Читать книгу Be Mine Forever - Rosemary Laurey - Страница 6

Chicago, Illinois. That evening.

“Heather! Wonderful to see you!” Elizabeth clasped her sister as if she were her last hope.

Heather hugged back. “Me too. You had me worried with your phone calls.”

“I had me worried.” Terrified some of the time, but now that she was a safe distance from her father and Laran, she could relax. “It’s okay now.” She exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath for hours.

“You’re here now, that’s what matters. Got any luggage?”

“No. I didn’t check anything. This is it. Let’s get out of here.” She couldn’t rid herself of the dread that Laran Radcliffe might appear any minute to “take care” of her.

Heather looked her elder sister up and down. “You don’t look at all good. When did you last eat?”

She had to think a minute. “Breakfast. But I didn’t finish it.”

Heather rolled her blue eyes. “The first thing you do is eat. We’ll stop on the way home.” She linked arms with Elizabeth. “It’s so wonderful to see you. Now, tell me everything about England.”

“I’m not sure you want to know!”

“Of course I do. Everything! Including what got you so upset. But first, food. You pick: pizza, Chinese, Indian, or the greasiest, best-tasting kebabs in Chicago.”

They stopped for kebabs in a narrow little shop that smelled of cooking and warm spices. After ordering, Heather insisted they share a bottle of wine. “I can’t wait to show you my house,” she said, “It’s old and needs a lot of work, but…” Heather shook her head. “I never thought, in a million years, I’d settle down like this, but when I started teaching, Mom offered me a loan of the down payment. And to be honest, I love having my own space.”

“You like teaching?”

“Love teaching. Loathe the paperwork, but the pay is regular, I have time to pot, and I have money to buy clay and pay the enormous utility bills. I do dream of one day making enough with my pots to live on, but until then it’s seventh-and eighth-grade special ed.”

“How’s the pottery doing?”

“Can’t complain. I’ve a couple of shops that take my stuff on consignment. I go to craft fairs when I have the time and the money, and Mom’s even found me some outlets. I make sacred bowls, chalices, and censers, some decorated with enamels, and sell them at Wiccan gatherings.”

“That doesn’t go against your principles?” She couldn’t resist the dig at her sister’s skepticism.

Heather grinned. “It’s money, dear sister. Good money too. I make quality articles and sell them at a fair price. If the purchasers choose to use them for superstition, that’s up to them.”

“I assume you’re not so outspoken to your customers.”

“Lizzie, when was I ever stupid!”

“Only when you scorn your mother’s calling.”

Heather chuckled. “She forgives me. Besides, she has you as a daughter in spirit.”

“I’ve nowhere near her skill.”

“Mom insists you have.”

So Adela had told her repeatedly, and Elizabeth knew better than to doubt a witch of her stepmother’s skill.

Their food arrived, and as the waiter left, Heather asked, “Okay, tell me what had you so running scared.”

“Can we eat first?” Her stomach was growling, and she rather felt a good meal might help her get her mind around the past twenty-four hours—and the two weeks before that.

Heather nodded. After a good ten minutes of chewing, and another glass of Australian Shiraz, Elizabeth’s anxieties eased.

“So tell,” Heather said with a wry smile as she refilled their glasses. “What devious plot is my wicked stepfather hatching?”

That jest was too near the truth to be anything but unnerving. “Sure you want to know?”

Heather closed her hand over the bottle. “You want the last of the bottle? Tell!”

Elizabeth told.

Their food went cold, and wine sat forgotten in the glasses.

Heather listened, jaw dropping and eyes widening as Elizabeth repeated everything. “My God!” Heather gasped as her sister finished. “If anyone else had told me that, I’d say they were making it up.”

“You don’t think I am?”

“No way! I’ve never known you tell a lie, and I heard how scared you were on the phone. I believe you. What do we do now? You think they’ll be after you?”

That thought had never entered Elizabeth’s head. It should have. “I hope the hell not. I don’t want to drag you into this.”

“Why not? I’m your sister, and my mom’s your mom too. How’s that for contacts?”

“You believe in her skills now?”

Heather gave a little snort. “That’s neither here nor there. She’s my mother. She has to help us. It’s in the mother–daughter rule book.”

“Maybe we should talk to her.”

Heather grinned. “Thought you might want to. We will. I’m taking tomorrow off as well.” She grinned. “I have this terrible bout of intestinal flu. We’re off to Oak Park for lunch with Mom.” The prospect sounded wonderful. Adela’s advice had never failed. Surely it wouldn’t now.

