To Love (Vampire Assassin League Book 21) (2 page)

Agony ripped through him. Burning. Owning. And then claiming. Cullen’s legs wobbled and then gave. He fell to his knees. Absolute fire was erupting from the middle of his back. It raced down both legs, and then it sent another dose of flames rocketing through his right side.

Cullen reached for a skean. His right arm didn’t obey the command. That hand was curled into an awkward-looking fist. His legs weren’t much better. They still held him from dropping completely, but he didn’t know how. Whatever was in his back had done some sort of damage...but that just wasn’t possible. Unless it was a wooden stake.

Then he was just lucky the blow had been low.

His thoughts raced. Tangled. He’d been stupid. Rash. His attacker wasn’t Alton Lang. Cullen could still see his quarry. The man was just this side of a stone column, his arms upheld to the rain-filled night sky in seeming abeyance to pagan gods. Cullen’s attacker must be the accomplice, the stunning redhead who was in disguise as a man. He’d miscalculated. And now he was paying the price. But something else was happening to him. Something that overrode and obliterated the threat still standing behind him. Something awful and yet wondrous.

He could
feel
pain.

By the Gaelic god, Lu!

He shouldn’t be here. He could have waited for another opportunity. Watched. Trailed. He should have avoided Stonehenge...and whatever was happening. He didn’t understand it and he sure as hell didn’t like it. He’d gone hundreds of years without feeling sensation of any kind. Why did the first experience have to be agony? He didn’t remember pain being so...excruciating. Debilitating. His cry of pain had been instinctive. Justified. It didn’t matter. That outburst went completely against his personal creed. The only legitimate son of Clan Corrick never gave sign of injury. Ever. Such a thing announced a man’s weakness.

And that’s when he got angered.

Red colored over the view, staining it. Rain no longer slicked the scene, catching flicks from waiting vehicle headlights. No. It was washed with red, bright with energy, and full of rage. Cullen wasn’t ambidextrous, but his left hand was competent enough. He pulled a skean from his belt, spun on knees he didn’t control, and slashed upward and across. The thin, frail-looking gent – who was also the stunning redheaded woman – had a look of shock on her face. He’d been close on her height. Even standing, she was just below him. The skean slashed across carotid arteries, nearly severing her head. Cullen got doused with blood, coming in spurts that matched her dying heart. It turned everything redder, thicker, darker, and warmer. The shocked look froze in place as her body sagged, going to its knees beside him, before lurching sideways, and landing with any ungraceful thud onto the rain-soaked grass.

Cullen watched her. His canines tingled in reaction as the blood flow slowed. He ignored the reaction. No time to feed. No need. And no desire. He swiped his skean across his thigh before securing it back beneath his belt. Good. His left arm was still functioning. With any luck he could reach his feet. Somehow get the weapon from his back. Hide. And regenerate. Rain was washing evidence away. Obliterating the corpse. Cleaning the grass. And him. It should also be cooling.

It wasn’t.

He didn’t know how he regained his feet. Unbelievable pain accompanied the movement. It burned through every layer of skin and sinew he possessed. Bone-deep. The sensation licked at his strength as well as his mobility, making both questionable. Cullen lurched a step, stumbled two more in order to stay upright, stayed in that position for a moment. Then another. It looked like Alton Lang had a stay of execution. For now. Cullen wasn’t capable. He was losing life fluid. He was shaking. And damn everything, he was having difficulty drawing breath, as if he actually needed the air.

Wait a moment.

He was
breathing
?

None of this was possible. The world had gone topsy-turvy. A great black void was definitely coming into view about him, too. It leached through the rain-filled night to surround and then encase the monolithic structure. And then it encroached closer. It reached where Alton Lang still stood. That was another oddity. Alton hadn’t noticed anything? No one had? None of the cabbies whiling away time in their vehicles acted any different. None of the tourists huddled in groups beneath umbrellas or racing to their buses seemed changed.

Nothing looked different at all.

But it was.

And then, as if a beacon of light emanated from it, a figure loomed into the forefront of his vision. Cullen blinked against the onslaught of oblivion. Narrowed his eyes. Focused. Shoved the pain as far back into his consciousness as he could. And somehow he managed a step toward the person. Another. They got easier the closer he got. The image grew more distinct. It was a lass. In a long skirt. Her back was to him. He couldn’t tell her age. Nationality. Description. None of that mattered, either. Something about her was special. Something that brought tears to his eyes before he blinked them back with studied precision. Rainfall obliterated things like bloodied corpses and woman-tears. Cullen still refused to shed them. He’d already cried aloud. Sobs would further unman him. It took every ounce of control he could muster just to keep his legs moving.

