Читать книгу Bonded by Blood - Laurie London - Страница 8

AT THE CEMETERY, Mackenzie retied the red bandanna, flung her thick braids in front of her shoulders and grabbed her notepad. With the sun already dipping below the tops of the trees, she had only an hour or so to wrap things up.

Squinting in the direction she came, she estimated the distance from the paved road to the cemetery entrance. It was too far to pace off. A mile? Two miles? She’d clock it on the odometer when she left. After measuring the width of the gravel road, she scribbled the figures in her notebook. The camera and equipment trucks took up a lot of space, as did the large special effects trailer, but this road had no shoulder. Where would they all park? They’d have to drive the rigs in single-file. Would there even be enough room to pass another vehicle if they needed to move one closer? Access might be the real problem here.

Her research seemed correct that this was an old logging road, but she jumped back on her bike to explore a little farther.

Just around the corner, a rickety bridge spanned what was probably Bear Creek and her stomach sank. With a missing railing and cracked wooden slats, it couldn’t accommodate a heavy vehicle. The crew wouldn’t be able to park beyond the bridge, which didn’t give them a lot of room. After snapping a couple of pictures anyway, she climbed on the bike and headed back to the cemetery entrance.

At least it was only a one- or two-day shoot with none of the main actors and only a handful of extras. They didn’t need to accommodate a huge catering facility and provide private dressing rooms. Most of it was just special effects stuff. Yeah, maybe it could still work.

She licked a fingertip and flipped through the pages of her notebook. It looked like she’d gotten everything. After she tucked the pad and camera into the saddlebag, she grabbed her gun and stuffed it into her pocket. Now it was time for a different set of answers. Maybe something in the cemetery would jump-start her memory.

The clearing was cool and damp and the wind whispered through the branches of the trees, lifting them in an orchestrated wave as if welcoming her back. She took a deep breath and shivered, nervous about what she may find.

Stepping over the headstones, she swept her gaze over the pale green mounds of tufted grass and weeds that seemed to cover everything. She spied a familiar marker but wasn’t sure if she recognized it from being here yesterday or from the photos she’d reviewed back home today.

Then she spotted it. Her portable tripod. It lay on its side, still fully extended, as if she had removed the camera and left it there. How could that have happened? It was almost second nature to grab it when she did a shoot. Camera strap around the neck, unhook the camera, grab the tripod, fold up the legs. She’d done it so many times and she’d never left it behind before. Had she been distracted or startled yesterday? A chill snaked up her spine.

Distracted or startled by what?

She turned slowly, making a complete circle as her eyes combed the forest perimeter. Did this look familiar? Yes, maybe.

Drawn to the sound of water, she zigzagged around the crumbled tombstones to the edge of the cemetery. Beneath the canopy of a huge old cedar, she saw a large pile of leaves and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She slipped a hand into her pocket and touched the gun for reassurance.

Something crunched underneath her boot when she shuffled through the leaves. She stooped and found a hair clip. Hers? The plastic was cracked, the spring was broken, and it looked like the type she wore. But if she’d been right here, why couldn’t she remember? Had she fallen and hit her head?

She stared at the leaves and brushed her hand over the surface, stirring them up. Unlike the other piles, these were dry, protected under the thick canopy of the cedar tree. She picked up a handful. They smelled like the forest. With her eyes closed, she rubbed them against her cheek. Stiff, crisp … and familiar. But the memory was just beyond her reach—she couldn’t determine how to pluck it out. Crunching the leaves in her hand, she blew the pieces into the air and they fluttered to the ground.

She stepped through the bushes and down to the creek. Six or seven feet across and only a foot or two deep, the crystal-clear water flowed over a layer of dark-colored stones.

A small sandbar, bathed in sunlight, lined the bank on the far side and looked inviting. With the gentle sound of the running water, the hard knots of tension lodged between her shoulder blades seemed to loosen. She turned to walk upstream along the edge, but the undergrowth was thick with thorny blackberries and waist-high marsh grasses that looked like giant mop heads.

She stripped off her boots and socks, rolled up her jeans and sloshed to the other side. When she plopped down onto the sand, a gust of wind, warm with the promise of summer, ruffled her hair. She closed her eyes, just for a minute, and the ever-present tingling—an almost constant sensation since she’d woken up this afternoon—fluttered against her temples.

A twig snapped on the other side of the creek and she sat up. God, had she actually dozed off? She noticed the shadows had lengthened and the sun had dropped lower in the sky. When she bent to pick up her boots and tripod, the sun glinted off an object half-submerged in the sand.

A cell phone.

How did that get here? Even after she brushed off the sand, she had a hard time sliding it open. The touchpad screen was shattered. With a little bit of effort, she forced the phone closed again and rolled it around in her hands. Probably water damaged. She held it to her cheek; the molded plastic felt warm from the sun.

Small and sleek, it had to be a fairly new model. Maybe the contact numbers could still be extracted. Those were always a bitch to re-create. She’d take it to a cell phone store to see if they could find the owner.

With the tripod in one hand and her boots in the other, she stepped back into the creek and hurriedly sloshed through the water. But before she reached the far side, her foot slipped on the smooth river stones and she shrieked. Helicoptering her arms, she tried to catch herself, but she fell to her knees, submerging her boots and tripod.

