Running in the Dark (8 page)

“Friends of my lady’s.” Thurston glanced at the van, then stepped toward me, a move guaranteed to make me step back. He gestured down the driveway and I nodded, watching him peripherally as I started walking away. He fell into step beside me, matching my speed. As if we were pedestrians who happened to be going in the same direction.

The door to the warehouse creaked open and I turned to see two men—humans—wearing matching blue pullovers. Thurston’s chin jutted as he clenched his teeth. Either he didn’t like me seeing them, or he didn’t like them. Judging from his response to the Goya delivery from the other night, it was the latter. Livia had no problem putting him in his place, despite what appeared to be genuine concern on his end. Odds were, she was using the drug Malcolm was chasing. She just wasn’t having a textbook reaction to it. I almost felt bad for Thurston, but maybe that was because I had on water-resistant gear and his crappy sweater was sopping.

The outer edge of laughter drifted toward me. The men jostled—more laughter—then leaned back against the back door of the van, hands cupped near their faces as they lit up. Maybe I could follow them, ask why a dermatology company was doing so much trade with vampires. Unfortunately my idea appeared to be written across my forehead, because Thurston shepherded me along at an increased pace.

“Take care,” he said as he reached out and lifted the massive gate off the blocks. “There will be water on the roads tonight.”

“Sure. And, uh, I hope the rest of your night goes better.”

He stiffened. Fuck, I should have said “good,” not intimated that it seemed like he was having a shitty night. But he wasn’t paying attention to me. He peered at the overgrown lot adjacent to his. I glanced in the same direction, not surprised when I didn’t see anything in the darkness. Then a wave of jittery cold rolled against me. I shivered.

“
Buenas noches,
Señorita Crane,” Thurston said tightly. I couldn’t blame him for his tension. The lot felt as though a whole crop of vampires had just sprung up from the ground.

“
Hasta luego,
Thurston.” I dropped into the car, slipping the pepper spray into my bag and tossing it onto the seat beside me. The car whined as I backed up, and grumbled as I wrestled the shifter into first gear.

I turned left two blocks away and stopped, unable to see much between the poor, unevenly spaced streetlights and fat raindrops. The van didn’t leave. I didn’t hear any signs of an altercation with the new kids. Maybe Thurston just didn’t like visitors. Thunder roared through the low clouds, and the atmosphere charged as the storm drew closer. My watch kept ticking, and after twenty minutes I let the clutch up and eased forward. The job was more important than my curiosity, but this would be topic number one with Mal tomorrow.

The windshield wipers worked, which was a minor miracle as the sky opened up on my way back to Carla’s. The run had actually been pleasant. I hadn’t gotten lost, had explored a couple of alternate routes, and a few of the vampires had spoken to me as though I hadn’t just washed up out of the filthy Mapocho River. Plus nobody had vomited hot blood near me. I’d count that a win.

I left the Tercel idling out front, not wanting to drive it into the garage since I couldn’t turn it off, and handed my slips over to Carla. The other bays were still empty, Jace with her loaded schedule and Tilde struggling.

“How’s McHenry these days?” Carla asked. My old boss’s youthful moon face swam up from the depths of my memory and I fought down a smile.

“What’s that, an Irish pub?” I forced myself to appear interested—curious but not intrigued.

Carla studied me for a moment before slowly smiling. “He owns a shop up in Alaska. I didn’t think you were from there, showing up with that tan.”

“Okaaaaay.” I raised my eyebrows as if wondering where she was going with this. I didn’t like this sudden interest in my origin. After my test run, she hadn’t asked me a single direct question about where I was from or how I knew the rules of the game. She threw her arms up in exasperation.

“I’m
curious.
The girls are curious. It didn’t take long to realize you’ve done this before. But not in the States, and not in Scandinavia. I voted New Zealand. Unless you were running for the Russians. You weren’t, were you?”

