinting in the moonlight. And as stout as he was, he hardly looked like the specter Charon, who ferried folks into Hades.
Halfway across the water Boris brought the boat to a virtual standstill by jamming the pole deep into the riverbed. The silver liquid of the river flowed about the bow. The boat tipped slightly against the current, river water splashing against the side and splattering over Alexa's skirts. Her face, already pale in the moonlight, turned drawn and waxen and a bit green. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edges of the skiff and pinched her lips tightly closed.
“Why are we stopping?” Winn growled. The water crossing wasn't agreeing with Alexa, and he needed to get her to shore as soon as possible.
Boris rubbed his thumb against two of his fingers as if rubbing a coin between them. “There's the matter of payment, Hunter.”
Winn glared at the man. “Don't anybody help out around here just for the hell of it?”
Boris looked at him incredulously, his avaricious gaze drifting to the Amanarath on Winn's back. “Give me the crossbow, and we'll call it a fair trade. My help and not killing the vampire for your bow.”
Winn grumbled. “Marley's gonna have my hide for this,” he muttered as he pulled the bow over his shoulder and handed it to the gypsy. Being without it sort of made him feel like he was standing in his underbritches, but what else was he to do? Marley would just have to understand that sacrifices had to be made in order to get the piece of the Book they needed.
Boris slung the crossbow over his shoulder, and it was large enough on his back that it made him look as if he had small metallic frames for wings sprouting out of either shoulder blade.
“Get moving,” Winn growled. He was quickly running out of patience with the gypsy.
Boris laughed, but instead of a hale and hearty rumble it came out low and haughty, making Winn's gut coil tightly with revulsion. It sounded too close to the demon that haunted his nightmares. He shifted his position, making sure to place himself between the man and Alexa.
The gypsy's face began to sink inward, the skin sucking close to the bone as his body stretched upward, growing taller. His short, curly dark hair began to lengthen, turning flaxen, and the tips of his ears extended. He was a goddamn shifter!
“Those dogs never even anticipated our plan. We will rule as we were meant to, once I deliver you to Rathe. And now, Slayer, you will come with me or die.”
Chapter 17
“Watch out, he's
Sidhe
!” Alexa shouted as she jolted up, forgetting their precarious position in the unstable skiff. The boat rocked violently, and her sudden change in position tipped Winn over the edge into the icy water.
All the breath left his body in a rush. He kicked up to the surface, gasping, and grabbed hold of his hat floating by in the water, jamming it back on his head, and ignored the pole floating down river.
“You double-crossed the werewolves? But why?” The contessa's voice drifted over the water.
“It's no more than you vampires have done. There is no loyalty among the Darkin now. First to Rathe with the prize takes all. And you are no longer useful in protecting our prize.”
Alexa screamed as the pale, long-haired creature reached for her. She struggled to evade his hands and keep her balance, causing her arms to flail like pinwheels spinning backward. Winn started swimming hard, arm over arm, for the boat, kicking for all he was worth toward the skiff drifting down the river faster than he could swim.
A loud bang brought his head up from the surface of the water with a start. The blond creature shrieked, clasping his hands to his chest, his mouth open wide as he cried out and keeled back into the silver, rippling surface of the water.
Alexa sat down in a flurry of dark skirts and white petticoats. As Winn neared the boat he could see she was shaking. In her hand was a strange little gun. He knew it was pointless to try and climb in. Chances were good he'd only succeed in tipping her out into the frigid water with him. One of them might as well be dry. Besides, without a pole to push them to the bank, they'd just drift downstream.
His limbs were growing numb now as they adjusted to the temperature of the water. Winn grabbed the edge of the skiff and found himself face to barrel with the odd little gun she held.
“How about you point that peashooter in the opposite direction and let me push us to shore,” he said through gritted teeth.
Alexa blinked, then slowly lowered the gun. Then like the first blush of dawn her face lit up, and she leaned down to kiss him soundly.
That warmed Winn down to his toes and made him feel as though he could push the little skiff across the Atlantic if need be. She pulled back and stared at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and relief.
“I was so worried you'd drowned!”
Winn grunted. “Drowned, no. Nearly froze to death, yes. Are you all right?”
“I'm fine.”
He kicked hard, and his feet came in contact with the bottom of the river. He shoved the skiff up against the shore, then slogged his way out of the water and offered her a hand out of the rocking boat, afraid he'd get her cold and wet if he did more.
