Blood of Eden (31 page)

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Authors: Tami Dane

BOOK: Blood of Eden
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“I can try to talk to Bishop, I guess,” I offered, pretty much convinced it wasn't going to do a damn thing. In my mind's eye, I could see pages and pages of my father's research. I'd read everything he'd written on the
adze.
I
knew
how it metamorphosed. I
knew
what it ate. I
knew
where it lived. I
didn't know
how to capture it in human form. It wouldn't be as simple as one might think. Despite the fact that this
adze
had possessed the body of a middle-aged woman, the creature would possess sharper senses, faster reflexes, and greater strength than its host.
Did it have a vulnerability?
The lieutenant dialed the number and handed me the phone. Bishop answered on the second ring.
“Do you have what I want?” she asked.
“We're working on it.” I mouthed a thank-you to Gabe as he slid a pad of paper and pen across the table for me.
“Who is this?” she snapped.
“My name is Sloan Skye. I'm with the FBI.”
“I know you. This is your fault.”
“My fault? Why's that?” I asked, doodling on the paper.
“Because you wouldn't leave me alone. You just had to keep digging and digging. Why can't you see?”
“See what?”
“That needing that child's blood doesn't make me evil.”
“I understand,” I said, not 100 percent agreeing with her, but sort of understanding where she was coming from. Maybe, I thought, as she rattled on—justifying her actions, and explaining how painful her condition was—all of those years of dealing with Mom and her delusions would help me handle this situation? Was it possible I could talk Bishop out of a standoff? “That kind of pain would make anyone desperate.”
“Exactly.” Bishop sighed. “I tried the palm oil. It barely took the edge off. The longer Veronica was gone, the more it burned. Until the palm oil did nothing anymore. That's when I took Eden. I took very good care of her, though. I was going to give her back as soon as Veronica came home.”
“Yes, of course you were. You couldn't help yourself,” I said, trying to present a sympathetic ear. “You needed a child's blood.”
“I couldn't. I tried.” There was silence. I wondered if she'd hung up.
“Are you still there?” I asked.
“Yes. It's hurting. Very bad.”
I scribbled some notes, then slid the paper toward Gabe. “Veronica is on the way. She'll be here. But not before sunset.”
More silence.
Bishop said, “The other agent said she'd be here before that.”
“They sent a helicopter to pick her up.” I glanced at a clock. “It's almost seven. Sunset is at eight forty-nine tonight. There's no chance they'll make it.”
“They lied. Or you're lying.” Anger. I heard anger. But also desperation.
“No, I'm telling the truth. Now you need to tell me where you've hidden Peyton.”
“If I tell you, I won't get Veronica. You'll wait until I change and throw me in a concrete cell. Do you know what hell that would be for me? To be denied blood for so long? It hurts, Sloan Skye. Every cell in this body burns.”
I skimmed my notes. “Isn't there another way? What about blood from cadavers?” I said, thinking aloud.
“Dead blood is useless.”
“And adults?” I asked.
“Toxic.”
“Animals?” I suggested.
“Hell no.”
I scribbled some more notes. “You're not making this easy.”
“Believe me, I wish I could. Do you think I chose to be this way? Do you think I like being this dependent upon anything? Anyone? Let alone an innocent child? Would you want to depend upon something for sustenance that everyone, including yourself, felt compelled to protect and cherish?”
That would be rough. “No, I wouldn't.”
“Bring me the child,” she demanded.
“I'll see what I can do.”
The call ended. I turned to Gabe.
“Now what?” he asked. “Did you get anything else from her?”
“No, outside of the fact that she does feel a little guilty about having to feed from a child.”
“Hmm.” Gabe chewed his lower lip. “It has to be a kid's blood?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I wonder.”
“Not sure.” I dug out my phone again and called Katie, asking her if she knew anyone who might be able to shed some light on the difference between the blood of adults and children. She gave me the phone number of a friend who was in medical school. I called her.
“There wouldn't be any significant difference,” the medical student told me a couple of minutes later. “Blood is blood is blood, taking into account the differences between blood types, of course. There are varying levels of sugars, protein, and iron in each person's blood, but all human beings share the same components—whether they're adults or children.”