Running from the Russians, more like. I smiled sweetly and she winced. Ah, yes, the makeup. Coupled with the rain, I probably looked more sinister than sweet. “Now, Carla. A girl doesn’t drive and tell.”

“Very well. Keep your secrets.” Her eyes gleamed, and I wasn’t sure I liked that any more than her prying. “I had good news tonight on a new contract, a big one. I will need you for this, if you can handle it.” Her tone couldn’t have been more condescending, which irked me. She didn’t need to butter me up, but she could at least acknowledge my competence.

“I would love to make you a ton of money, but right now I have to take this piece of shit car across town to be gutted and rehabilitated.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“It’s all that bad.” I backed toward the door, winking before I left. And then all levity fell away.

My world was too small, and it was as if I could feel the walls closing in. I wasn’t going to be able to hide forever. The engine raced for a few seconds before I put the car in gear. I was fine for the moment. She could speculate away. Malcolm had said that he would find and kill Richard Abel. Then I could go wherever I wanted, and actually use the reputation I’d built. It would be a relief not to have to hide so much. Except, Malcolm was awful busy in Santiago.

I shifted in my seat, coiling tighter with tension as the city flashed by. I could barely see the lane markers as the standing water deepened. Santiago was dark and sullen as a ghost, everyone hiding from the downpour, or hidden by it. The defroster, on high, just barely kept the middle of the windshield clear.

In Alaska, I’d been Master Bronson’s pet, the one courier he could trust not to be influenced. Was that the sort of asset Malcolm wanted, too, as he ran his little empire at the bottom of the world? Bronson seemed to rule this place in name only. The sun circled the sky up there constantly now, but still he chose to remain in Alaska. Dug in. There was more opportunity up there. New reserves of oil and metals, in a favorable environment. The Chilean mines were rumored to be heading toward their end, and the human government was less…hospitable. Maybe Bronson would never return, forcing Malcolm to work here forever. Or until his term of service expired in a few years. However, I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay that long.

I sailed around a bend and gasped. A man stood in the center of my lane, his back to me, not thirty feet away. My feet jumped on the pedals, hands clenched worn leather, and I swerved. Bumped up onto the opposite curb and back down. I cranked the wheel to get back into my lane.

And the car went sideways. Hydroplaning. Headlights flashed in the side window, followed by the rising panic of a truck horn closing fast. I held my breath, feet massaging the clutch and brake as I waited for the feel of traction. The drift ended abruptly, tires meeting pavement with a squeal and a lurch. I threw myself to the right, and wrenched the wheel to the left to straighten the car.

I regained my lane and the truck sailed by, punctuated by a sheet of water and two angry pulls on the horn. The car rolled to a stop, and my heart released itself from my shoulders and dropped gingerly back into my chest. I straightened the rearview mirror and saw nothing. The seat belt caught when I tried to turn, then the cold shear of a vampire’s presence raked my spine.

Holy fucking hell, a trap.

Chapter Eight

I shoved the car into gear and stomped on the gas. A hand slapped against my window as the car jumped forward and I bit off a rising scream. My bag had fallen off the passenger seat during the spin, and the silver canister of pepper spray was halfway out of its pocket. I changed gears acutely, horribly, aware of the sucker
running
beside my car. I passed thirty miles per hour. Thirty-five. Forty.

My hands twitched, waiting for him to make his move. He lunged, and I swerved a split second later. Not away, though. Toward him. The car rocked. He catapulted backward, long dark coat and stiff limbs pinwheeling through the rain before crashing into a gray brick wall. I slowed as I approached a corner, mapping my exit strategy. I needed to let Carla know that somebody was after her runners. My phone had slipped loose and lay at the base of the other seat. I leaned toward it.

The passenger window exploded toward me and I jerked away, my foot coming off the accelerator just slightly. Just enough. A hand closed on my right arm, nearly pulling it from the socket. The seat belt dug into my neck.

