Garden of Darkness (30 page)

“I have to go,” Evan said. “I have to get away from you.”
Before I do something bad.

Rachel grabbed his hand. “You can’t leave me here alone.” Her voice was odd, breathless. She glanced past his shoulder to what was behind him. Victoria. The mummy child. “I’m having a contraction.”

His stomach plummeted while the hand holding his squeezed so hard he thought his knuckles would shatter. As soon as she relaxed, he urged her forward.

Monster. I’m a monster.

He ducked and helped her through the rip in the door. With one arm around her, he grabbed the lantern and led her back the way they’d come.

At times the path was narrow, and they had to separate in order to move single-file.

He’d almost killed her.

If not for the fact that she needed his help, he’d run from the house right now and keep running until the sun came up and he evaporated in the daylight.

His mind shifted.

Strange thoughts flitting in and out before he could fully catch and absorb them. Snapshot images of a life that wasn’t his.

The scary part was that he sometimes
got it.
Even looking from the outside in, things would tilt and he would slide and suddenly he understood the why and the how.

He got Richard Manchester, even when he wasn’t Manchester, even when he was still whatever was left of Evan Stroud. He understood the craving that drove the Pale Immortal. He understood the mad love he’d felt for Florence.

They reached the kitchen, and Rachel sank to the floor, her back to the wall, eyes closed, face ashen. Evan put a hand to her belly and felt a tightening.

Another contraction.

She looked up, fear in her eyes. “I have to get to Tuonela.”

He glanced at the shattered phone, fresh shame and self-loathing washing through him. “I could walk to the main road and try to get a signal with my cell phone, but if I did connect, an ambulance probably wouldn’t be able to get here.”

He could feel the possession. It moved back and forth like a gentle, swaying breeze, or perhaps a pulse.

So seductive.

Wind rattled glass. It picked up objects and hurled them against the house. Snow swirled in the broken window, the temperature in the kitchen close to freezing.

He opened the door; snow blasted him in the face.

A whiteout. Zero visibility. Even if he hadn’t tossed the keys in the snow, they wouldn’t be able to get to Tuonela. The only thing to do was to make her comfortable, hope the contractions stopped, and wait out the storm.

Rachel was truly alone with him.

A monster.

He slammed the door. Another gust of wind and the red ceiling light flickered.

He tried his cell phone, but it was more for Rachel’s benefit. Occasionally he could get a weak signal from the house. Nothing now. “We have to get upstairs.”

Two minutes later they were in the bedroom.

He eased her back on the bed, a pillow under her head.

He hoped he wouldn’t be delivering a baby, but he prepared for a birth just in case.

“Remember in grade school? When you got beaten up on the way home from school?”

“Which time was that?” he asked dryly. There had been so many.

“When I came to your rescue.”

It was obvious that she was trying to keep him grounded, keep his head in her world.

He unbuttoned her coat, slipped it from her shoulders, tossed it aside. She was wearing a man’s oversize flannel shirt.

“When you jumped on that Olson kid’s back and got beaten up yourself? Yeah, I remember.” It was before his disease had taken hold; before things had gotten dark and strange.

“Remember what you used to call me?”

“Yes.”

“Call me that again.”

He covered her with a quilt.
“Enfant terrible.”

“Did you know I liked you? Even back then?”

“That’s why I teased you so much. To lighten things and keep you at a safe distance.” She’d had a crush on him, and he’d been trying to protect her, keep her from getting hurt, because at that time he’d thought of her more as an annoying kid.

“There’s no such thing as a safe distance.”

He felt a pain down deep in his soul. For what was lost. For the life they would never have. His thoughts moved backward and forward. “We couldn’t have stopped it.”

She immediately understood. “I don’t like to think that we have no control over our lives. I can’t believe that.”

“Do you think I would be this way if I could do anything about it?”

She didn’t answer.

“You’re wrong. I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want this.”

“Subconsciously I think you did.”

“To be a freak? To almost kill you? Jesus, Rachel.”

