Claimed (7 page)

“I’m not eating any more granola crap. I want real food.”

Silence reigned as they rolled down the dark road. He was pissed again, Chiana figured, but she didn’t care. A woman had to eat.

“That crap Doc shoves in me speeds up my metabolism like crazy,” she said. “If I don’t refuel pretty soon, I’m going to implode.”

She wasn’t surprised when he kept driving as if he’d never heard her. She leaned against the door and watched the mile markers go by. Her head felt like it was going to explode, and her arms ached. She knew from experience that her heart would begin to pound, her breathing would speed up and her blood pressure would skyrocket. She’d learned the symptoms as a kid, when Doc was still perfecting the serum.

“Seriously,” she said ten miles later, “my body’s feeding on itself. I need some help here.”

Chiana decided she must have sounded desperate, because he took the next exit and headed for the only set of neon lights still lit. Creed parked at the side of the building and cut the engine. She shoved open her door and took off for the double doors that led into the convenience store and adjacent cafe.

Before she could reach for the wide door handle, Creed’s hand came down heavily on her arm.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

His voice was rough.

“Getting some food.” She tried to shake off his hand, but his grip tightened.

“Or maybe setting yourself up to get snatched.”

“You know, I’m getting sick of this me Tarzan, you Jane stuff.”

Creed pulled her to face him, his free hand seizing her other arm. The shadows cast by the artificial lighting added menace to his features.

“When you’re with what’s-his-name, you can call the shots. Make him cluck like a chicken or put a saddle on him and ride him like a pony. Don’t know what you do, don’t care. We’re not partners. I’m the boss; you do what I say.

“I’m telling you that you’re going to stick to me like glue, or you are going to be one very sorry woman. Understand?”

Hunger and pain driving her, Chiana snapped back.

“Yes, lord and master. Now how about you quit making a scene before the clerk calls the cops?”

Glancing toward the wide window by the door, Creed saw a young woman staring at them. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his hands and wrapped an arm around Chiana’s waist. Her ragged breathing and shaking spiked a new worry. Carlyle had given her a second shot. What if he’d overdosed her?

He grabbed the door and helped her to the first booth he saw. She collapsed into the seat, huddling into herself. He sat across from her, his concern growing.

“Is she all right?”

A young woman in a t-shirt that read
Kountry Kitchen
stood at the end of the booth, order pad in hand, staring at the two of them.

“She’s diabetic,” Creed lied. “I need to get some food in her right away.”

“Orange juice and graham crackers. My grandpa’s got low sugar and that’s what we give him.”

The waitress turned and headed toward a door marked employees only. Creed hoped what she brought back would tide Chiana over until she got something more substantial in her system.

“You still with me?” he asked Chiana, reaching out to feel her pulse at her wrist. Her skin was pale and clammy, and she seemed on the verge of unconsciousness. He moved to the seat beside her, ready to catch her if she fainted. Although there were only a handful of people in the store and restaurant combined, he didn’t want to attract attention.

She was still with him when the waitress returned with a large glass of orange juice and a handful of graham crackers on a plate. He stuck a straw in the glass and brought it to Chiana’s lips. To his relief, she didn’t refuse.

Her color returned as her body recognized that it was being refueled. He motioned the waitress over when Chiana’s shaking slowed.

“You feeling better, honey?” Concern filled the young woman’s voice. “I already told Jeff back in the kitchen to throw on a couple of burgers. We make ‘em ourselves out of ground chuck, not those frozen patties that are so thin you can see through them. You like burgers, right? Most people do.”

“That will be fine,” Creed said. “Toss in some fries, too.”

“Baked potato,” Chiana said, changing the order. “Salad. Fruit, if you have any.”

The waitress nodded, jotting on her pad. “Watermelon and cantaloupe,” she said. “Jeff just finished cutting it up.”

“Good.” Chiana was sitting up on her own, almost back to her old self. “Whatever you think is enough, double it. I’m starving.”

The waitress laughed. Creed spoke up, assuring her Chiana meant what she said. She really did eat as much food as two ordinary people.

Chiana’s food came on a large platter with a huge bowl holding the fruit. Creed’s food, served on an ordinary-sized plate, looked like a child’s meal next to hers. Yet she was done before him, settling back against the booth back with a sigh.

“That should hold me for a little while,” she said.

Creed knew she wasn’t kidding, not about how soon she’d be hungry again or her need for massive amounts of food. Doc hadn’t mentioned that little side effect.

As soon as she was done, Creed dropped a larger than necessary tip on the table and walked to the cash register by the front door. He held Chiana’s hand, putting his body between the door and her as he pulled out his wallet and paid.

He kept tight hold of her hand as they stepped out onto the parking lot. He could tell she resented it and supposed he ought to care. But he didn’t. He was too focused on the part of him that wondered why in the hell he didn’t head straight for the agency, turn her over to the PhDs with their esoteric knowledge and wipe his hands of her.

Because she can still be salvaged,
whispered the inner voice he had never managed to completely silence.
Because this time I might not screw it up.

Creed let go of Chiana’s hand, opened the door and closed it after she settled on the seat. He wanted to offer some sort of comfort, to lie and tell her everything would be fine, but he couldn’t, no more than he could tell a kid trapped in a burning house that there was nothing to worry about.

So he did the only thing he could do. He got back behind the wheel, turned the key and headed back onto the highway. If time and luck was on their side, he might make it to their destination, come up with a game plan and find someplace safe to hide before the ghost warrior returned.

Too bad that was a mighty big if.

