Claimed (8 page)

Mick slapped on a façade of calm he didn’t feel and relaxed against the booth back.

“Have a seat,” he invited. “Kick your feet up. I’d offer you a vein, but I don’t swing that way.”

Harrington lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps we could change that.”

Mick forced a laugh, although his stomach clenched, and his mouth was cotton-dry. Dealing with a vampire of this one’s caliber was like facing down a vicious dog. Show fear and you’re dead.

“I’m off duty,” he said. “If anyone’s out there tonight, it’s the B team, and they’ll be lucky to catch even a scent.”

Harrington waved a hand, as if the battle between the agency and his clan was nothing.

“This is a social visit,” he said.

“My guests wait to be invited.”

“Your guests usually have extremely large breasts and small brains and consider beer and pizza a gourmet meal.”

The undercurrent of the conversation was quickly going from verbal sparring to something more insidious. Mick knew it took little for Harrington to slide from unpleasant into vicious, and he knew the vampire’s reputation. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill a mere human. Or have him killed.

Silence lengthened between them as Mick waited for Harrington to speak again, and the vampire waited for who knew what. The back of Mick’s neck tingled; he fought the urge to fidget. Finally, as if he’d only remembered, Harrington said, “Your partner seems to be missing.”

Mick shrugged. “Don’t know; don’t care as long as she shows up Monday morning.”

Harrington leaned forward, his eyes narrowed.

“You are paid a very large sum of money from my clan’s treasury to ensure that those we seek are returned to us and not given to the agency,” he said. “Your partner trusts you. A new one might not. I would suggest that you remember your responsibilities.”

Mick heard the door shut as the vampire left, but the terror the man engendered stayed with him. He should have looked for the down side when Harrington made the offer, but the money was so good—twice as much in a month as the agency paid him a year, and for what? Turning a few of the biters gone bad to their own people rather than the agency.

He didn’t know what happened once they were returned to their clan, but he knew what didn’t. They weren’t stuck in small rooms with glass doors to be prodded, poked and tested by agency scientists until their usefulness was over. He’d heard vampires killed their own with one quick slash of a blade through their necks. It had to be a helluva lot better way to go than being slowly tortured in the name of science.

* * * *

On a narrow back road, silence reigned between Creed and Chiana as more miles slid by. The scenery stayed unchanging, brushy trees and weed-covered fences occasionally interrupted by a field or house set far from the road.

Chiana made another attempt at getting information.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Hell, if I don’t change my ways,” Creed answered curtly, his eyes never leaving the road.

Chiana gave up and settled down for the bumpy ride across old asphalt and hot patch. The road got rougher as they traveled. If it hadn’t been for the crossroads they came to every now and again, she would have wondered if they were traveling in an endless circle.

The view changed as they drove into a small valley with a scattering of houses and a dark general store. When the pockmarked highway became smoother and wider, Chiana figured they’d crossed a border.

“Now where are we?” she asked.

“West Virginia,” Creed answered.

“Closer to hell.” She paused, then added, “Or paradise. Remember that John Denver song about West Virginia being almost heaven?”

Creed’s answer of “He never went where we’re going” did nothing to make her feel better. She was supposed to be enjoying her rare weekend off; instead she was trapped with a cynical stranger heading toward who knew what.

Their smooth ride ended a few miles later. Creed turned onto a narrow asphalt road and, a mile or two further down, cut a sharp right onto a gravel road that wound beside a small creek. They seemed to go forever, never meeting another vehicle, before he made what turned out to be the final turn. Chiana bounced in the seat as he rolled out of one rut into another and, finally, pulled up in front of the oddest house she’d ever seen.

The main portion looked to be made of rocks. A wing extending to the right had a façade of wooden shakes, and what she assumed was a garage, assembled of plywood sheets with a tarpaper roof, came off the left side of the house.

Creed shut off the engine and said, “We’re here.”

“If this is another safe house, I’ve gotta say I liked the old days when protecting someone meant a hotel with TV and room service. I prefer places where the amenities don’t include snake handling.”

Ignoring her, Creed opened his door and stepped out. Chiana did the same; she planned to stick to him like glue. No way was he abandoning her here, in the middle of redneck central. She toyed with the idea of grabbing him from behind and wrapping her arms around his waist so he couldn’t get away, but decided that might be overkill.

Grateful for the full moon, she followed him down a sidewalk of more rock intermingled with brick. Unlike the church Wil had taken her to, this place at least looked kept up. Woody bushes lined the house, and spindly petunias punctuated what must have once been a nice flowerbed.

Chiana wasn’t surprised when the steps creaked beneath their feet, or that a mat in front of the door ordered “Wipe your feet” rather than extending a welcome. She glanced up, wondering if flying monkeys would swoop over the roof in an aerial attack.

Creed stepped up and turned a handle on the heavy front door. A bell chimed, loud in the silence around them. It seemed an eternity before she heard footsteps and the door swung open, thanks to an unseen hand. Steeling herself for anything from a wart-nosed witch to a giant deformed butler, Chiana blinked in surprise as the occupant greeted them.

“Creed! It’s been far too long.”

The words were delivered with a crisp, flat accent from a woman who looked like a cross between the stereotypical kindly grandmother and an absent-minded professor. Short and chunky, the woman had salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a haphazard knot on top of her head and glasses suspended from a chain around her neck. She was dressed in a faded flannel nightgown and a cranberry cardigan sweater whose pockets bulged.

After greeting Creed, she peered around him to offer Chiana a smile.

“Hello, young lady,” she said. “You must be in trouble because this boy never stops by to see me when things are going well. Come on in, and let’s see what’s going on.”