So much for that. I thanked her and ended the call. “Strike one,” I told Gabe.
“Maybe it isn't biological?” Gabe offered as he drummed his hands on the table between us.
“If it isn't biological, what would it be? Environmental?” Now, that made sense. “Bishop did say adult blood was ‘toxic.' ”
“Toxic, huh?” Gabe gnawed on his lower lip. “Here's a thought. Adults have been exposed to more pollutants than children—in food, in the air, through their skin. Some of those pollutants might appear in trace amounts in their blood.”
“Okay. I could see that. So where could we find pollutant-free blood?”
Gabe shrugged. “From a donor who lives out in the middle of nowhere, eats only organic food, and doesn't touch anything that's been dyed, treated, or dusted with chemicals?”
“That pretty much rules out anyone in the U.S.”
We sat and thought for a few minutes.
“What about cord blood?” I wondered. “Would that contain toxins?”
“Maybe some. There are substances that cross over the placenta, to the fetus. But the cord blood shouldn't contain as many contaminants as an adult's blood.”
“It's worth a shot. Do you know anyone who's banked some?”
Gabe thought for a minute. He slapped his flattened hands on the table. “My sister just had a kid. Maybe she had some collected? She told me she was looking into it.”
“If she did, do you think she'd be willing to give a little of it up, in the name of science?”
“I don't know.” Gabe checked the clock. “This is a long shot. Say she did have some collected, and she agrees to give up a little. Now would we get it now? It's late.”
“I don't know. Maybe someone in the FBI can pull some strings.”
“Okay. I'll see what I can do.” He made a phone call and took down some information. Minutes later, we were flying down the freeway, on our way to the cord blood bank, with Fischer in the backseat. It was no small feat, getting our hands on the little plastic bag of harvested blood, but a call from some high-ranking agent I hadn't met, along with Fischer's badge, made the impossible possible. Within a half hour, we were speeding back toward Clarksville, a cooler protecting the frozen blood. As we rolled up in front of the house, I called Bishop on my cell and told her I had something that might work, but I'd only give it to her if she first told me where Chief Peyton had been hidden. As proof, I stood outside her house, in front of a window. I pulled the still-frozen bag from the cooler and held it up for her to see. “Harvested cord blood from a newborn infant,” I explained.
Bishop licked her lips. “Your FBI agent is in the school, locked in the janitor's closet.”
I waited on the porch while Gabe and Fischer went to the school. With the freezer clutched to my chest, I felt one very hungry
adze
staring at me with fierce eyes. My phone rang. Gabe told me they had Chief Peyton, and I handed the desperate
adze
what I hoped would be her salvation.
She didn't wait; she slammed the screen door, locked it, and sank her fangs into the plastic bag. Her eyelids fell closed, and an expression of pure bliss spread over her face. Still, I took a step back, just in case that bliss was short-lived.
“Thank you,” Bishop said through her screen. “Can you get me more?”
I tried not to stare at the smudge of blood on the side of her mouth. “I can't. But maybe the government can. If you turn yourself in.”
She looked down at the drained medical bag in her hand, then at me. “If there's any chance I wouldn't have to hurt a child again, I'm willing to do it.” She stepped out onto the porch, extended her arms in front of herself, and I put on the handcuffs and led her down the front walk. The police took it from there.
When she reached the car, she turned to me. “You want to know about the women.”
I nodded. “I do.”
“Veronica was more than a source of sustenance to me. She was my ... everything. Life lifeline. When I lost her, I tried to hold it together. I swear I did. But the hunger was excruciating, a relentless, crippling, gnawing pain. Have you ever been in such horrible agnoy that you need to lash out at someone? At the one who caused it? I'd lost everything. And all I could think about was getting Veronica back and making that bitch pay.”
“What bitch?”
“My sister, the one who kidnapped Veronica and wouldn't tell me where she'd hidden her. I knew I couldn't kill her. She was the only one who knew where Veronica was. But when I saw that woman ... those women ... they were her. And when I bit ...” She closed her eyes. Her expression softened. “There was peace. For a little while. Until I saw her again.”