Chapter Six

Caroline Morton opened her pay envelope, pulled out the check with
void
stamped across it and sighed. Money didn’t exist anymore. Her salary was electronically deposited into a bank she never visited because all she needed was a plastic card. That card bought her food, paid her utility bills and served as tender for anything else she wanted or needed.

That silent system of service made it easy for a person to fade away. Her savings account was sufficient to maintain her for a long, long time. Money wasn’t the reason she got up mornings, headed for the diner and worked a ten or twelve-hour day. Her sanity was.

Caroline knew if she didn’t have a job, she would never leave her house. Staying alone, isolated from the world, would have been a form of suicide, destroying her mind while her body kept on ticking. Bad memories left to fester could do that to a person.

She dropped the useless check in the wastebasket and bent down to pick up the cat. Even as she crooned to Beggar and snapped on the TV, her mind returned to the scene in the parking lot.

Maybe she shouldn’t have called. That part of her life was ancient history. She’d managed to survive, and leaving well enough alone had served her well for a long time. Yet the fleeting shadow she’d glimpsed around the woman and the man’s rush out the door had triggered a protective instinct in Caroline which both frightened and reassured her.

She didn’t want to care about people any more. She’d cared too much before, and nearly died. But she didn’t want to end up like Creed, either, burying her emotions so deeply she became nothing more than a flesh-and-blood machine.

That assignment in Haiti had changed them both. Sometimes, when the night was long and memories refused to be banished, she wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if Creed had let her die.

No! They’d done what they’d done, and no amount of thinking could change it. She owed it to him, to herself, to make the best she could of the life she had now. Sighing, she stroked Beggar’s head and headed for the kitchen to fill the cat’s bowl.

* * * *

The woods were full of trees; those trees were full of birds. Yet the raven nestled alone in the vee of a hickory branch, given a wide berth by the others. Head tucked beneath his wing, inside the shape Odin gave him for this world, Rhori rested.

Before he could attempt human form again, he needed to rebuild the energy he’d spent trying to enter the building where the Valkyrie slept. Achieving a corporal state in this world was difficult; maintaining it was nearly impossible. Yet his connection to the Valkyrie in spirit form had caused only confusion and chaos and drained him further.

The warrior who protected Odin’s chosen was strong, both in his body and his soul. Rhori hadn’t been prepared. He wouldn’t underestimate his enemy again. As soon as he recovered, he would find the Valkyrie and her protector. He would study his enemy, and when they met in battle again, the warrior would die and the Valkyrie would be Odin’s. The doors of Valhalla would finally open for Rhori.

His glory would be greater than any other of the fallen warriors. He would find a way to keep the portal open so that Odin could conquer this world and these people. Rhori would sit beside him, sharing the glory as the others paid tribute.

Calming now as the woods quieted, he let go of his thoughts, the fading sun casting a golden gleam across the ebony feathers.

* * * *

Mick hit the brakes and slid into the parking lot of a rough-looking bar. He needed a shot of something strong. He needed to think. He needed to figure out if he was going to die before morning.

Dying young wasn’t part of his life plan. His goal was to get as rich as he could, as soon as he could, and crawl out of the underbelly of the world where the agency sent him. Once upon a time, he’d clung to the agency line and believed his work made a difference. Putting his ass on the line night after night let the ignorant sleep soundly in their beds, confident that imps and hellcats were fiction from warped creative geniuses.

Mick slammed the truck door shut and hit the lock button as he headed for the wooden door with a sign proclaiming firearms, knives or explosives were prohibited. He’d left his gun in the truck, but he carried a silver-bladed knife in his boot in case a badass vampire was checking out the buffet of humans inside. Tucked in his jeans pocket were two small tubes of blessed holy oil, personal protection if something from the dark side came slumming.

Walking to the only open bar stool, he scanned the room with narrowed eyes, taking in the various tattoos and piercings. Everyone seemed human.

When the mustachioed bartender walked up, he ordered a bottle of Jack Daniels and a tumbler. If it took a river of whiskey to wash away the taste of failure and humiliation, so be it. Mick filled the tumbler half full, put the glass to his lips and poured the amber liquid down his throat. He shivered as the bitter fluid hit his empty stomach. He was going to get drunk fast tonight.

Which was fine. Drunk and passed out was a hell of a lot better than sober and remembering how he deserted his partner, like a rat running from a burning building.

Two tumblers later, Mick punched Chiana’s number on his cell phone, cursing fluently when it once again went straight to voice mail. He didn’t want to leave a message at the sound of the beep. He wanted her to answer. He wanted her to text him and tell him she was all right. They’d been partners for three years, akin to a twenty-year marriage in the outside world. He spent more time with that woman than anyone else in his life, but he’d never worried about her until now.

Until that bastard had barged in and taken over.

“Good evening, Mr. Hardison.”

Mick whirled, his heart in his throat. The man before him smiled and spread his arms out, hands up, in a placating gesture.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said.

“I thought you people couldn’t do that. Appear out of thin air, I mean.”

“I believe I said we didn’t do it. There’s a difference.”

“So what the hell do you want?”

Danforth Harrington smiled, his pearl-white fangs reminding Mick what a dangerous game he was caught up in, and what a dangerous man he was. So powerful, other vampires scurried to do his bidding. So wicked, tales of his perversion and torturous executions were whispered about in his own world. He could be a formidable ally or a hideous enemy.

Mick hadn’t known all that the night Harrington sent a minion to his door to request a meeting. He’d only cared about the money. Of all the things Mick had been deprived of in his life, money loomed the largest. The head-spinning amount Harrington offered for nothing more than a phone call from time to time had proved impossible to resist. Walking into the deal, Mick figured it was just business. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize it was far more than that.