“Stop,” the vampire ordered. A second one, wearing a blue pullover.

My foot quivered over the brake pedal. I considered the strength of the hold on my arm and eased off, reaching over with my left hand to downshift. I rolled to a stop, soaked with sweat and adrenaline.

The vampire released me only for a second when he yanked the door open and climbed in. He was big, his bulk overflowing the seat, rainwater streaming from his blond hair. And he was pissed. His naked fangs dug pale burrows into the skin beneath his lower lip. He opened his mouth, tilted his head back and made a sound like a grave exhaling thousand-year-old air.

His fangs retracted, mostly. His eyes glowed deep red beneath thick brows. He had a long, narrow nose and a wide, merciless mouth, and I wondered what he’d do if I tried to run. His hand clamped down on my shoulder and I jumped. He grinned, like we were having a great old time.

“What do you want?” I asked, anger riding fear and making me too loud, too confrontational. I stared at his Adam’s apple because it was safer than looking at his eyes, but I could still see those damn teeth. My gaze dropped to his hand. The elastic sleeve of his jacket pinched the skin in the middle of his meaty forearm.

“Someone wants to see you,” he said. My throat clicked when I swallowed. Richard Abel. Sending vamps this time instead of my own kind, and coming just ahead of daybreak. “Drive.”

I had to work to pull my right hand off the wheel, and first gear eluded me for a moment. I couldn’t blame it for hiding. My bag, containing my only weapons, was out of reach beneath his feet.

I didn’t feel any other vampires, which meant that his buddy was still embedded in the wall. It also meant that Soraya wasn’t just hiding, she wasn’t fucking there. Or if she was, she was allowing me to be taken. My stomach fell, and I had to fight to keep from sagging along with it.

That was fine. I didn’t need a cavalry. My tools were a shitty car that my companion’s presence would likely kill within a matter of miles, and my wits. The windshield wipers flubbed frantically. A pickup passed, lights streaked by the rain. The car, my wits, and what little information I’d gained about these streets.

“Where are we going?” I managed to modulate my tone, letting fear seep into it, which wasn’t difficult.

He grabbed my chin and yanked my head toward him. I kept the wheel straight. Damn vampires didn’t know you had to see to be able to drive.

“My name, little one, is Bren. Drive me to the Autopista Central and go north. Take the fastest route. No tricks. No attempt to gain attention. And no more questions.” Cold willpower sprayed through my eyes and into my head.

Bren let go and the glamour washed through me, strengthened by the addition of his name. I blinked and waved a hand over my face as the command burrowed in. I was too freaked to deflect it properly. Malcolm had gotten me once before, when I was hurt. I bit the inside of my lip. I wasn’t hurt, not yet, and I wasn’t about to
obey
as someone tried to make me drive myself to my death.

The glamour drifted away and my eyes cleared. I shifted mechanically, staring straight ahead, attempting to appear dull and submissive. His accent was foreign, clipped and precise, not quite German, almost Australian. He certainly wasn’t from here, and it occurred to me he might not be Richard’s flunky. The hatchet man knew I wasn’t susceptible to influence, which Bren clearly didn’t.

He settled in, peering around as I drove, like he was enjoying himself. He probably didn’t get to ride up front in cars a lot. He was bizarrely laid-back, fiddling with the dials and actually chuckling when the radio came on. No way he belonged to Richard Abel. That sucker was old-school. A lot of weasely theatrics, earnest intimidation and bone-deep sadism.

The city was too big, the networks too disjointed for me to even speculate on who could have sent vampires—and not baby ones either—after me. It didn’t matter, though. All that mattered was that I get away from them. From him. I took a left, let the car drift over the speed limit. The street was empty and the rain was letting up some. It still coated the road several inches deep. The Autopista Central was the north-south highway on the west side of Santiago. Livia was my only delivery close to the highway, and I didn’t think she’d stand up to another vampire if I ran to her for help. Thurston might, if she let him. He seemed like a decent guy. Mickey’s garage was on the way, sort of. If I could stick to slower streets, I might be able to weave my way toward her.