“In your mind, you were killing your sister, then? Killing a surrogate because you couldn't kill the real person?” I asked. “Those women died only because they looked like someone else.”
When Bishop opened her eyes, they were dead. Cold. “Yes. It's what I had to do. I had no choice.”
The officer holding her wrists gave her a nudge. “That's enough. Let's go.”
I stepped back and watched as the car pulled away, my heart heavy for all the innocent lives that confused, desperate, twisted ... monster ... had destroyed.
A couple of minutes later, Gabe clapped me on the back. “That was fucking brilliant, Skye. Who would've thought of cord blood?”
“Thanks.” Squinting against the glare of the setting sun, hovering but heavy over the western horizon, I smiled. I'd done it. I'd talked a dangerous creature into turning herself in. “How's Chief Peyton?”
“She's getting treatment. Fischer went with her to the hospital.”
“I hope she'll be okay.”
“If it wasn't for you, she wouldn't have any chance at all.”
Turning my back on the activity still humming around us, I headed for the rental car.
“Where are you going now?” Gabe asked, following me. “I thought we could go have a celebratory drink.”
As I opened the car door, I glanced at the western sky. “I'll have to take a rain check. Thanks, anyway.” I climbed in, strapped myself up, and roared toward the freeway.
The final streaks of sunlight faded just as the car was rolling down the freeway exit ramp.
“The master's waiting,” a voice hissed behind me.
A single event can awaken within us a stranger totally unknown to us. To live is to be slowly born.
—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
26
I jerked the steering wheel, and the car hit the curb and bounced over it, tearing up someone's front yard as I slammed on the brakes. I flung open the door; but before I could launch myself out of the vehicle, a pair of hands, very strong ones, clapped around my neck like a collar. I flopped and fought in a panic, but I didn't break free. The world dimmed, darkened. I needed air. I needed ...
Next thing I knew, I was gasping, lurching upright. The room was dark. I was lying on something soft. A bed, maybe. Straining to see around me, I pawed my way across what seemed to be a very wide mattress until I found the edge. I set a foot on a carpeted floor and fumbled across the room, hands in front of me, sweeping back and forth in the shadows. They struck something big, something cold, and icy dread trickled up my arms, my spine, to my nape. I shivered.
“You're awake,” he said.
No shit, Sherlock.
“Does that come as a surprise?” I asked, stumbling backward. This guy was the epitome of creepy. There wasn't a thing about him that didn't make my skin crawl. His voice. His smell. His touch. His face.
“Yes and no. I didn't think you'd wake so soon. It's a pleasant surprise.”
“A pleasant surprise for you, maybe.” I groped my way across the room, heading in the opposite direction, away from that awful voice. Within a short distance, I smacked my shin on something, and slammed my elbow on something else. Why was this room so freaking dark? “Damn it, I'm going to break my neck. Would you mind turning on a light?”
“I suppose I could do that.” A lamp snapped on, filling what I soon realized was a large space with dim light. Even so, I had to squint against the glare as I took a look around. Within seconds, I'd surveyed the situation, and my eyes had adjusted.
I was in a very large bedroom, an extremely opulent one, with Mr. Stinky, my unwelcome nocturnal visitor.
“Make yourself comfortable. Please,” my host said, motioning toward the bed.
“No thanks. I'd be more comfortable in another room.”
A hundred miles away from you.
“Yes, I suppose you would.”
I moved as far from the bed as I could get, without backing myself into a corner. “Do you mind telling me why you brought me here?”
“I told you I was tired of waiting. It took us three tries. I was beginning to think we'd never get you in time.”
Three tries? I wondered what he'd meant by that. I took a few side steps, figuring I'd slowly work my way toward the door. I needed to keep him talking, distracted, if I was going to escape. “Waiting for what? Why'd you want to ‘get' me, anyway?”
“For you to come to here.” He moved toward me. I didn't like that.
Keeping my back to the wall, I bypassed a pair of closet doors. “You said you'd tried three times. When?”
“At the coffee shop. And once in the parking lot at Quantico. It's hell getting onto that base.”
