Blood Brothers (17 page)

Lucy couldn't stop. Her fingers fairly flew across the pages.

She could read it, though the words made no real sense to her. And with every brief touch, something seemed to stir within her heart. Sorrow? Familiarity? Longing? Lucy couldn't tell, though at some deeper, more instinctive level, she felt that some connection had been made.

But she was growing tired. Her hands were beginning to shake; her head was aching. Whatever had happened just now had taken far more out of her than she'd realized. Despite her fascination, she knew she had to rest.

And so she turned just one page farther.

And felt the shock go through her like a knife.

There before her was a sketch of an angel.

An angel with no face.

An angel that cradled a rotting skull beneath its great, soft wings . . .

She'd seen that angel before.

Seen four of them, in fact.

Lucy's strength drained out of her in a rush.

She wanted to look away, but she couldn't.

Her eyes went over every detail of the featureless face, the mighty wings, the macabre skull. Something had been written just beneath them—sharp, slanted letters much larger, much bolder, than all the others. And even though her stamina was spent, Lucy knew she had no choice—she
had
to know the meaning of these words.

She pressed her trembling fingers to the page.

And in her mind, the mystery fell away.

He would have to feed, and feed soon.

It was the only way he could heal completely, gain back his strength.

His physical wounds had mended, as they always did. And though he had managed to exist for a while on what was convenient and readily available, it was not the nourishment his soul demanded.

He had never lacked for prey before, never known starvation.

Bus stops had proved to be natural, never-ending sources. Homeless shelters, soup kitchens, and abandoned buildings. Filthy street corners and flophouses, subways and subterranean tunnels—all havens for the hopeless and indigent, the ones never missed or mourned.

Blood banks were a little trickier, of course. And hospitals always required that extra bit of caution, though he had certainly foraged enough of them through the years with no mishaps whatsoever.

Nursing homes were no challenge at all.

And grave robbing was a delicate art he had long ago honed to sheer perfection. That consummate mixture of skill and timing and speed—the undetected rearranging of soil and spoiling flowers. With or without blood, the flesh was still tasty. All worth the risk taking, all worth the thrill.

Just thinking of it now made him ravenous.

His pace lengthened, and his body flowed.

He prowled a quiet neighborhood, past house after house of locked doors that could never keep him out. He briefly considered returning to the park, then decided against it. Not wise to strike in the same location again so soon—better to keep a low profile, at least for a few more nights.

Breathing deeply of the raw, cold air, he detected the scent of . . .

He frowned and tested the air again.

He'd never been keen on children—only when there was no other possible way, only when his hand was forced, only in the most dire and desperate of circumstances. And even then, he was always left with a half-empty feeling, a sense of discontent.

This child was still three blocks away; he had two young parents with him, and an old grandfather, and a dog.

No, he decided impatiently, even as hunger pains ripped through his belly. No . . . even as he started to salivate . . .

No.
Too much trouble for too little satisfaction.

Swiftly he ran in the opposite direction, his thoughts on survival, his thoughts on Lucy.

His body quivered, and his hunger grew.

She had drawn him there tonight, to the old bookshop, to the old part of town. With the first oozing of blood from that cut on her scalp, his body had craved, and his appetite surged. She had not known, of course, and the wound was inconsequential at worst. But still, he had needed to see for himself that she was safe and relatively unharmed.

Once reassured, it had amused him to stand against the door and shut her in. To make the creaking sounds upon the floor. To hear the growing panic in her voice, until every crack and crevice of the building was filled with Lucy's fear.

He had breathed it in like a prisoner too long without air.

But tonight he had tired very quickly of sport. Even before that bookcase had come crashing down while he'd watched from the safety of the hall.

You'll have to be much quicker than that, Lucy.

Her defiance had excited him and made him restless. His hunger was too great, and the scent of her blood too much a torment. When she was his at last, then he would toy with her as long, and as slowly, as he pleased.

And she would love him for it all the more.

But now he must feed, and feed soon.

Perhaps in the wilderness tonight, outside the confines of the town.

He never forgot how much he missed it, or how good it felt to come back. The silent woods, deep and dark with secrets . . . the hills flowing endlessly toward the stars. Snow unspoiled by plows, and roads that stretched unwalked for miles and miles.

His
woods—
his
stars—
his
moonswept sky.

Only now, his moon was hidden by the clouds, and sleet ripped down in razors, slicing his face like scars. He embraced the cold; it stung, and it was bitter. His silky hair, his sinuous shadow, ethereal as smoke . . .

But what was this?

From a distance he saw it, abandoned in a snowbank. It was coated thickly in ice. Old and rusty and undependable, and conveniently unlocked.

He recognized it at once, for he knew this truck well.

Polluting the streets of Pine Ridge, chauffeuring family and friends, parked at the festival, the cemetery, the church. At the soup kitchen and at Lucy's . . .

He opened the door, eyes narrowing.

A
very
long walk, in fact, down these snow-sunken country roads. Where the night lured and confused. Where the sounds of unearthly howling were not always made by the wind. And where uncertain detours led almost certainly to dead ends.

He reached one hand toward the passenger seat.

His lips curled into a smile.

