The Seventh Sons (Sycamore Moon Series Book 1) (23 page)

Light emanated from the depths, and as Diego carefully made his way down the steep steps, he saw a single bulb hanging from a chain. It illuminated cramped quarters, not very useful for more than storage because of their size, but even lacking for that due to the difficult entrance.

Lining the wall were several green plastic drums, the same type that had recently made their way to the bottom of Paradise Tank. The biker realized that the bar was in between the train yard and the farmhouse. This dusky cellar was likely where the victims had met their ends before being packed and shipped off like cargo.

Lying in the corner, peacefully asleep in a weathered cot, was his sister.

"Angelica!" cried Diego. "Wake up. Are you okay?" He shook her shoulders to rouse her and clipped the ties around her hands and feet. The girl opened her eyes and smiled weakly. Her face was bloody and bruised but she was in one piece. As Diego helped her sit, he realized that she lacked strength and must have been drugged. "It's okay, it's okay," he said, drawing her arm around him and standing up.

The first few paces were difficult, and the biker thought he would have trouble at the stairs, but Angelica contributed more of her power to the effort as she shook the numbness away. Very quickly the two were through the shadow and back under the tendrils of the red lights.

The bar was empty, its door flung open to the cold wind inside. Diego flipped up a single blind with the tip of his scissors and saw Gutierrez in the road, leading the five rescued men and women towards the town on foot.

"Go join them, Angelica," said Diego firmly. He noticed his sister's confused expression. "I'll be along in a minute."

Angelica shook her head. "I'm staying with you."

"That would be a first," said a sardonic voice from behind them. They started at the sound and saw Mom standing in the back hallway, holding the metal case that she had suffered for. She limped ahead and clutched her right hip with her arm, which was bleeding from a bullet wound. On her left, the entire side of her face was obscured by a mix of dirt and blood. She didn't look well as she stood there, but somehow, managing supreme composure, she still summoned the audacity to be dangerous.

"Where's Maxim?" asked an exasperated Diego.

The woman gave a careless shrug. "That man was in such a rush to join his wife."

The biker took a step forward as his hand tightened on the scissors.

Deborah smirked. "You planning on cutting my nails?" The woman moved into the center of the room and looked at Angelica standing to the side, forlorn, avoiding eye contact. "Diego de la Torre. You walked into this bar two weeks ago with a focused desire—to rescue your baby sister. It must pain you to know that she is now part of my family as well, sharing blood with those you have mindlessly slaughtered. Still," said Deborah, approaching the man, "she is alive and you have accomplished your objective. Don't tell me that you require something else?"

The biker heaved his shoulders as he listened to the smug words. He had tried to leave on civil terms in the train yard before. She had ordered them shot down. Now Maxim was dead because of her, and maybe Gaston and Nithya as well, and who knows how many others.

Diego stood firm, blocking her path to the door.

Deborah took a final step to bring herself immediately in front of the biker. She cocked her head and the light caught her ravaged visage. The true horrors of her heart had finally breached the surface of her skin, even if the wounds only lasted until the next time she healed. Ignoring the pain she must have been in, she stared him down and held up the briefcase. "A deal is a deal: the money for your sister."

The biker ground his jaw down in frustration. He looked to Angelica, young and hurt. Diego knew he couldn't overpower a werewolf, even a wounded one, and he knew any action on his part would pull his sister into harm. The man swallowed his pride and took a step to the side, clearing access for Deborah to exit.

The wolf smiled triumphantly as her eyes flashed orange. She strutted as she walked past him.

Angelica, having already been beaten and still drugged, kept back. As Diego watched her standing there weakly, covered in blood, he knew that she was a wolf and that she would heal as well. She was strong inside, no matter the feelings that welled up within him when he saw her in that condition. It dawned on him that the sweet, innocent projection he had of his sister was a relic of the past. It didn't do either of them good anymore.

