Vanquished (12 page)

“No,” she murmured. “Please.”

Did Antonio stir?

She glanced his way. Her heart skipped a beat as she studied him. She didn’t want to look under the blanket. Antonio could function in the daylight if he had to, although it made him very tired. But when he rested, he looked dead: his eyes half-open and unfocused; his lips parted, revealing his fangs. She and he had broken into vampire lairs and staked sleeping vampires together. What did he think when he looked down on them split seconds before he turned them to dust?

“Jenn,” Antonio whispered from beneath the blanket.

She blinked and set down her teacup. Remaining where she was, she took a breath.

“Yes?” she said.

“Could you . . . ?” The blanket moved. His hand slid slowly from beneath it, as if it weighed a ton, and he fumbled at the edge, as if trying to pull it off his face. “
Ay,
Jenn.”

She touched the cross she wore around her neck; then, flushing, she reached into a bag and pulled out the stake she had whittled from a tree branch after they had landed. Hefting it in her right hand, she lowered her arm to her side as she got up and walked over to him, then cautiously knelt beside him.

She pulled the blanket from his face. His brown eyes—not red—focused on her, and he smiled.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I . . .” He looked away. “I had a dream.”

She raised her brows. “I thought vampires didn’t dream.”

He kept his face averted. “I guess sometimes they do.” He spoke so softly that she could barely hear him.

“What was it?” She was almost afraid to ask. No, that was wrong. She
was
afraid to ask. It had obviously troubled him. So it probably hadn’t been a dream, but a nightmare.

“I dreamed . . .” His voice trailed off again. He turned his head back toward her. “It’s so crazy, but I keep thinking that maybe the Brotherhood . . . that they can change me.”

Her heart broke a little.

A lot.

“But they can’t,” she replied. “Father Juan said.” Still, she gazed at him and wondered if he knew something she didn’t. Maybe he wasn’t telling her everything, in case it didn’t work.

“I hate what I am,” he said. “Cursed. God can’t turn His face to mine.”

She swallowed down her shock. Antonio always talked about a loving God who accepted all sinners. He spent half his time praying to God, and he helped Father Juan with saying Mass and doing all kinds of religious duties. After all that, was he saying that this same God had rejected him?

“You know Father Juan would hit you if he heard you say that,” she managed. “Or make you say a hundred Hail Marys or wash the chapel floor with a toothbrush. Because
he doesn’t think God hates you.” She took a breath. “And on a good day? You don’t think that either.”

He didn’t smile. Glancing at the window, with its faded brown curtains pulled shut against the sun, he pushed himself up on one elbow. His hair was tousled, and he looked like any guy in bed waking up from a nap. She was embarrassed and slightly flustered. She’d never seen any guy wake up beside her except for her teammates—including Antonio—and that was when they were on a mission.

We’re on a mission right now,
she thought, but the air around them was electric, the way it felt before a thunderstorm. Gazing into his eyes, she tried to remember that not too long ago they had glowed like rubies as he bragged about the people he had slaughtered. But that was after Aurora had tortured and starved him, and Skye’s stalker boyfriend had cast spells on him. That had forced him to turn evil.

Was he truly free of their influence now?

“I believe that this curse stands between God and me,” Antonio said. “I believe I must work night and day to find His mercy. You know that if I were a man, then I would become a priest. And I could never marry.”

Her face went hot. She was mortified. And his words cut her like a knife.

“I’m not old enough to get married,” she blurted, dying inside. She was hurt, angry, humiliated. “But why would you want to be a priest if you think God cursed you?”

He cocked his head. “He didn’t curse me. Sergio Almodóvar did.”

“But if He’s God, then . . . I don’t get it, Antonio. Why didn’t he protect you?”

“Our understanding of Him is so limited,” Antonio replied. “But I put my trust in Him, and I pray for answers.”

“Answers to what?”

“To questions I don’t even know how to ask.” He touched her hair, and she closed her eyes at the whisper-light touch, so gentle.

Right now.