The annoying brother had been here most recently, but Lucy had been here before that. Those moments of laughter were still here—he could sense them. Those rare moments of happiness he so marveled at.

Those moments of happiness he was so seldom a part of . . .

Lifting his head, he sniffed the frozen air, then groaned with an all-consuming hunger.

They were coming back to the truck now, and they were cold and tired.

He slipped inside and crouched low on the seat.

He rested.

And waited

And planned.

“So, I hear you're spending this afternoon with Mrs. Wetherly.”

“A couple hours, I think.”

Lucy tucked the receiver under her chin and tried to pull on her socks.

“Am I good, or what?” Matt teased.

“You're perfect.” What was it Dakota always liked to say?
Just because he's a priest doesn't mean he's dead?

“Then why the glum voice? I thought you'd be bouncing off the walls with joy.”

“I . . .” Lucy made a valiant effort to show some enthusiasm. “I'm really happy.”

“I've heard happy, and believe me, that's not it.” There was a shuffling sound as though he were sifting through papers. “What's going on?”

But instead of giving her a chance to answer, Matt asked, “Have you seen Dakota?”

“You mean, today?”

“We were supposed to meet at the soup kitchen this morning, but she never showed up.”

Lucy winced. She'd promised to meet Dakota there, too, and she'd completely forgotten about it.

“She might not be home yet. She was at her aunt and uncle's last night, and her dad told her to stay over if the roads were too bad.”

“That makes sense.”

“I'll have her call you, if I hear from her,” Lucy promised. “And thanks, Matt. For setting this up with Gran.”

“I'm just glad things worked out so well. So here's the plan. You're supposed to be at her house at noon to have lunch. Mrs. Dempsey's cooking up a feast. And I'm going with you.”

“For me? Or for the feast?”

“Hmmm. It's a toss-up.”

As another telephone rang in the background, Matt sounded annoyed.

“Lucy, can you hang on for just a second? I hate to put you on hold, but I need to take this for Father Paul.”

“It's okay.”

Obligingly, Lucy sat down on her bed and finished pulling up her socks. Matt was right—she
should
be overjoyed about staying with Gran. Yet suddenly, what had been so important to her before didn't seem like such a priority.

Not with that book to think about.

Not with Jared to take care of.

Because of the bad weather, she hadn't been able to see him this morning. She wondered if he was cold and hungry or if his wound had somehow gotten worse. Or if someone had found him. She felt responsible for him; she needed to be there.

She needed to know he was okay.

She needed to know if a
lot
of things were okay.

She'd already tried Dakota's house five times this morning, but no one had answered.

Lucy had so much to tell her.

Especially about the book . . .

She'd taken the book with her last night.

And it wasn't as though she'd planned it, either—it had just sort of happened.

She'd been sitting there on the couch in the bookstore, still stunned from the last thing she'd read. She'd seen Mr. Montana hurrying into the courtyard, then bursting through the door on a blast of icy wind. And she'd simply slipped the book into her backpack. Slipped it right in without a second thought.

“Taxi at your service,” Mr. Montana had greeted her. “I think I'm supposed to take you home.”

“Where's Dakota?”

“Well, she got stuck out at her aunt and uncle's house. Those country roads are impossible in this kind of weather.”

“Is she okay?”

“Oh, sure. I told her to just spend the night there. You'd better leave your car, too, Lucy. And keep the doors unlocked so they won't freeze. You girls can come back and pick it up later.”

He'd flicked the light switch several times, then frowned.

“Looks like the power's out again. Oh, well. Every single time we have sleet like this.”

“I'm really sorry about getting locked in, Mr. Montana.”

“Oh, it's happened before. And it'll probably happen again. The worst thing would be if you didn't like books.” He'd smiled and ushered her out the door. “Come on, let's get you home.”

So she'd taken the book, but she still felt guilty afterward. A little. She told herself it was just a loan; that as soon as she finished with it, she'd return it and hide it back behind the bricks, and no one would ever have to know.

But in her heart, she had no intention of giving it back.

She didn't understand why, exactly.

She just
had
to have that book.

She'd felt so conspicuous in Mr. Montana's car, as though she had “thief ” written all over her face. She couldn't wait to get inside and up to her room, but Irene was waiting for her in the living room.

“Lucy, where on earth have you been? I thought you were studying tonight.”

Lucy waved good-bye to Mr. Montana. She shut the front door, shook the sleet off her coat, and stomped her shoes on the mat. “We
were
studying.”

“Where's the car? How did you get home?”

“Mr. Montana brought me—he didn't want me driving on the ice. He told me to leave the car and pick it up tomorrow.”

She wished Irene would stop talking. She could hardly keep herself from pulling out the book and reading it on the spot.

“Lucy?”

“What?” She'd been so anxious about tonight, about Matt and Irene talking. Discussing her future and a new place to live. But as Lucy stood there holding her backpack, she hadn't been able to concentrate on anything else but the book.

“Lucy, sit down. I want to talk to you.”

That's when she'd gotten that sudden, sinking feeling that Matt's visit had all been for nothing. She'd lowered herself onto the couch and braced herself for bad news. She'd thought about the book. Her heart sank to her toes.

“As I'm sure you know,” Irene began, “Father Matt and I had quite an interesting talk tonight.”