A horrible feeling burned within Diego that caused him to feel that he was committing a great wrong. It was the same creeping sensation that the biker had nearly drowned in when he'd hunted werewolves, and it had caused him to ultimately quit. Only this time, Diego was much more receptive to the realization.

"It wasn't my deal," stated the biker, and he swiftly swung his arm around, burying the blades of the scissors in the back of Deborah's neck. The woman turned halfway around and locked her evil eyes on him once again. "Maxim was my friend," he said.

Deborah was not prepared to go down so easily.

She slammed the metal case against Diego's chest. It knocked the wind from him and he crashed into a neighboring table. As he fell to the floor, he thought he heard his sister scream, but he was gasping for breath and could not recover.

Angelica leaped at Deborah fiercely and threw a barrage of punches. Deborah fell and dropped the case, but she kicked out and caught Angelica, who was already partly dizzy, in the head.

The biker pulled himself up on the table and looked for the scissors. He didn't know where they'd gone and didn't see any other weapons nearby.

Both women regained their feet and continued battering each other. Deborah's leg was failing her—she could not move and roll away from strikes as she once could—but she was by far the stronger of the two. She reverted to absorbing Angelica's blows and, when the moment was right, caught her with a haymaker square in the stomach. Diego's sister flew over a table and landed on another.

Diego was unarmed, but he suddenly noticed that the scissors still protruded from the back of the wolf's neck. In a final effort, he ran to the woman and reached for the blade. Deborah Holton turned and caught his neck with her wounded arm.

Diego's boots left the wood floor. The wolf lifted him and squeezed, and he felt the airway in his throat constrict. He tried kicking the woman but she was too powerful. He could only watch helplessly as his sister lay on the floor, groaning.

A gunshot rang out. Then another. And another. The death grip around Diego's neck loosened. As the biker took in a deep breath, he heard two more shots and watched the luster depart from Deborah's bright eyes. They both crumpled to the floor.

Diego caught himself on his hands and lifted his head. Standing in the hallway, coming from the back door, and with a jacket littered with grains of wheat, was a man holding a spent Glock.

 

Maxim Dwyer stood with his offhand pressed against the wall, allowing it to support his weight and managing to feel battered yet unbeaten all at once. He had been dreading this moment. It meant losing another link to his dead wife, however depraved.

No matter. He had seen Deborah's vile nature. It was true what she had said: Sanctuary was better without her in it.

The detective caught Diego's eyes and they shared the exhausted sentiments of their struggle.

The biker jumped to his feet to help his sister up. She brushed away the aid and forced herself up using a wooden chair for support. She was a strong-willed one, that much was clear.

They heard someone's hurried steps rushing over the patio and looked to the entrance as Gutierrez rushed in. "Everyone okay?" he asked.

"Call it in," said Maxim calmly, "but leave the others out of it."

The rookie nodded with firm obedience. "And the fed?" he asked, referring to Nithya.

"Just get the paramedics here. This is finally our jurisdiction. The marshal's office will handle this scene for as long as we can." Gutierrez returned outdoors to use the radio.

Diego watched Deborah's body on the floor with apprehension. Maxim looked closely and thought he could see the faintest of movements in her broken frame.

"She said you were dead," started the biker, keeping his eyes on the woman.

Maxim cringed as he recalled the sensation of being buried alive. "I was dying," he answered calmly. "Bracing against an irreconcilable weight. But I was dug from the ground."

Diego looked at him strangely. The grain bin would be explained when he saw it. For now, the biker turned his attention to other concerns. "What happened to Gaston?"

The detective shook his head weakly. "Shot up pretty bad. He was barely moving." At those words, Angelica went to the backyard.

"Don't worry," said the biker, returning his eyes to the woman on the floor. "These wolves don't die so easily. Neither do you, apparently."

Maxim thought about the man's words as they both heard raspy breathing getting heavier. Deborah was definitely still among them. The detective immediately reloaded his weapon and bent down over her, rolling Deborah so that she was on her back.

"Idiot," spoke the wolf with a spirit that made them both jump. She had coughed up blood, a doubtless sign of a punctured lung, yet she had the strength and alacrity to grab Maxim by the neck.