“The mind is a strange place.”

He grabbed her hand and pressed her knuckles to his mouth. “I won’t think that. I can’t think that.
Y o u
can’t think that.”

Sweet, sweet baby. Sweet, sweet Florence.

“Tell me you don’t believe that of me,” he begged. Was he right?
Oh, God.
“I have to hear you say it.”

“Evan.” She touched his face, his hair. The sorrow in her voice and face told him everything. She thought he was insane.

Was he?

That was far worse than actually being some hybrid, a cross between a human and a nonhuman. To know that all of this was coming from him, from some strange dreamscape in his head.

“You read the journal,” she said.

“You’re saying I’m reliving the past?”

Her gaze clouded and her thoughts turned inward. “If anything happens to me, you have to take care of the baby. You have to get it to a hospital.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you.” He wouldn’t allow himself to contemplate such a loss.

“Promise me. You have to protect the baby.”

He couldn’t fathom a world without her, even if they could never be together. “I promise.”

The light flickered again. He was surprised the power hadn’t gone out. “I have to leave for a minute.”

“No!”

“We might lose power soon. I have to get the lantern.”

“Don’t leave.” Her gaze shifted and dropped. “That’s his scarf,” she said with renewed fear. “You’re wearing his scarf.”

He reached up to pull it off, then stopped. He couldn’t make himself do it.

She inhaled sharply. “It’s snowing.”

Her voice was distant now. She stared up at the ceiling, her pupils large with pain. Flakes of snow drifted from the darkness to land on her cheek. “Snowing in the house. I wonder what that means. . . .”

“The wind’s driving the snow through the cracks in the walls.”

“No, it’s something else. This is where it happened, wasn’t it?”

“Where what happened?”

“This is where she killed him. Where Florence killed Manchester. Probably in this very room.”

“Don’t think about that.”

“And maybe where my great-grandmother was born.”

He’d already considered that likely possibility, but had hoped the thought wouldn’t occur to her.

Why in the hell had he given her the journal? Why hadn’t he kept it to himself?

Selfish bastard.
Not that anything he did lately had much logic to it, but he did have moments of clarity. He’d convinced himself he was telling her because she would want to know, when deep down he’d hoped it would restore the bond between them. Now she was more like him than they’d ever known. No wonder they both felt such a strong attraction to each other. It went beyond a simple crush or lust or love. They both had strange blood in their veins.

She tried to get up. He gently forced her back down. “The baby’s coming.”

“I can’t have it here.”

“It’s too late.” He reached under the quilt to ease the elastic waistband over her belly; then he tugged off her panties and jeans in one movement. “Where it happens won’t change anything. Maybe this is where you were meant to give birth.”

Why had he said that? It was a thought he didn’t want to solidify with words.

“I tried to leave,” she said. “I tried to return to California. But all roads lead back to Tuonela.” Another contraction was building. “All roads lead back to you.”

I’d been turning the car on and off every twenty minutes or so, trying to conserve gas.

Maybe I should have gone with Graham. Where was he? Why wasn’t he back? Should I go after him?

No, that would be stupid. That was the worst thing I could possibly do. But maybe he was right. Maybe nobody would find us until tomorrow— or later.

The car was covered in snow—a dark cocoon. The wind was blowing hard enough to send an occasional shudder through the vehicle, rocking it.

I started the engine again, then flipped on the wipers to clear a small patch. Turned on the headlights.

And saw someone.

Thank God!

I leaned forward, watched, and waited.

Hey!

Where was he going?

He was moving away.

I honked the horn. When he didn’t respond, I honked again. “Over here, dumb-ass!”

He paused, so I knew he heard me. He tilted his head in what seemed like contemplation. Then he turned and headed in my direction.

The wind had died down some, but it was snowing harder, and the visibility was worse. I craned my neck. Was it Graham? Who else would be out wandering around in a blizzard?

Snow accumulated on the windshield. I hit the wiper button again, clearing a spot.

First he was far away; then he was close, just a few yards from the car.

