Sweet Jesus.
Who she was, I didn’t know. Why she was chained and bound and covered in an iron mask...I didn’t know that either. This was beyond even my own comprehension.
And I’d seen some pretty wild shit.
Although I was hardly an expert on the supernatural, I suspected there was something to the silver that dug into her skin and held the mask in place.
A vampire?
I’d seen my share of such creatures. Whether or not I truly believed they existed, I didn’t know. Part of me—most of me—believed they were nothing more than the wild conjurings of my grief-stricken mind. Still, I had seen things that defied logic. So much so that I had done my best to forget what I had seen.
But this...there was no forgetting this.
Ever.
Whoever she was, she was clearly weak. Her head hung down, her arms suspended from chains. She could have been Joan of Arc awaiting her burning at the stake. She could have been any number of victims, awaiting further brutality at the hands of their tormentors.
Her chest didn’t move. Nothing moved. Dead?
Jesus. I was tempted to pull out my cell and call 911. Hell, call anyone. And tell them what? A woman was chained to a wall beneath Medievaland?
A dead woman, I thought. She’s not breathing.
I was just about to rush to her side when something amazing happened.
She lifted her head.
And looked right at me.
Chapter Seven
Amazingly, she pushed herself up to a sitting position.
Despite the chains—and despite the fact that she was not breathing—she held herself with dignity. I moved forward, squatted before her.
“Who are you?” I asked. No time to waste. I was thinking fast. Take her or come back with a better plan? If we were caught, I had a feeling I wouldn’t be coming back. Ever. I’d be six feet under.
“You should go,” she echoed my thoughts in an accented voice.
I looked at the cup of blood before her. The cup of congealing blood. Blood that had been, I was sure, recently consumed. By her?
Sweet, sweet Jesus.
There was a bendy straw in the cup, the only way to feed her, I guessed, through a tiny hole in the mask in the mouth area.
“Why are you being held here?” I placed my hand on hers just to be sure. Ice cold. I nearly recoiled but didn’t. She was either dead or a...
A vampire.
I’m dreaming, I thought. I’m not really here. Yesterday I was following a cheating spouse. A man who’d been secretly dating his boss. A male boss. Last night I was sitting on the balcony with Roxi, holding her hand. Her very warm hand.
I’m dreaming, I thought again.
No, whispered a soft voice in my thoughts. So soft that I could have heard it next to me. You’re not dreaming, friend. And you are in terrible danger.
Dream or no dream, the eyes behind the mask suddenly widened and shot up behind me. I barely had time to react.
I swung around, my right leg extended so as to hopefully trip whoever was behind me. It worked—for one of my attackers. The element of surprise bought me a precious second or two. I punched the one still standing, hard, but it did little damage. My punches rarely did little damage. My punches generally did a lot of damage. But now my arm rebounded as surely as if I’d hit a side of beef.
Or something not human.
The one I’d tripped was up in a flash. Too fast. Faster than I’d ever seen any man move.
Because he’s not a man, came a thought. A thought, I was alarmed to discover, that was not my own.
I searched the room for a weapon…anything. There were only the silver chains wrapped around the woman. I wouldn’t sink so low as to hide behind a chained woman. I glanced at her, and she gestured to the far corner. Nearly hidden in shadows was an old two-by-four leaning against the wall.
I did get a few punches in as I maneuvered toward the corner. Punches that had little, if any, effect. Indeed, I might have just broken my hand on one of their jaws.
I almost reached the wood, and the door. I had to choose. I didn’t care for either option. I wasn’t keen on the idea of running, but I was less inclined to die.
Just as I lunged for the two-by-four, one of the bastards tripped me, and the other got a hold of the wood instead. The last thing I remembered was trying to cover my head as I saw the blow coming down.
Chapter Eight
The nightmares had changed somewhat over the past couple of years. Locations changed, scenery changed. My son’s screaming and his burning body remained the same. My helplessness to save him always remained. The horror remained.
This time we were at the beach. I’d pulled his burning body from the car. I was carrying him, running like hell toward the ocean. (I know saltwater would really hurt, but this was a dream, right?) If only I could get him wet, he might live. Maybe. But the sand slowed my pace. Try as I might, I wasn’t getting any closer to the water. My son screamed in pain with every step I took. I was thirsty. The ocean water wouldn’t help me but it would save my son. He screeched in agony as I tripped and dropped him on the hot sand.
Christ, I needed water for strength. I wasn’t strong enough to get him to the waves...
I was slapped awake. My first thought was of the dream. My second was that my head felt like someone had used it as a soccer ball. As I opened my eyes, my third thought was instantly upon who’d just slapped me. The night was dark and cold. I reached for my gun but a strong hand stopped me.
A strong, feminine hand.
As my vision cleared, the person who seemingly manifested before me was the last person I’d expected to see. Then again, considering where I had been and what I had just seen, maybe I shouldn’t have been too surprised.
“Veronica.”
My client from two years ago. My client who’d first introduced me to the world of the undead. Or to my own insanity.
“Yeah. You’re welcome,” she said.
We were in an alley, but where, I had no clue. For a second I thought I was going to throw up. I gagged. She stepped back a little. Polite of her. I forced my half-digested medieval dinner to stay put. Next, Veronica helped me to my feet. She was clearly stronger than she looked. She steered me to a small car that was parked just inside the alley.
Later, after she’d put a few miles behind us, she pulled onto a quiet street and stopped the car. She lit a cigarette as I ran my fingers tenderly around the back of my head. Two giant lumps. Oh, goody.
“Smoking’s bad for your health,” I said, wincing. “Cuts years off your life.”
She laughed. “So does getting your head bludgeoned.”
I didn’t laugh. I didn’t say anything either. I was still processing the night. I was still processing the fact that I was now sitting next to an old client of mine. A client who, I was certain, was now very much a creature of the night.