My vision shifted as it had that morning, into a sort of hyperfocus. I could see every stitch in the black knitted ski mask the prowler wore, every mark in the gray and black camouflage pattern of his clothing. Quietly as I could, I turned the key in the lock of the door in front of me and reached down to lift the brace bar that served as a second lock, blocking the door’s movement. I cringed at the soft metallic noises I couldn’t help making. With the bar out of the way, I hit the latch and slid the glass door gently aside, never taking my eyes off the man, who had set a handgun onto the floor of the deck beside him and drawn a wrench from inside a black backpack. An unmistakable smell filled the air.
Oh, shit. He’s messing with the gas line.
I needed out of here. Now.
I clicked the safety back on, thrusting the gun into the waistband of my boxers. A gun would be worse than useless right now. I could hear the hiss of gas escaping. I burst through the door and ran forward, kicking his gun off of the deck and out of reach before slamming into him, sending both of us tumbling down the wooden stairs to the hard concrete sidewalk below.
He started to swear, and we rolled together, struggling for supremacy. I was strong for a human, even before the bat got to me. Now I was stronger. But he was a match for me, not just in power but also in skill and pure, unrelieved viciousness. He went for my eyes, forcing me to rear back. I hissed, flashing fangs, and my power started to rise, making my skin glow a pale greenish white and cast an eerie light over the shadowed corner we’d rolled into. That made him pause for an instant. Less than a second, but it was enough. I put everything I had into a punch to his jaw, just as spotlights came on all over the grounds and David shouted from the main house that he’d called the police.
The man lay limply beneath me, his jaw at an angle that practically screamed “broken.” His pulse, however, still beat strongly in his neck. He’d be coming back around soon. By then I wanted to be far away from the cottage and my assailant safely tied up.
David was coming toward us, holding a shotgun with the authority of a man who had hunted most of his life. He looked at me as though he’d never seen me before. And, in a way, he hadn’t. I didn’t doubt that Dawna had told David and Inez about my condition, but hearing about it and actually seeing the reality are two completely different things.
I spoke, and happily, it was my normal voice. “Don’t shoot. We’ve got a gas leak.”
He started swearing but backed away. Not just from the guesthouse, but from me. “Are you all right, Celia? The cops are on the way.”
It was a loaded question. I knew it. But he needed some comfort now, too. “I’m fine.” Actually, I wasn’t. I hurt like hell where blows had landed. I’d lost Bob’s gun somewhere along the way. But more than that, I couldn’t tear my eyes off the pulse beating beneath a small mole on the man’s throat, where the ski mask had pulled away to expose bare skin.
I could smell blood, fear, and sweat, and the glow around me grew brighter, casting harsh shadows. My stomach growled, and I felt actual pains from the hunger, as if a wild animal were trapped in my belly, trying to claw its way out.
I forced myself to my feet, stumbling a little.
My attacker must have been playing possum, because he chose that instant to strike. The movement was almost too quick to see. His leg moved with a blur of speed, aimed directly at the knee that held most of my weight.
I went down with a scream of pain, my head slamming against the concrete hard enough to make me see stars. He rolled, then lurched to a standing position, grabbing for his pack.
I made a clumsy lunge, unable to do much more with a dislocated knee that was in unrelieved agony.
I couldn’t catch him. I did manage to grab the dangling padded strap of the canvas pack. He let it go, running full out in the direction of the beach. David started to take a shot, then thought better of it. Thank God. The last thing we needed was a gas explosion.
Sirens and lights were coming closer on both of the cross-streets. The cops would be here any second. I dropped the bag, then limped over to the gas hookup, thinking I could just tighten the valve again. Unfortunately, he’d done more than just loosen it. It was broken. We’d need to get the gas company out here.
“You should probably get out of here, Celia. If the cops see you …”
David was right. They’d see a monster and act accordingly. Later, they’d be very sorry about the mistake. But I’d still be dead or incarcerated.
“Right.”
“I’ll turn off the power until they get the gas fixed.” He moved with smooth assurance toward the breaker box, shotgun at his side.
“Call my office when we get the all clear,” I called out as I limped through the French doors as quickly as I could. The smell of gas was intense. I didn’t dare stay more than a minute or two. Even so, I took a second to stash the Crock-Pot back in the fridge before grabbing my keys, phone, weapons, and wallet and rushing to the car.