He stumbled more than once, fell to his knees twice. Both times, he called on reserves of strength to get back up and continue toward her. He had to. There was something pulling at him. Something as unbelievable as it was inexorable. He was almost upon her when she finally turned toward him, showing that she possessed skin as clear as porcelain, large eyes of an indeterminate shade, and perfectly shaped lips that were moving.

He couldn’t hear her words. The blackness had gotten a lot closer. He didn’t know how. Or when. Everything about her was an indecipherable shade of night. Rain-filled. Pain-wracked. Desperate.

“Lass? Please? Help me.”

“H-h-help you?”

She had the sweetest voice! And her words stuttered. What had to be his heart flickered in rhythm.

“My...back.”

The last word was barely audible. He added to the frail impression by dropping to a knee. His left hand shook as it grabbed for hers. The instant he touched her fingers, he knew what was happening.
He knew!
The miraculous had occurred. He’d found his mate. His one and only. His true love. He’d found her...through the vast plane of time, and the amazing reach of space.

And he was too weak to claim her.

The seer’s words came to him. That’s what he’d meant? Cullen would find his one chance at happiness...only to lose it? That’s when the black oblivion, foretold so long ago, reached out and grabbed him. Cullen fell. Face down.

Oh heavens, Marla!

This wasn’t happening. Not to her. Not in the dark aftermath of the fall equinox at Stonehenge. It wasn’t possible. The most amazing, large, muscled, young, handsome – she needed more descriptors here – male she’d ever seen had just appeared? And then fallen at her feet? And he needed help?

She was beside him next, soaking her skirt. She didn’t notice. She was running her hands over an impossibly broad back. He’d said his back. He spoke in a really thick brogue, making the words almost indecipherable, but that’s what he’d said. Damn this rain! Damn the dark! Damn every stupid tourist who’d run for cover and were probably in the van getting to their seats!

There!

Her fingers touched something. It was in the center of his back, right along his spine. He had a round, fist-sized knob protruding from him. The knob was atop a squared piece and that was shoved up against his skin. Was this a...knife? An icepick? He’d been stabbed? In the back? Marla wrapped the fingers of both hands about the knob.

Wait. Marla. Think.

She didn’t know what to do. She was versed in first-aid procedures. CPR. She’d learned both years ago, for insurance purposes, when she’d bought her store. She didn’t know much about trauma care. Maybe she shouldn’t pull it out. What if it had pierced his lungs? Or something...worse? Was there anything worse? It might be working as a stopper. If she pulled it out, he might bleed to death.

The implications if she damaged him were huge.

But...what would happen if she left it in him? Could it work its way deeper? Was it scraping arteries? Causing more internal damage? Was that worse?

“Help me! I need a doctor over here!”

Marla yelled it over her shoulder in the general direction of the parking area. Maybe somebody would hear her and come. Maybe somebody who knew what to do. Somebody who’d—

“Pull...it out, lass! Now.”

The man interrupted her unspoken questions, spitting the words between heaves of breath. For some reason, she instantly felt reassured. Confident. Decided. Marla leaned above him for leverage. Tightened her fingers. And pulled upward. She was trying to match the same path the weapon had used when it entered. The man rocked slightly. The weapon didn’t budge. Her fingers slid off.

“Again!”

He didn’t sound weak. He sounded angered. She didn’t hesitate. Marla went to her feet, put a knee on his back, grabbed onto the knob in both hands, and yanked upward, freeing him.

His cry of pain matched hers of exultation. And then somebody’s bellow added to the sound.

“What the devil have you done?”

It was Stephen. She could tell, because he still wore the white Druid costume. It was drenched now and glued to him, making him appear ghostlike as he reached her. He had the guide with him and a few others. Marla didn’t count. She didn’t care. Somebody had a flashlight directed at her, blinding her. The others appeared to be holding phones up and recording this.

Sometimes she really detested humanity.

“Here!” She shoved the icepick thing at Stephen. Surprisingly, he took it. “Help me with him!” She gestured to the man at her feet, and everyone trained their lights and phones down toward him.

“You killed him?”

“I removed it! Excuse me. I’ve got to put pressure on the wound!”

Marla yanked her Peruvian sweater over her head, dislodging hair pins and the sunglasses. A moment later and she was beside the man again, her sweater shoved against the wound. Several pin-dots of light from cell phones followed her.
Odd
. The wound didn’t look as gruesome as it should.

“You
bastard
!”