“At the coffee shop? Was it you who clobbered my partner on the head and tossed him in the trash?”
“Not technically.”
“And you broke my car window?”
“Again, not exactly.”
“Would you care to explain it, then?”
Mr. Stinky shrugged. “It was all part of the game.”
“Oh, yes. ‘The game.'” I started shuffling a little faster. My hands were shaking as they skimmed along the wall. My heart was pounding against my breastbone so heavily, it ached. This guy was a big question mark. I had no idea how to handle him yet. “I don't understand. What game did you think we were playing?”
“Cat and mouse. How did you know how much I enjoy a good chase?”
“I swear, I didn't know.”
“There you go again.” He prowled closer, and I stepped back, heading in the opposite direction now, having no choice. I had to keep as much distance between us as I could. End of story. There was no saying what this man would do to me if he got his hands on me now. “You're so clever, playing me like this. Drives me crazy.” His expression turned feral. That was not a look I wanted. Not now. Not ever. At least, not from him.
Oh, shit.
I started moving away from him faster. “I swear to God, it isn't an act.”
He grimaced. “Don't speak that name. Not ever.”
“What name?
God?
”
His expression darkened even more. “Stop it.”
“What's wrong?” I scrutinized his body language. “You act as if it hurts.” Had I stumbled upon a vulnerability?
“It doesn't hurt. It just isn't a pleasant sound,” he said through gritted teeth.
“What about
Jesus
? Can I say
Jesus
?” I asked, noting his reaction, which looked like a kid who'd just watched a friend eat a live bug. “Is
Jesus
a bad word too? Oh, dear.
Jesus. Sweet Jesus.
My
God,
what's wrong?” He literally doubled over and clapped his hands over his ears. I shouted,
“Good God! Sweet Jesus! Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!”
I sprinted toward the door, hoping he'd move a little slower than normal, and praying that the door would be unlocked.
It wasn't.
Damn.
I whirled around to find he was standing much too close for my comfort. He thrust his arms out, caging my head between them. The back of my skull ground against the door. “That wasn't nice.”
“Oh God. Sorry,” I blurted, trying not to inhale through my nose. The man really did need a shower. And some super-strength deodorant. Not to mention mouthwash.
“Hmm.” He grimaced, his nostrils flaring. “The scent of fear is so intoxicating.”
So much for the holy words. I let my knees buckle, sliding down the door, and scuttled across the floor. “What do you want from me?”
“You know what I want.”
I did, but I was trying to keep him talking, to buy time. Until I could ... do what? How the hell was I going to get out of this? I glanced at the clock. It was a little after ten. Was anyone wondering where I'd gone? Did anyone realize I was missing?
“I've waited a long time for this, when you will be my bride.”
“I can't marry you,” I jabbered. “I ... uh, don't know your name.”
“It's ... Elmer,” he mumbled, his ghostly white face turning pinkish purple.
“Did you say, ‘Elmer'?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “Now you know my name. We can get married.”
“No, we can't.”
His lips, barely there as it was, thinned. “You said—”
“I ... don't have a dress. Or anything. What kind of wedding would it be if I didn't have a dress? Or flowers? Or witnesses?”
“I took care of the witness part. The rest—”
“And isn't the father of the bride supposed to give his daughter away at the wedding?”
“That's impossible.”
“But the dress.” I turned on my best sad-eyed expression. “I have to have a dress.”
He sighed. “I suppose I could do something about the dress. The wedding's not until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? That's great! That gives me time to plan. How about a maid of honor? Couldn't I have a maid of honor? She could come tonight. She could help me get everything ready.”
He thought about it a moment and heaved another sigh. “I'll probably regret this, but okay. I'll let you have one friend attend. But I will call her. Not you. Can't risk you warning her.”
“Okay. I want my roommate, Katie. Her cell number's programmed in my phone, wherever that is. She's very discreet, if you get my drift.” I hoped Katie would call my mom when she heard I was about to elope. It was my only hope.
Elmer, my soon-to-be husband, nodded, gave me a leer, which made me shiver, and left the room.