“That’s settled!” Heather retrieved the bottle and drained it into Elizabeth’s glass. “You finish it. I have to drive. We’ll be home in ten minutes, have an early night, and in the morning go seek advice from one of the most powerful witches in the Midwest.”

The house was empty and dark. Damn! But it was hers all right. The name Heather Whyte was neatly stenciled on the mailbox—clearly visible, even in the dark, to his vampire sight. Were they both gone? If so, where in damnation? And if Elizabeth hadn’t come here, where else could she be? He’d give it until dawn and then think again. Laran perched on the porch roof and waited. It was a cold night, all to the good: the neighbors would keep their windows shut tight.

Less than an hour later, a little red Honda, with Elizabeth in the passenger seat, pulled into the narrow drive. Bingo! One at a time was preferable, but two mortals was no challenge for one vampire. Laran closed his fingers around the gun he’d acquired from a pawnshop on his way in and jumped down as Heather locked the car. She gave a little scream but cut it off mid-breath when he pointed the gun at Elizabeth’s head and promised to shoot her if there was another sound.

Elizabeth fought back, kicking and trying to twist her leg around his. He let her waste her strength, but when she bit down over the hand that held her mouth, he hit her on the side of her head with the gun and dragged her to the side door.

“Open it!” he hissed at Heather, but it wasn’t enough. “Ask me in!”

“Getting formal are we? What’s your name? Emilio Post?” Sarcastic bitch! He released the safety to let her know he meant business. She glared at him but acquiesced. “Come in!”

She couldn’t have been less welcoming if she tried, but it was all he needed. He stepped over the threshold and dropped Elizabeth on the kitchen floor.

He let Heather lean over her and cluck and fuss like an old hen for a couple of minutes.

“That’s enough! She’s not dead!” Yet. As if on cue, Elizabeth sat up and shook her head. “Hello, Elizabeth!” he said. She went pale enough to faint. He kicked her. “Get up!”

She managed, with Heather’s help.

“Who the hell are you?” Heather asked, her hands around Elizabeth’s shoulders.

“Ask her. She knows.”

“He’s Laran Radcliffe. He works for my father.”

“The creep you mentioned?”

“The very same.”

“Ladies.” He made a point of smiling as unpleasantly as he could. “We need to talk. Or rather Elizabeth and I do.”

“I’m not telling you anything!” Her voice was a little shaky, but her eyes glared defiance.

“Yes you are, because if you don’t, I’ll shoot your little friend’s kneecaps.”

“He’s bluffing!” Heather said. “He doesn’t have a silencer on it, and a gunshot and my screams would be heard all over the neighborhood.”

Time to start scaring them. He grabbed the shrew around the neck with one hand and squeezed until she passed out. Dropping her on the floor, he turned to Elizabeth. She was halfway to the door. He beat her to it, yanked her back, kicked the door closed, and threw her on her back on the kitchen table. When she recovered from the shock, she started to fight and yell.

He took care of that by snarling and treating her to the sight of his half-descended fangs.

She froze, mouth open and eyes wide with horror. He loved it when mortals did that. She was bleeding where he’d hit her forehead. At the rich aroma, his fangs descended completely. She opened her mouth to scream again, but his hand blocked her mouth as his arm pressed down on her chest and pinned her to the table. “Make one sound I don’t ask for, and your little friend dies. She’s only unconscious now, but I can fix that. Understand?” When she nodded, he moved his hand off her mouth. “Good. Now tell me all you know about auxiliary accounts in the Devon operation.”

“Ask my father if you want to know.”

He splayed his fingers. Nice breasts. Perhaps another time…. She squirmed. He dug his fingers deeper. “I know everything you told him. I heard your conversation.” Her heart raced in shock. Nice. “I want to know the rest of it.”

Her chest heaved against his fingers. “I told my father all I know. There’s a second set of financial records and they seem to be in code. Just numbers.” She threw him a glare. “If you heard me, you know that already.”

“You know what the numbers refer to?”

“If I did, I’d have told Dad.”

“Any idea what they are doing?”

“Something underhand, illegal, and illicit!”

“Smart-ass answers put your little friend in real peril.” She glared. He chuckled. Mortals were so pathetic. “I’m giving you—and her—a second chance. Do you know exactly what the Marshes are doing?”

Her breasts rose and fell under his fingers as she took another deep breath. Beads of sweat broke out on her upper lip. Mortals were fascinating when terrified. “There was no way of guessing. It looked fishy, so I decided Dad needed to know.” She paused. “He already did, didn’t he? You’ve got a racket going on.”

All this trouble for a woman’s guess. “Your father and I have an arrangement. In the future, we won’t need your help in the business.”