He was confusing her, scaring her a little. She opened her eyes and gripped the stake down at her side. His fingertips trailed to her temple and grazed her earlobe. His long lashes glistened—was he crying?—as he closed his eyes and sighed.

“Jenn,” he whispered, “when I was a man, I never . . .” He lowered his head slightly. “I was never
with
anyone.”

She cleared her throat. “Me, neither,” she confessed. “For a Cali girl I’m, ah, behind the times,” she added, trying to cut the tension that was building between them.

“This is a coarse age,” he said. “Even before the war. Women pressured to parade around half dressed. Men aren’t taught to respect women. To treat them as special, and sacred. When I was . . . when I lived in my village, I was taught to stand up if a woman walked into the room. I would carry her parcels. I would open doors.”

His shoulders rounded, and for a moment she could see his age in his eyes. He was nearly ninety years old. Older even than Papa Che, the grandfather she had worshipped, and had lost so recently. She’d gone to California to attend Papa Che’s funeral, and that was when her father had betrayed her and Heather to the vampires.

“I just wanted to watch out for you, protect you,” he said brokenly. When he looked at her, he was young again, and it was almost as if he glowed. It made her catch her breath. It nearly made her cry. She shouldn’t love him. It was stupid and hopeless. But she did.

“And you’ve watched out for me,” she said. Her voice broke.

“I will always watch out for you,” Antonio murmured. He leaned toward her.

He’s going to kiss me.
Her heart beat furiously; her body responded.
But we shouldn’t. Not now.

She thought she told him not to, but all she heard was silence. No words spoken, none possible or necessary as Antonio grabbed her hand and kissed it, then cradled it against his chest.

“Ay, mi amor,”
he whispered.
“Mi luz. Mi alma.”
My love. My light. My soul. She understood enough Spanish to understand what he was saying. But she didn’t understand
him
.

“Look at me, Jenn. Look at the one who loves you,” he murmured, letting go of her hair and lacing his fingers behind her head. Then somehow her head was tipping
back, as he bent her backward, and she was staring up into his eyes. His deep, brown eyes with heavy, dark brows, his forehead creased with emotion. His eyes . . .

“Look at me,” he said again.

His red eyes.

Oh, no,
she thought, but the words slipped away into somewhere, some dream or hope or other place. She tried to look away, but his gaze was locked onto her, and she had to stare into his red, glowing eyes. Her heart was beating so hard she knew it was going to burst. She couldn’t break away. He was cold against her skin as he gripped her shoulders, looming over her,
willing
her to arch her back, bare her neck.

Stop. Stop him,
she thought, but those words slipped away too. Her heart . . . it hurt. She clenched her fists. Where was the stake? She was no longer holding the stake. Antonio was going to bite her. He was going to take her blood.
Antonio.

Evil.

His eyes.

His fangs.

THIS SITE IS CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.

Jamie grunted as he put the motorcycle he had stolen
into idle and stationed his booted foot down on the tarmac. His gaze moved from the large metal sign to Stonehenge itself. The large circle of stones was fenced off with chain-link.

That was the English for you, telling you they were sorry while they inconvenienced you to your grave and back.
We apologize for breaking your country into bits. We apologize for the fact that there was no Irish Hunter to save your people from being ripped apart by werewolves.

He’d thought to blend in with the tourists in order to have a look round. But there were no tourists to be seen. War had a way of taking the fun out of life.

Along with the bike, Jamie had stolen plenty of food and drink to tide him over until nightfall, when it would be safer for him to
inconvenience
the security fence. But as he scanned the horizon, he saw no evidence that anyone was about.

He wasn’t one for waiting when he could be doing something. But his heart squeezed in his chest when he realized that he
was
waiting—for Eriko to tell him what to do. She’d been their leader, their Hunter, until she’d resigned and given the job to Jenn, who’d promptly gotten her killed.

“Eri,” he whispered aloud, and it was a vow.

For revenge.

Payback.

Sod it, he was going in now.

Jamie rolled the motorcycle past the sign, right up to the padlock, and turned off the engine. Sliding off, he picked up
a stone and tossed it at the chain-link. It landed with a clink and dropped to the ground. He got close beside the fence and listened for a hum. As far as he could tell, it was not electrified, but you never knew.