I ran the blocks in my mind, branched outward, trying to recall an obstruction or location that might hold people at this time of the morning. The produce and meat
mercados
would be open, a few distribution centers. But there was no way he’d let me drive to a place like that. I needed a quick and dirty option, and there was exactly one thing I could reach in the next minute that fit that bill.

Another turn. I shook my head and made a whispered moaning sound. Bren examined me and a block slipped past. Another. I smacked the heel of my hand against the steering wheel, trying to appear to be fighting him, keeping his attention off the roads. His energy filled the tight space as he tried to tighten his control. The lights dimmed, the dials on the dash alternately spiking and crashing as he corrupted the machine. I silently willed the car forward. Another turn. Bren pressed a hand to the window, his neck craning as he looked around, probably searching for landmarks.

“This isn’t the way—”

“I’m the runner,” I slurred, hoping that was how enthralled humans talk. “I know the roads. This is the fastest route.” The engine began to rattle, and my speed fell slightly. I wanted to cry. If this didn’t work…

“No. This isn’t the way. Turn around.”

He punctuated the command with a surge of power. It felt like ice shattering against the backs of my eyes. I stomped on the gas and the car actually responded. One final burst. We skidded around a corner. Bren grabbed for the armrest, and it came away in his hand. I took a deep breath and veered across the road.

He saw it, even in the dark—a lane-wide pothole from the pocked road I’d complained about to Malcolm. It was so deep, a truck had broken an axle in it a week prior. And the rain had probably weakened it further. Bren hit the door with hammer fists until the latch broke.

The front end of the Tercel dropped like I’d driven off the end of the world. The rear flew up. Gravity shifted and got all kinds of powerful. And then the car crashed down.

I gasped in a breath, staring at the spider-veined windshield, astounded we hadn’t flipped over. Mickey was going to kill me.

She’d have to get in line.

Pain lanced my chest as I reached for the seat belt. I moved my jacket and shirt away from my neck, expecting to see a bullet hole. A dull red bruise stared back. Broken collarbone from the seat belt, maybe. Could have been worse. I dropped my head against the rest and breathed for a moment, quelling nausea and panic, and tried to think.

I opened my eyes, turned my head and wished I hadn’t. Bren’s legs were stiff and straight. It looked as though his heels had dug into the floor of the car. The rest of his body was crammed into the twisted, V-shaped space between the car frame and the open door. He’d panicked, and now he was…

I shoved my way out of the crumpled door and stumbled a few steps, left arm tucked against my stomach. The car steamed, one rear wheel spinning from where it dangled. Cold, gritty brick met my forehead as I leaned against the building, fighting the urge to vomit. Or cry. Or scream. Something warm ran down my neck before dissipating. Blood wasn’t good. I needed to take care of it before someone with fangs came along.

My brain came back online, running the scenario, the setup. Who knew I’d be on that road at that time? Who would have sent suckers after me? Where the fuck was Soraya?

I probed at my clavicle and winced. I needed my bag, a good place to hide and medical attention. In that order. I walked back to the car, facing upward as I crouched. The rain fell in cold sheets of temporary blindness. Blinking, I wormed my way in through the gaping passenger’s side, grinding my teeth as the ends of the bone in my chest ground.

Blood dripped from the door and I breathed through my mouth to get enough air in. I felt around until I found the strap of my bag and a cold, slim canister. Bren’s leg twitched and I snatched my bag back and raised the pepper spray. As if that was going to make his body behave.

I leaned in one more time—having to press against his legs to make room—swallowing a whimper until my fingers closed around my phone. I jerked back to my feet, and my gaze snagged on his crumpled torso. The back of his rucked-up jacket was marked with a white symbol. It was round and styled to appear as if it had been painted on with a fat brush. Maybe the homicidal sucker was sponsored.