Her hand was soft and dry against his chilled skin. No matter how tough she acted, she still looked as dainty and aristocratic as a woman could be. It was easy for Winn to see a crown upon her head. Hell, she was born to be a vampire queen, while he was—well, he was born to serve. Plain. Simple. Cut and dried. No matter how she affected him, he wasn't ever going to be able to change that.
As they walked across the dark, deserted field of overgrown, thigh-high grass, a thick mist that smelled of mud and rotting vegetation crept off the river. The mist chilled Winn to the bone and slicked the grass with a heavy coating of dew that soaked through Alexa's skirts. Winn felt for the waterproof oilskin packet containing Marley's letter to the queen. Good. It was still in his pocket, safe and sound. He cleared his throat. “What the hell was that thing in the boat?”
“A
Sidhe
—dark fae. He must have killed Boris after he'd left us in the wagon, then taken on his form to lead us here into his trap once the werewolves had done the dirty work of getting rid of the gypsy camp for him.”
“They're shifters?”
“Fae. Far different. The shifters can only change their form; the fae not only change form, but have other powers and are more dangerous, and apparently have dangerous allies, too.”
“Those the same Darkin that shot the arrows that brought the airship down?”
She nodded, her features grim. “Make no mistake, if the
Sidhe
and the
Oboroten
are competing with one another to capture you, as it appears they have, we have a fight on our hands. Neither will stop, nor any other Darkin, to get you before we can uncover where the piece of the Book is hidden. Rathe will accept nothing less.”
Winn stared at her. He was so damn cold, his bones ached, but her words put the fire in him. “Nobody is likely to want me dead until I have the Book in my hand.” They had no time to waste. He walked faster, ignoring the cold cling of his clothes to his skin. She hurried along beside him, matching him step for step. “Where'd you get that little gun you used on it?”
The contessa gave him a sly smile. “Sir Turlock isn't the only inventor of your acquaintance.” She patted the weapon.
“You sayin' you made that thing?” She was full of surprises.
“A creation of my own design,
da
. It's a cyanide shotgun. Kills anything with living flesh. Shots are packed with cyanide salts.”
Ingenious
. “So vampires are immune. Kind of like the werewolves using wolfsbane on you.”
“Precisely.”
He grinned at her in approval. “Why didn't you use it sooner?”
“I hadn't tried it before, because I wasn't confident it would work.”
Winn muttered darkly. “Next time don't wait so long. You about gave me a heart attack, woman.”
“Me? Weren't you the one taking a moonlit swim?”
He grunted and pulled at his mustache, trying to get it to re-form points before it dried completely. “Hardly my choice.”
“No matter, we need to get you out of those wet clothes soon.”
Winn's stomach did a backflip and he warmed all over, as the idea of his shucking his clothing, and hers as well, entered his mind.
“Mr. Jackson, are you listening to me?”
Winn shook his head, refocusing his gaze on her beautiful, upturned face. He was shaking, freezing really, in the cold night air. “How far to the castle?”
“We should be there soon.”
In the dark Winn couldn't tell if Castle Barranoch was indeed there in the distance or not. Without any light save the moon, it all looked black on black to him. Her vampire eyesight had to be far better than his own.
“You didn't have to do that,” the contessa said softly as they walked through the thickening grasses. A scent of wheat drifted up, and Winn realized they were walking through a field of green grain.
“What?”
“Give up your crossbow.”
Winchester shrugged. “You gave up your ring. It was only fair. 'Sides, if I'd known I was giving it to a shifter—”
“
Sidhe
.”
“She, fae, shifter, whatever, I wouldn't have given him the damn bow in the first place.”
“You looked good with the Amanarath.”
He paused at the compliment and gave her a long look. “It wasn't mine to give. Marley just loaned it to me.”
“The ring I gave Mama Zinka was not mine to offer either. It belonged to Vladimir.” Her gaze locked with his, and he realized for the first time that far more had been attached to that bit of jewelry for her than a betrothal promise. There were shadows of the past in those eyes, secrets she'd yet to reveal to him.
“You really gonna get hitched to the emperor?”
She broke eye contact and stared into the distance, then jerked her chin north. “There's Castle Barranoch. If we hurry we can make it there before daybreak.”
“You didn't answer me, Tessa.” She moved to step away, and he grasped her by the arm, his hold gentle but implacable.