She patted her pocket. The gun and the phone were safe. But crap, the ride home was going to be frigid.

“JACKSON, YOU all set? She’s coming.”

“Yep, I’m ready, although I think you’re going way overboard with this convoluted scent-masking scheme.”

“Just do as I say.” If only Dom could let her go straight home. Or better yet, invite her into his warm car with its heated seats. But it was crucial to confuse her trail if any Darkbloods got to the cemetery looking for him. They’d pick up her scent and follow her like bloodhounds. This was the only way to make sure they couldn’t track her.

He sensed her discomfort and wished there was something he could do. When he saw her fall in the creek, he had jumped to help, but he had to stop himself and could only watch as she got drenched.

After her bike roared past his location in the trees, he waited a few impatient moments before following.

“Where do you have the first detour?” Dom gritted his teeth as he glanced at the speedometer. Did she even know what a speed limit was?

“At Maple Grove Road. She’ll want to turn right, but I’ve got the road closure barricade set up and she’ll have to turn left. Hope there isn’t much traffic.”

“There shouldn’t be. Just don’t lose her, all right? And don’t get too close. Don’t forget she’s a sweetblood.” Why in the hell had he let Foss set up the detours anyway? He should’ve done it himself.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Here she comes now.” Jackson paused and Dom heard the low rumble of her bike through the phone. “Oh shit, dude, she’s pissed.” As Foss erupted in snorts of laughter, Dom bristled. “She didn’t see the sign until she was almost on it. She pulled a Uey and kicked the damn thing over. You should’ve seen her whip that bike around. And when she drove away … Man, she’s hot.”

Dom nearly ran the Porsche off the road. Cursing under his breath, he told himself to stay calm.

“Gotta get the next one ready.” Jackson laughed and the line went dead.

Dom drove straight to Mackenzie’s house, laying down masking scent as Jackson did on the long route. After parking down the block, he reclined the seat and popped in a CD. His shoulders ached and he reached back to rub the knotted muscles. Taking a deep breath, he tried to relax. The circuitous route home should put her back here in thirty or forty minutes. No big deal.

But what about that phone? Her finding it screwed up everything. How was he going to get it back? The data might not be retrievable, the device might be too damaged, but he still had to try. He’d just let himself into her house tonight and take it. That’s all there was to it. Then he’d be done with this.

He glanced at his watch, ran his fingers through his hair. She should be pulling in soon but he didn’t sense her presence yet. What the hell? His fingers drummed the back of his headrest, then the steering wheel, and he inspected his watch again. Technically, they weren’t really late. The half-hour timeframe was merely an approximation.

Fifteen minutes later, he texted Jackson. Be there soon, was the reply. After goose bumps prickled his arms and he shivered, he realized he was sensing her chills.

He couldn’t bear to sit inside any longer. When he climbed out of the car, the peppery smell of wet pavement and the sound of spring frogs hidden in the dark reminded him he was among the calm energies of the Seattle area, not the volatile ones he was used to in the South.

He paced the sidewalk for what seemed like a millennium, memorizing every crack, every stray weed, and the license plate numbers of every car on her block. Picking up snippets of her neighbors’ lives, he heard a blaring television, an argument with kids about bath-time, and one neighbor was fucking someone who wasn’t his wife. Christ.

When he didn’t think he could take it a moment longer, a single headlight flashed in the distance and he heard the low rumble of her motorcycle. He leaned on the hood of the car and his head slumped with relief. Finally, he could breathe again. Although he sensed how cold she was, she was here. She was fine. She pulled into her garage and disappeared into the house.

Minutes later, two headlights appeared and a jacked-up black 4x4 pulled in behind the Porsche. He had Foss by the neck before he could put the vehicle in Park. Dom leaned in close, his fangs extended.

“What the hell did you do to her?”

“Jesus, Dom, what’s wrong with you? Get off me.”

“Did you touch her?” His thumb and fingers tightened around his friend’s larynx as he took a deep whiff, sniffing for any sign of her. Nothing.

“No. What the hell’s your problem?” Jackson choked.

Relieved on one level, but still pissed off, Dom loosened his grip and Jackson shoved him away.

“What took you so long? You should have had her back thirty minutes ago.”

“It’s not like I’m some weakass Darkblood wanting to suck anything with two legs and a pulse,” Jackson said as he rubbed his neck, “even if she is a sweetblood. She got pulled over by the cops. No helmet. Talked her way out of a ticket though. Since when did you become so protective?”

“Why didn’t you call or text me?”

“I had a few more detours to set up. You should’ve seen her. Every time she’d come to one, she’d kick at it. God, it was hilarious. This one time—”

“You were only supposed to do three. She’s freezing, for God’s sake. Did that ever cross your mind?”

“Sorry, man, you’re right. But if you could have seen her …” Foss looked up with a dreamy smile, and Dom wanted to wipe it from his face.

Rage boiled just below the surface, threatening to overflow, and his fangs ached. He never should’ve let Foss get so close to her.

Jackson cocked an eyebrow. “What is wrong with you? I swear I didn’t touch her. She’s a hottie, but she’s yours. I get that.”

“She’s not mine.” Dom wrenched open the door of the Porsche.

“Could’ve fuckin’ fooled me.”