Marla looked up just in time to watch a crazed-looking man attack Stephen. The guide moved his light, aiming it directly at the scene. There was a collective gasp as the attacker came into view. He resembled a mental ward escapee or something. He was long-haired. Sported an equally long beard. He held a short, wicked-looking sword. It was upraised. Frightening. Light flickered off it as he moved it, slashing at Stephen.

Marla’s mouth dropped open. Everything else was frozen in place. It happened so fast. One second the ghostlike apparition of Stephen in his Druid robe was standing holding a murderous-looking icepick in his hand, and the next moment, the mental ward escapee was staggering back, the knobbed handle protruding from his chest.

And every cell phone jumped to record it.

“Do something!”

Stephen was screaming it. It took a few seconds before Marla realized he was directed it to her.

“Me?”

“You’re the medical expert! Do something!”

“Like what?” she asked.

“CPR! Mouth-to-mouth! I don’t know! Just do it! Oh my God! I’ve killed someone!”

Marla didn’t answer. Everyone else filled the space with orders. Outbursts. She touched the Highlander first. He felt warm. He was breathing evenly enough. She crawled over to where the second victim had fallen, ignoring all the yelling and confusion about her.

“No. No. It was self-defense!”

“An accident!”

“We’ve got video!”

“It’ll be fine, mate! Truly! We’re all witnesses.”

“Well, somebody start calling! We’re going to need ambulances. Police! News crews!”

“Oh! This is so exciting!”

News crews? Exciting?

Nobody made a move to follow Marla with any light. They were too busy; reassuring Stephen, talking about how exciting it all was, making calls. Nobody thought of filming the attacker. Or her. There were more lights getting added to the scene, as lots more people spewed from their vehicles. Unfortunately, they added more loud words and confusion into the scene.

She reached the wild-looking man.

The fellow was jerking on the wet ground, struggling for breath. Each one contained a gurgling sound. There wasn’t anything anybody could do. He’d been stabbed directly in the chest. She knelt beside him, and felt for breath. Found his beard. Mustache. Her fingers touched lips covered with warm liquid. It wasn’t rain. And when she moved her hand back, his entire beard came with it.

Marla stared at the hank of facial hair uncomprehendingly, aware only of her own heartbeats. Loud. Heavy. Frightened.

“Edina Station.”

The man spoke, gasping between words. Marla looked from the beard in her hand back to him.

“What?” she asked.

“Edina! Remember...that!”

“Don’t talk, okay?” Marla told him.

“Start...with sixty-eight.”

“Please, don’t speak. They’ve called an ambulance.”

“Then four!”

He gave her another number. This one came with a coughing spell that lasted long moments.

“And...twenty-two. You got...it?”

His voice was barely audible at the end. She didn’t know much about death, but she didn’t need to. Something told her he wasn’t going to need an ambulance. And finally, several of the witnesses decided to come over and check on the situation. They brought their video-recording phones. With lights. As though they needed to record his death throes.

“You need to hush, Mister. Okay? Just...hush.”

He answered her with a garbled bit of noise. And then he stilled.

“Here.” Marla lifted the beard upward. Somebody took it. She didn’t know who. She didn’t want to know. A Druid robe got added to the scene as somebody used it to cover the body. That was macabre.

“He was wearing a false beard?”

Somebody asked it. She didn’t reply. Marla stumbled to her feet. Her entire body was experiencing a tingling sensation. The headache was coming back. This time it was really going to be hell. Throbs of ache were just starting to ping through her temples. She needed to check on the Highlander guy. Make sure he was still okay. It wasn’t but eight, maybe ten steps to get back to where he’d fallen. Or...where she remembered him.

Something was very wrong here. The Highlander was gone. There was a crowd of people standing about, mucking up the area for any investigation. More lights got added to the scene. Flashing lights. Colored lights. While the noise grew correspondingly. Marla looked at the grass where he’d been. She wasn’t mistaken. It was still dented from the man’s large frame. She walked through the crowd next, intent on the Highlander. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. He’d disappeared? It wasn’t possible.

She’d ask someone, but her head was really starting to hurt. She was having difficulty thinking around the pain. One thing for certain, she hadn’t imagined him. The icepick that had killed the false-bearded man came from somewhere. Her Peruvian sweater was missing. She’d also lost Chad’s ring and her sunglasses. If she didn’t miss her guess, she was headed toward a bit of time in an English police station, too, whatever that entailed.

Marla returned to where the Highlander had been. Rubbed at her temples while she considered where he’d lain. It was still just as empty, although the grass wasn’t as flattened as it had been.

Wow.

If this was her destiny, she wanted a refund.