Of course, the minute he was out of my sight, I checked for an escape route. The window was boarded up, and I tore every fingernail off my hands trying to pry the wood away. The door was locked, from the outside. The adjacent bathroom had no window. I was trapped. And there was nothing I could do but wait.
I did a lot of thinking and pacing for the next couple of hours. I had a plan. I prayed it would work, but I knew I'd need some impossibly good luck to pull it off. The door's lock finally rattled at a few minutes before midnight. I cut off the lights and took my position—back flat against the wall, armed with the lamp, the only weapon I could find. The door creaked open, and a slice of light pierced the thick darkness. I jumped out from my hiding spot, swung my weapon, and clobbered the person standing in my way. A woman screamed and stumbled to the side, clearing my escape route. I charged out into a bright hallway. Somewhat blind, I raced toward the end of the hall. I made it as far as the last doorway. But then a very large man put his huge body directly in my path, and I crashed into him. He hauled me off my feet.
I kicked. I screamed. I shouted “God” and “Jesus” at the top of my lungs. Nothing worked. I was soon sitting in my dungeon again, being stared down by a woman with a pack of ice held to her nose.
She'd been the unfortunate person who'd tried to enter my room.
A few minutes later, an enormous man dragged a rolling rack full of white wedding gowns into the room and left.
“Pick wub,” the woman with the ice snapped.
“‘Wub'?” I echoed.
She glared.
“Oh, one. Got it.” I went to the rack, flipped through them. “Sorry, there's nothing here that'll fit me. I'm a size six.”
“Ib your dreabs,” the ice woman said.
I gave her a serious I'm-sorry face. “I guess I deserve that for breaking your nose. Are you okay? I didn't mean to hurt you.” I looked for any hint of forgiveness, but I didn't find any. I decided I'd try to get her to help me, anyway. “You see, I've been kidnapped and am being forced to marry Elmer—”
“Dot by probleb.” The woman jabbed a finger at the rack. “Pick wub. Or I'll pick for you.”
“Fine.” I grabbed the first dress I touched and threw it on the bed. “I picked
wub.
You know, aiding in a kidnapping is a crime.”
“So is breakig subwub's dose.” She grabbed the rack and started wheeling it toward the door. “This is the last tibe I'll ever bake a house call.”
I followed her. “I'm very sorry. I was trying to escape. I'm not lying. I'm being held here against my will, and I'm scared.”
The woman turned toward me, made a point of looking around the room, and shrugged her shoulders. “Could be worse.” She knocked; the door opened; she left.
That was it. I'd lost all faith in basic human kindness. Sheesh.
Could be worse?
What kind of thing was that to say to someone who had been kidnapped? I slumped on the bed.
I was back to praying Katie would come through for me. It was looking like she was my only hope. I nibbled at a ragged fingernail and waited to see who would pay me a visit next, and hoping it wouldn't be my future husband.
A half hour later, the door opened, and Katie, hauling an overnight bag, dashed in. “Sloan? Why didn't you tell me you were engaged?” The door slammed shut behind her. “I brought everything I could think of. Makeup, curling iron, hair spray, razors. Oh, my God, was it because I was sick? Is that why you didn't say anything? You've got to tell me everything. Leave nothing out. Who is he?”
I pointed at the locked door. “Before tonight, I hadn't realized I was engaged.”
Clearly perplexed, Katie glanced at the door. “What do you mean?”
“I'm being held hostage. And now you are too. Please tell me you called my mother.”
Katie shook her head. “No, I didn't. I figured it was a big secret and you'd tell her if you wanted her to know.”
“Damn.” For the hell of it, I checked the door. Locked. “Do you have your phone?”
Katie grinned. “Sure!” She shoved her hand into the bag's front pocket. She grimaced. “Well, I could have sworn it was here a minute ago. Oh, that's right. I loaned it to the guy who drove me here. Now that I think of it, I don't remember him giving it back. You know, I thought it was strange a limo driver didn't have a cell phone.” She headed toward the window. “No problem, we can just”—she yanked open the drapes—“oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Katie plopped on the bed next to me. “What's going on?”
I summed up the last twelve hours or so in as few words as I could; then Katie and I sat there, staring at each other, wondering what to do next.

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