“I wouldn’t dirty my hands with it!”

Silly girl! Mouthing back at him, refusing to acknowledge the evidence of her own eyes. He snarled, and a little mewl came out in her efforts to hold back the scream. She looked up with defiant dark eyes, the fair hair drawn back from her forehead as sweet-scented blood trickled down the side of her face.

No point in waiting. His spread hand pinning her down, he leaned over her, licked the line of blood from her face, and relished her shudder. He lifted his head, looked her in the face again, and, holding her eyes with his, lowered his mouth on her neck.

She never stopped struggling. All the better. The rise in her blood pressure sped the flow of luscious blood, and her fear only added piquancy. He drank deep. Finished, he paused long enough to lick the punctures to seal them. He’d leave no evidence.

She was weaker now and lay quiescent, looking at him with pure, undiluted, scrumptious fear.

Usually he left this memory with his victims, to return in nightmares during dark, lonely nights, but not this time. Casting a glamour over her, he reached into her memory, stripping it. “You remember nothing of this, Elizabeth. Nothing at all.” He cupped his hands on her head, forcing his will on hers. “Do what I tell you. Forget!” Her mind gave way, accepting his compulsion.

Her eyes went blank. Had he taken too much? Screw it! His survival, and the success of his plans, was what mattered. He rolled her off the table to the floor and reached for Heather. He hadn’t intend to feed off her as well, but what the heck? He had a long flight back to Oregon and her neck was available. He drank hard and fast, sealed the wound with a lick, and dug into her mind, erasing her memories. “Heather, you’ll remember nothing. Absolutely nothing. Understand?” He compelled her as he had Elizabeth, and her mind, too, collapsed under his superior will.

Heather gave him the same glazed look. He dropped her to the floor and stood up. He had the grandfather of all erections from the power and thrill of imposing his will on two puny females. He walked out, leaving the door open to give the impression of a robbery. Taking the keys Heather had dropped on the floor, Laran drove away in her car, abandoning it, unlocked, with the keys in the ignition. With a bit of luck some delinquent teenager would find it and leave an abundance of incriminating fingerprints.

He jogged the block or so to his rental car and, with the satisfaction of a job well done, drove back to the airport.

The cold brought Elizabeth to her senses. Her head ached. She had no idea of her name, what had happened, or where she was. She crawled over to the other woman muttering on the floor.

She sat up and stared at Elizabeth. “Who are you?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

She shook her head slowly, as if it hurt to move. “I thought you might.” She looked around. “Where are we?”

Heather tried, but thinking caused a dull ache inside her skull. This place was familiar…it was just…Through the aching fog of her fragmented reason, she grasped a stray memory. “It’s a house. Someone lives here.”

Elizabeth looked around. “Who?”

“Hell if I know.”

“What if they come back?”

An exchange of sheer terror crossed between them.

“We mustn’t be here!” Elizabeth said, pulling herself to her feet. “If they come back, maybe they’ll do it again.”

“Do what?”

“I don’t know, but it was hideous. Wasn’t it?”

Heather nodded. Caught in the horror, neither of them could remember. “We’ve got to get away!”

They clasped hands, and, seeing the still-open door, headed outside. In the empty carport they exchanged another frightened glance. “Where?” Elizabeth asked.

Heather didn’t try to answer. She pulled Elizabeth’s hand and ran.

They fled the miasma of horror that enveloped the house. Past streets and shops Heather had once known, they ran on, down dark alleys, skirting yards and leaping walls. As the miles passed, they fatigued and slowed but never stopped, driven by the need to put distance between themselves and the forgotten terror behind. Hours later, they collapsed in a corner of a park. They had no idea where it was, or why they were there, but the sense of menace was gone, and they slept huddled together.

Hours, days, passed. They had no idea how long. A homeless man approached them but retreated fast when they snarled. No one else ever came near. Until…

A middle-aged man, strolling through the park, paused and then walked past them a couple of times. They were drawn to the quiet power emanating from him. He looked around the park and back at them. “Where is your controller?” he asked. “Tell him this is my territory.” They stared, not understanding. “Who controls you?” he repeated.

“We don’t know,” Heather said.

“Who are we?” Elizabeth asked.

As the man looked at them, they both longed for the safety his presence offered. “Wait here. I will come back for you.”

They waited, unable to judge time. When he returned, he offered his hand. Elizabeth stared, but Heather remembered what the gesture meant and offered hers. Elizabeth copied.

“I’m Mr. Roman,” he said. They sensed he was as different from the mortals around as the security he offered was from their remembered horror. “Call me Vlad. I have a taxi waiting. You will be safe now. I give you my word.”