The detective put a hand on each of hers, one tugging on her grip and the other, holding his gun, vying to keep her other arm at bay. She pulled his head down and bared her teeth. Diego leapt forward and buried his knee into her shoulder to keep Deborah pinned to the wood floor.

The bloodied wolf was not able to overpower the two men on top of her but did not yield. She was intractable, even against the threat of oblivion. The three locked themselves in a tight embrace and pressed with all their might.

"We're not going to die, Maxim," she said, laughing up spittle.

The detective twisted out of the woman's choke and suddenly found his weapon free. He put the Glock 22 to Deborah's heart at point blank and pulled the trigger several times.

"Fuck!" he yelled. "Can't you see you're beaten?"

Her body slackened and both men eased their grips. They rested next to her, their chests heaving as their drained bodies recovered. Gutierrez ran to the door but stopped short as he saw they were not in danger. He turned and left them alone again, perhaps allowing them to do what needed to be done.

"She's not lying, Maxim," said Diego. "You didn't shoot her with silver. She's powerful. She may recover."

Maxim contorted his brow. "Don't you have another knife or something?"

Diego shook his head. "I'm afraid silver daggers are fairly expensive. Until we find Doka's corpse, my weapon is lost in the trees of Sycamore."

They sat in silent frustration for a moment. Maxim needed to end this, and not only for Lola. The detective found himself, as he often did, mindlessly rubbing the ring he still wore on his finger. If he was to truly move on then he needed to stop living with that old promise. With bittersweet release, Maxim Dwyer pulled his wedding band off his finger for the very last time.

He looked down at Deborah and knew that this would be the end for her as well. Maxim set his jaw and plunged the ring into the cavity in her chest, pushing deep until the silver rested inside the woman's heart. He glanced at Diego, the expert in these matters, who nodded his satisfaction. Deborah Holton would not return.

The sound of sirens jarred him from his stupor. There were still loose ends to tie up. Maxim sprung to his feet, holstered his gun, and left Gutierrez to greet the responders. The two men exited from the back door.

Gaston's pickup truck had lost its shiny luster. What hadn't been consumed by the grain bin sat mostly buried by its contents. The passenger door was open. The man was now sitting against the back wheel with Angelica tending to him.

While Gaston looked critically wounded, Maxim was not so worried, especially after the eye-opening events inside. The detective gave the big man a nod of thanks that the wolf returned. Although a cold exchange, there would forever be an understanding between the two.

Nithya stood behind the truck, fearful of the coming police. She laboriously moved deeper into the forest.

"Hold it," called out Maxim, once again drawing his weapon. He strode closer to the woman that he couldn't help caring for. But he knew he had a duty. Even if it was sad, it was just. "You can't simply leave, Nithya."

She looked at him with heartfelt eyes as he raised his gun. "I could have left you buried, Maxim." When she saw that the detective's pistol remained steady, she added, "I never lied to you about my feelings."

Maxim's hand wavered. Part of him felt that she had told him everything he needed to hear. His heart had been closed for two tortuous years, maybe even longer than that, and he was now faced with arresting the only woman who'd been able to reawaken his emotions. Still, Maxim held the gun raised.

Nithya smiled. There was a moment of happiness in her eyes, as if she had seen in him a flash of his quality that she adored, and turned to continue walking away. "You'll have to shoot me then."

The detective sighed, swallowed, and put his pistol away. "I don't need a gun to restrain you, Nithya." He stepped forward with a heavy heart—but stopped short with surprise when Angelica moved in between them.

"She helped me," said the young girl. It was dark out, but for a moment Maxim saw a flash of yellow across her brown eyes. She intended to help Nithya leave.

"You were lucky," proclaimed Maxim. "You could have died just like the others." He looked back to appeal to Diego, but the biker kneeled silently next to Gaston.

The short girl lifted her head proudly and brushed her curly locks behind her shoulders as she stood in his way. "It's what I wanted."