14
I went to the office. It was the wee hours of the morning. Normally one of the bail bondsmen would be in, but there were no cars in the lot. Still, the place was well lit, the carefully placed security lights ensuring that there were no deep shadows where monsters or bad guys could hide.
I pulled into my usual parking place and cut the engine. My leg hurt. It was healing. I could feel that. But it hurt, dammit, and using the manual transmission hadn’t helped.
I didn’t like the fact that I’d had to avoid the police. It made sense. But I didn’t like it. Then again, there weren’t too many things about my current situation that I did like. Maybe the healing. If it weren’t for the vampire healing abilities I’d be looking at surgery on the knee. But even that was weird. Some things were healing practically instantly. Other injuries, ones that really didn’t seem any worse, were taking longer.
I hobbled over to the front door, let myself in, and punched the buttons to reset the alarm while trying to remember whether I’d left the faxes and paperwork in the copy room or taken them up to my office.
Upstairs.
Oh, hell. That was going to hurt. A lot.
It did. And it was slow going. I had to stop every third step or so to rest my knee. I was on the fifth stair when the grandfather clock struck four. I wasn’t even at the top when it hit four fifteen.
I was swearing pretty steadily under my breath by the time I reached the third floor. I walked past the locked offices of Freedom Bail Bonds and the empty office that we all used to store spare junk and let myself into my space. Most of the places I needed to reach wouldn’t open until nine or ten. My gran gets up about seven, and I really needed to talk to her, to reassure us both. That gave me a couple of hours to eat and go through the research.
At which time I realized that all I had in my office micro-fridge was a soda. There would be food downstairs—if nothing else one of those wretched diet shakes Dawna favored. But they were downstairs. Just the thought of it was daunting. I was so freaking exhausted.
I was having my own personal pity party when I heard someone opening the downstairs door. “Graves, it’s me,” Bubba’s voice called out. “Don’t shoot.” There was a swift series of beeps as he keyed in the alarm code. Heavy footfalls started up the stairs.
I yelled out through the closed door, “Bubba, do me a favor?”
“What?” He sounded grouchy. Not good. My bet was he’d had to hunt down a jumper. As a bail bondsman, Bubba worked very hard to make sure his clients showed up for their hearings. When they don’t, he hunted them down. He’s good at it. He might be a “good ole boy,” but he’s smart and tough. But tracking and hauling in a bail jumper is a lot of work, a lot of bother, and it always, always, makes him irritable.
I raised my voice to just short of a shout. “Go into the kitchen and see if Dawna has any of those Ensure things or maybe a diet shake?”
“Do it yourself,” he grumbled.
“Can’t. I’ve screwed up my knee and I need to have something nutritious to drink.”
“Well, hell.” He gave a gusty sigh. “Give me a minute.”
He stomped back downstairs and I heard him banging around in the kitchen, muttering under his breath the whole time.
Eventually he started climbing up again. He called out, “Got it. Hope you like banana.”
I loathe banana in all its many forms. But beggers/choosers and all that.
“Thanks, Bubba. Leave it outside the door.”
He snorted. “Whatever.”
I waited until I heard his footsteps go down the hall to his own office before I levered myself out of the office chair and limped over to the door. My knee wasn’t happy about it. Healing abilities aside, three flights of stairs had been a mistake. Opening the door, I found a four-pack of twelve-ounce cans. Bending awkwardly from the waist, I picked it up, using the holes in the cardboard carrier.
“Dawna told us what happened, but I didn’t really believe it.”
I looked up, meeting Bubba’s gaze. He was standing in the doorway of his office, staring at me. His eyes were wider than they should’ve been, with whites showing all around the blue of his pupils. He didn’t look afraid, precisely, but more startled. “You look like …”
“A bat. I look like a freakin’ vampire.”
“Yeah. But you’re still you?” He made it a question.
“I’m still me,” I answered him, “and I intend to stay that way.”
“Attagirl! You decide you need help hunting, you let me know.”
“Thanks, Bubba.”
He nodded, then shut his office door as I opened the first shake and chugged it down fast enough that I managed not to gag on the taste. I heard the snick of the dead bolt sliding into place, smelled gun oil. I could just imagine him pulling the .38 from his drawer and setting it on the desktop in easy reach. Just in case. I couldn’t blame him. I’d have done the same thing.
I fell asleep studying … again. I woke up to the sounds of phones ringing and the smell of brewing coffee. The swelling in my knee had gone down some, but my neck and back were stiff from sleeping in an unnatural position and my mouth tasted like something had crawled in it and died.