I tentatively reached out, knees ready to launch me backward, and pulled the side of his jacket to stretch the image flat. It was an eye and eyebrow with two brushstrokes dragged through it and downward to form a stylized
G
. The image was familiar, the Egyptian Eye of Ra or whatever. The
G
tickled my memory, though I’d seen it much smaller. I stretched the fabric a little farther.
Goya Worldwide
ran below the symbol in small, blocky letters. The jacket smelled slightly smoky. The two men at Livia’s had been dark haired and human. They’d also been smaller, which might explain why the jacket was three sizes too small. Why the hell was a vampire wearing it?

And why was I standing around like a Muppet? I fumbled with the canister before I got the pepper spray to work, then ran it around the car, cringing when I did the passenger’s side. Bren would recover, so long as he got loose prior to dawn, but I felt bad for adding insult to catastrophic injury. The rain would eliminate the worst of the effects of the spray, but it should hide my scent. Whoever was after me might know me by sight, but they shouldn’t be able to pick up my trail. Not right away at least.

I swore without heat. I hadn’t caught even a hint of a tail coming from Carla’s, and I’d driven
into
an ambush, not been caught from behind. I hadn’t been followed, which meant someone had tipped Bren and his buddy off. Someone had betrayed me, either a fellow runner or the vampire vassal who’d been instructed to keep me safe.

My cell phone was dead. Bren’s presence had taken care of that. I started walking, rigging my arm inside my coat to hold it mostly steady. Each step still felt like a hammer blow. I was chilled within three blocks, shaking by six, but nothing pursued me no matter how many times I glanced back.

Cars splashed me as they drove by and I almost climbed into each home I passed where lights were on. Even the smell of stale beer and discreet vomit outside a bar were welcome signs of human life. But nothing was quite as nice as shoving through the door of Mickey’s garage into the warmth and comforting smell of grease. A small black pickup sat engineless in the first bay. Mickey, keeping to her nocturnal hours, was waist deep in the engine of an experienced blue sedan. I slogged toward her, dripping on the stained concrete and leaving behind a sizable trail.

“Hey, M-M-Mickey.” I was shaking so hard I could hear the bones grinding together in my chest. She popped up, and beamed at me before taking in my condition.

“Aerin,” she chided, wiping her hands on a rag. “I meant for you to drive the car here. I cannot work on it if you don’t bring it to me.”

“It’s gone to the great beyond. Where’s your bathroom?”

She pointed to the back wall, concern darkening her wide eyes. Her long hair was tied up in some elaborate formation with a black bandana, and her pea-green coveralls were about five sizes too big.

“Lock this place down,” I said as I struggled with the greasy brass doorknob. The fluorescent lights flickered when I turned them on. “And call Carla. Let her know I got jumped after leaving the shop. Have her check on the others. Please.”

“Que mal rollo,”
she muttered. Tools clanged on the floor when she bumped a rolling tray on her way to a wall phone. “Who was it?”

“Don’t know. They were foreign and had fangs. One took out a brick wall. The other’s still, uh, with the car, I guess.”

“Dry yourself. I will let the others know. The towels are clean.”

I unzipped my coat and hung it on a peg on the wall, then sat down on the closed toilet. I pulled one leg up across the other and stared at the laces of my boots. The dregs of adrenaline and the continued slow burn of fear made me jittery, and I was abruptly, painfully, homesick. Mickey chattered away and I heard what sounded like metal bars scraping against the cement floor. One boot fell to the floor and I changed legs.

“Everyone else is okay,” Mickey yelled through the door. “They all made it in. They’re going to wait there until morning. Dawn should be breaking soon.”

They could have recruited humans to help them, whoever Bren worked for. But I doubted these guys would try anything else tonight, human or not. Not with one injured and one…broken. They’d need to think, try to figure out what went wrong on a simple grab job. At least, I hoped they would. I rubbed my eyes.