During his trek, he had “acquired” some more weapons and stashed them in the hard saddlebags—it really was a nice bike—and now he flicked open one of the bags and got out his shiny new Uzi. He wished the gun with the wooden bullets were operational. On the other hand, not many suckers likely to be about in broad daylight.

Yet.

Jamie spat on the ground as bile filled his mouth. Rarely did Jamie O’Leary admit to a fear, much less a sickening fear, but he knew the other side was experimenting with creating vampires that could walk in the sun. If they succeeded, Jamie figured it was all over for the human race. They’d show their true colors then. It wasn’t just some humans they hated. It was everybody. Then they’d set those supersoldier hybrids on the folks, save out some humans for breeding and bleeding. And as for the rest . . .

Bloody hell.

He slung the neck strap over his head and sighted back along the road. Aimed the barrel at the padlock. Ricochet might be a problem. Then again . . .

He pressed the trigger and the Uzi blasted to life like God’s own staple gun.

. . . it might not.

There was nothing left of the padlock when he stopped. Or of the gate it had been attached to. He stepped through and shortly after flattened himself against one of the stone faces. It rose about ten feet above his head, and he squinted up, looking for cameras. Then he pushed aside short grass with the tip of his boot. He saw no evidence that anyone was doing anything at Stonehenge. And if they were stockpiling herbs, then they were burying them.

No problem.

Jamie sauntered back to the motorcycle, pulled out a shovel with a telescoping handle, set it to rights, and started digging. Breezes filtered through his hair. He hadn’t had time to shave his head in an age. Another thing he had to thank this bloody war for.

After he’d made a sizable number of fairly deep holes, he stopped for another cigarette and a sandwich he’d stolen. Kate had been right about London. The Cursers had taken over everything. It was much worse than Spain, or even America. What was Northern Ireland like? Once he’d found Skye, he was going to find that out too.

I’m leaving that lot,
he thought, picturing Jenn and her loser companions.
I’ll make Skye come with me. They’re going to die, and no sense dying with ’em.

Blisters rose on his hands, and he liked them. He liked hard work. Never one for settin’ about on his arse.

But as he took a breather, he surveyed his kingdom of holes and shook his head. It really didn’t look as if anyone
had been here for a long time. Especially not witches. There was none of their kit—no dried flower petals or candle wax or little bits of incense.

Scowling, he pulled out the scrying stone Father Juan had given him. As always, the smooth-faced rectangular crystal was blank. If it was working, it reconfirmed that Skye was still out of range.

So . . . if once he rescued her, he really did go back to Ireland, did it matter if he found the bloody herb Father Juan was looking for?

“The hell with it,” Jamie said, throwing down his shovel. He fell back against one of the towering stones, then slid down to the dirt on his arse. He turned the scrying stone over and over in his hands. He knew Father Juan didn’t like him. Maybe he’d given him a chunk of crystal with no magickal properties whatsoever and sent him off to England just to be rid of him.

“Jamie, lad, how can you think that?” he asked himself in a mocking tone. “Father Juan is your priest.”

Yeah, and it was a priest that had let werewolves kill his family. Jamie was fairly certain his own grandfather had gunned down the priest in retaliation.

It was the O’Leary way.

“Damn it, Father Juan,” Jamie said aloud.

Then, as he looked up at the sky, thick gray clouds bubbled out of nowhere and rushed to cover the sun. The sky turned gunmetal gray. The clouds boiled.

A flash of lightning leaped from the clouds and struck the megalith across from him. The whole thing lit up like a neon sign.

The one he was leaning against began to vibrate and hum. And to grow hot.

“Bloody hell!” he shouted, leaping to his feet.

A new bolt of lightning hit the ground inches from his feet. A jagged fissure burst open, and Jamie darted to the left.

A harsh wind whirled around him, spraying him with dirt. He heard the whine of a motorcycle engine in the distance. He cocked his head. Not just one, then. Not even just two. Many.