Her face turned up toward his. “If we get through this, and get back the piece of the Book we seek, I will answer you then.”
They walked on through the field that seemed to spread out for miles in the river valley. Winn's skin prickled in warning, and he stopped striding forward through the swish of wet wheatgrass, eyeing the dark hunch of the castle looming ahead of them, its turrets and peaks sharp, black, teeth-like points against the clouds.
Something at Castle Barranoch wasn't right. It seemed too quiet for early morning. There were no sounds of animals or people, no smoke or scent of baking bread that indicated it might be occupied. But then again, these were vampires. Maybe they were just turning in for the night.
Winn gritted his teeth, unable to shake the churning in the pit of his stomach. “You sure your crew is waiting for us?” he asked, caution underscoring his tone.
The contessa closed her eyes and focused. “I can't reach Enric or the others.” She frowned. “They aren't answering.”
“Is there a chance they might have left?”
Alexa turned her head toward the horizon. Predawn light edged it in a paler blue, but the stars and moon still dominated the patches of sky between the clouds overhead. “They were told to wait for us here until we arrived. They wouldn't have defied direct orders.”
He pulled the shotgun from the holster on his back with one smooth motion and yanked down on the lever, cocking it so it was ready to fire. “What exactly did you tell them?”
The contessa locked her gaze with his. “Only to come to Castle Barranoch directly and wait for us. Enric was to tell Count Vernay we required an escort through the forest.”
“You mean the one that never came?”
Alexa nibbled on her bottom lip and nodded.
Around them the tall wheatgrass began to rustle as if a great wind swept through it, but there wasn't even a light breeze. Dark, menacing forms appeared from the grass, the moonlight glinting off their sharply honed weapons. Alexa gasped and huddled closer to Winn.
“Welcome to Castle Barranoch, my Lady Drossenburg and Mr. Jackson. We've been waiting for you.” Goggles with tinted lenses obscured the tall man's eyes. His thick, dark hair swept back over his head, but was neatly trimmed, not touching the collar of his pristine scarlet military jacket with extensive amounts of gold braid. Winn's first guess was British military.
“Who are you?” Winn asked calmly, shifting his center of gravity and making sure Tessa was well clear of any bullet he might have to fire.
The man fidgeted as if he were clicking his heels together—impossible in the long grass—and bowed. “William Wallace Frobisher, lieutenant in Her Majesty's Hunter Service.”
Winn didn't remove his finger from the trigger. And he made no effort to hide the fact that he was prepared to fire if need be. “Hunter Service? What in the blazes is that?”
Frobisher's dark brow rose above the edge of his goggles, and a supercilious sneer curled his lip. “You Slayers are so regressive it's almost amusing, rather like watching the apes at the royal menagerie.” He made a show of stripping the pristine white gloves from his hands one finger at a time. “The Royal Hunter Service is a select branch siphoned off of the ranks of the Legion for special training. We are the most elite Hunters in the world.”
Winn's eyes narrowed with instant dislike. He thought the vampires had been haughty? This Frobisher fella plumb put them to shame. And he hated not being able to see the man's eyes. “The goggles included as part of the assignment?” he gibed.
Frobisher's mouth flattened into a cruel slash across his face. “I was injured during a scientific experiment. The goggles are a necessary inconvenience.”
 
 
Next to Winn, Alexa stiffened, drawing in a quick sharp breath. “You're
that
Frobisher,” she murmured.
The lieutenant's head snapped in her direction, like a pit viper sensing out the heat of its prey. “You know of the North Umbria disaster?”
 
 
Alexa merely nodded demurely in response to his question. Who didn't? It was the reason Sir Marley Turlock had been dismissed from Queen Victoria's cabinet, and had disappeared from public life. Not only had the experiment turned Sir Turlock's hair stark white, it was said to have nearly been blinding in its intensity. Frobisher must not have heeded the warnings to avert his gaze.
Winn glanced at her and back at Frobisher as if trying to assess what was going through her head. She would have loved to tell him, but didn't dare speak it out loud. Among the Darkin, Frobisher had a reputation as the most cruel, vindictive, and power-hungry of Her Majesty's Hunters. He didn't go after just an offending Darkin; he went after everyone they knew, their family, and the community that harbored them. He found ways and means of skirting around such petty things as international treaties.
BOOK: The Slayer
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