He was coated in a heavy layer of snow that fissured and cracked where his arms bent.

Not Graham.

I hit the wipers again—one swipe, then tapped the brights.

His eyes.

Two dark, empty pits looked in at me.

Christ.

I couldn’t breathe.

He reached for the door.

Without taking my eyes from him, I fumbled for the lock button, found it, hit it. Both doors clicked.

Evan once knew a woman who’d given birth to her first baby thirty minutes after thinking she was just having a bout of flu, but he was still surprised when Rachel’s labor went so quickly.

The child didn’t look that small, and it made a few gusty cries that promised all was well. He wrapped the newborn in one of his black T-shirts, followed by a small quilt.

A wave of tenderness washed over him. “A boy.” His voice snagged, and he hoped Rachel wouldn’t notice. He placed the bundle in her arms.

She was different.

Her hair was wet and her eyes were dark with exhaustion, but that wasn’t it. Motherhood had already changed her. He sensed a gentle strength that hadn’t been there before.

He was trying to hold himself together, but a flood of emotions tightened his throat and made him feel close to tears. Rachel, the woman he loved, and their baby.

Here. With him. In his house.

For the first time in years he felt joy sneaking into his heart, and he found himself contemplating the possibility of a future. Maybe they would have that garden. Maybe she would bring sunshine into his life.

He studied the unfamiliar feelings moving through him, finally recognizing hope.

It frightened him.

“I’m going to take the cell phone and walk to the main road. I should be able to get a signal from there. Will you be okay? Alone here for half an hour?”

She nodded, not taking her eyes from the infant, bemused serenity on her face.

Downstairs, a door slammed.

Rachel glanced up, a question in her eyes.

Footsteps. Moving through the kitchen, down the hall, to reach the bottom of the stairs.

“Must be Graham. A snowplow must have come through.” Rachel and the baby would be able to get to a hospital.

Footsteps on the stairs.

Words of love were close to the surface, and Evan struggled to keep them from slipping out. Not now. Now was not a good time. It would be unfair to reveal his feelings at such a vulnerable moment.

Hope. He would savor it.

The door creaked.

All color drained from Rachel’s face. Evan swung around.

Standing in the opening was Richard Manchester, the Pale Immortal.

Chapter Fifty

Rachel stared in horror at the apparition in the doorway. Without taking her eyes off it, she whispered, “Do you see that?”

“Manchester.”

The dead had appeared to her at various times in her life, but this one was different. This one had a presence the others hadn’t possessed. This one could have been mistaken for human except for his eyes. Or lack of eyes.

He came for the baby. He wants the baby.

“Oh, God.”

We told you to stay away. We told you not to come.

And then it spoke. Jesus, it spoke. Directly to her, with a smile on its lips.

“Florence.”

With a voice that sounded hollow. A voice with no depth, being pushed from a shell.

She worked with the dead and knew this was impossible.

She glanced down at the baby in her arms, its little forehead streaked with blood. She wanted to clean the poor thing, wash the poor thing.

But there was a vampire in the room.

Evan hadn’t moved, and now she became aware of his stillness. Hardly breathing, arms at his sides, staring at the door. At the thing in the doorway.

Without looking, Evan put out his hand as if to stop her from getting up or moving. “He’s real. You have to play this like you see it.”

“It will go away,” she said, even though she wasn’t sure this time. “They always go away.”

“He’s not going anywhere, Rachel. He’s where he wants to be. He’s home.”

Her fear evaporated and suddenly she was angry.

If she hadn’t had a baby in her arms, if she hadn’t just been through labor, she would have rushed him. She would have pushed the silly hollow man down the stairs and watched him crumble to dust.

The baby made a strange noise. A nasal inhalation. Then he began to cry, his toothless mouth open wide, face red. Rachel jiggled him and made distracted sounds of comfort.

Manchester had been focused before, but now every cell zeroed in on the child. From a position of wild-animal awareness, he launched himself across the room. Rachel let out a scream, and Evan jumped in front of Manchester, blocking him.