“I hope we didn’t wake you,” Chiana said.

“Heavens, no. Usually the sun’s halfway up before I go to bed. I’m a real night owl.”

Grabbing Chiana’s hand, she pulled her around Creed and through the doorway, leaving him to follow. Their host led the way through a foyer filled with glass-fronted bookcases with as much piled on top as protected inside on the shelves. The foyer opened into a sitting room that contained a small television, a huge globe on its own stand and a mishmash of furniture covering several eras in design.

Chiana took a high-backed chair next to a blond end table that she suspected came from the 1960s. Creed sat on a Victorian-style settee, while the woman settled herself in a forest green recliner, the only obviously new piece of furniture.

“Let me apologize for Creed’s manners,” the woman said, casting a rebuking glance his way. “I’m Lillian Lansing, and you are?”

“Chiana McFain.”

“What a pretty name.” Lillian leaned forward. “Are you hungry? I woke this morning with an urge to make cookies, and I need someone to keep me from devouring the whole two dozen.”

“We’re fine,” Creed answered before Chiana could speak.

Lillian shook a finger at him and sighed.

“If we were all like that boy, civility would already be dead,” she said. “You sit right here, and I’ll be back. It will take just a minute.”

The quiet after she bustled from the room was like the silence in the eye of a hurricane, the momentary lull until the fury starts up again.

“She’s brilliant, you know,” Creed said.

“Let me guess. She’s a poet. Or maybe an artist.”

“Not even close.” He shook his head. “She is one of the world’s top anthropologists and also holds doctorates in physics and mathematics.”

“Wow.” Chiana was impressed. The agency had some pretty smart people, but nobody with that kind of credentials. She was about to ask why Lillian wasn’t holding court on a college campus when the woman of the moment returned with a wooden tray.

Lillian placed it on a wide table in front of the settee with mini-wagon wheels for supports and began to pour tea from a chipped ceramic teapot into three mismatched cups. The fragrance of mint filled the air.

“Here you are, my dear.” She gave the first cup to Chiana before passing one to Creed. She handed each of them a small plate of soft sugar cookies before taking her refreshments back to the recliner with her.

Much to Chiana’s surprise, Creed actually ate his cookies and drank his tea. Granted, his large finger barely fit into the handle of the cup, and he demolished the cookies in record time, but he at least attempted to meet the niceties of a formal tea. Still, she wasn’t surprised when he tapped his booted foot in impatience as Lillian refilled Chiana’s cup and then her own.

“A few minutes won’t kill you,” she scolded, “no matter what you think.”

Creed’s only response was a heavier tap on the carpeted floor, which Lillian ignored.

Only after she’d cleared away their dishes and returned to the sitting room was she ready to discuss whatever Creed had come for. Chiana was ready to hear it, too; she couldn’t imagine how taking tea with a reclusive genius would keep her from being dragged off to serve Odin forever.

“We need help,” Creed announced in what Chiana considered masterful understatement.

“Physical, metaphysical or somewhere in between?” Lillian asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Oh, I do love a challenge.” Lillian leaned forward in her chair. “Can you give me a description of the problem in twenty-five words or less?”

“She was promised by her mother to Odin, her mom reneged and she’s been taking happy shots to keep her under the radar. Now she’s been found, she went all Xena Warrior Princess on me, and I used a Sumerian binding spell to keep her from whacking on me.”

Lillian tipped her head and considered Chiana for a long moment before returning her attention to Creed.

“More than twenty-five words, but covered the basics,” she said. “As I see it, you’re dealing with two distinct problems. Actually, more like three.”

Ticking them off on her fingers, she said, “Since I assume she prefers not to ride the battlefield or serve a bunch of oafs in Valhalla, Chiana has to keep from being taken from this plane. Secondly, it would be helpful to know what concoction she’s been given, and thirdly, you need to understand the particulars of a binding spell, especially a Sumerian one.”

Chiana was concerned by the furrow between Lillian’s eyebrows and the way she tapped a finger against her front teeth, as if she was studying some complex and foreign problem. She had a feeling there was a lot more to Dr. Lillian Lansing than she was being allowed to see.

When Lillian and Creed launched into a language she couldn’t follow, tension began to build inside her. This was her life they were talking about, her future. She’d be damned if she was going to sit here like a stone while they determined her fate.

Cold anger filled her. She was a fool, trusting this man with her life. What had he done for her so far?

Eliminated any chance of her being found by Mick or the agency, that’s what.

As Creed watched the change come over Chiana, his hand slipped down to pat his pocket and the slim syringe Wil had given him. His voice didn’t falter as she slid to the front of the chair, her eyes narrowing. As Lillian asked questions in Latin, he passed along as much as he knew.

“I hope your spell works,” she said in the dead language while Chiana stood and began to pace behind Lillian’s chair.

“Yeah, me too.”

Chiana stopped behind Lillian and dropped her hands onto the older woman’s shoulders.

“Why don’t we have a conversation we all can enjoy?” she drawled, her eyes on Creed.

He forced back an impulse to jump and rush Chiana. He didn’t dare forget she was trained by the same agency as him, that she knew how to counter any move he might try. He was still trying out options in his head when Lillian tipped her head back, looked into Chiana’s face and said, “We have been rude, haven’t we?”

“Damn right.” Chiana’s hands tightened.

“I must apologize. The opportunity to chat with someone in my favorite language comes so seldom that I forgot myself.”

She motioned toward Creed.

“You need to apologize as well.”

Creed rose, his motions slow and careful. He closed the space with deliberate steps until only a few feet separated them. The nearer he came, the more Chiana relaxed. She moved away from Lillian, her attention fully on the man walking toward her.