A half-familiar location. He had seen this road wheeling underneath not too long ago as he streaked through the night, carrying a precious burden.
Upon the previous eve, in fact.
Ah. I see. His face felt strange. The smile was a mixture of rueful admiration of and fresh anxiety over sweet Leila, who had taken the wheel, fled, and aimed for a place she would find familiar.
Many survivors of rout or catastrophe did the same.
Her scent flared and faded, a coppery edge sharpening its deliciousness. His true teeth, so recently unsheathed for battle, throbbed afresh; his hands itched, longing for her flawless satin skin. She was moving, perhaps impelled by sheer stubborn terror, risking ever more damage with eacch act of fruitless struggle.
Cursing was a waste of energy, yet he did so inwardly as he streaked along her wavering trail.
The same tired, abandoned building slumped near iron rails, a fresh hole in its roof grinning at the sky. Maximus slipped through that ingress, the need to find her threatening to force his old, strong heart into quickening; he throttled the urge, and did not have to strain to catch voices echoing in a dark refuse-choked well.
“You brought it here!” A male mortal, working himself to a pitch of violence.
And the only voice Maximus wished to hear, a soft sweet soprano, crying aloud in terror. “Pete, don’t, I’m still me?—”
There. Hemoved, blurring through space in mistform, swift as an arrow.
A sharp, terrible bark of gunfire.
CHAPTER 11
She didn’t stumbleacross any bodies, sothatwas lucky. Or so Layla told herself.
The jury-rigged power was out, the entire base dark as sin. Her flashlight’s anemic beam traced the overturned table, the scattered camp chairs… and found no sign of paper or the stacked weapons save a single gleaming clip, discarded on the floor at the very edge of the ready room.
Layla’s breathing refused to settle, harsh and hard like the heavy panting of a horror movie victim just before the slasher showed up for his final flurry. There wasn’t much creepier than an abandoned building at night, especially when she wasn’t sure if she’d turn a corner and find a corpse.
Still, someone had clearly picked up the files, not to mention guns, ammo, knives, and other gear. Had it been the vampire? Or Pete, or someone else?
Her eyes were swelling badly from stopping an airbag with her face, or maybe she was developing fear-based claustrophobia. Thin, tenuous flashlight glow seemed to be getting weaker all the time.
Are the batteries going dead? Christ, that’s just typical.
She felt her way along mostly by memory, heading for the supply room. Her personal sleeping cubby was the only one behind a locking door—Steve-o had insisted on that during move-in, glancing significantly at Ben, who had been telling Dan a steady stream of dirty jokes while they racked gear.
Oh, God. She wouldnotcry. There wasn’t any time for that bullshit, she had to think about what she’d do if whoever had cleaned up also grabbed the cashbox and the keys to their only remaining transport—a wretched, ancient Jeep Wrangler barely capable of freeway speed, but good enough for getting out of this city and a full gas-tank’s worth of miles in any direction.
She wasn’t picky. She never had been, really, and current events just continued the trend.
The flashlight swung, tracking a small skittering sound, and if it was rats she was going to scream because Christ-Lord-Jesus shehatedhaving big ol’ naked-tail rodents running around looking for food a man couldn’t bother to put away.
“Fuck!” A yell, a popping click, and Layla screamed, throwing herself behind a mound of used laundry.
Knees and one elbow hit hard, flaring with fresh bright-red pain; she almost lost the flashlight but rolled just as Ack had taught her, the back half of her cry fading into an inglorious wheeze. Ended up against a pile of old, splintering wooden crates, which quivered on the verge of toppling, and if she died in a junk landslide it would be funny, it would be absolutelyhysterical?—
Silence. She lay, trembling, clutching the light to her chest. The red skirt, pulled so high her bare unmentionables were probably showing, was wadded under her hip.
“Jesus Christ,” Pete whispered. “Layla? Is that you?”
“I got everything packed.” Shadows from the glare of a much bigger, fully charged emergency light played over Pete’s sweat-gleaming, dirty face as he led her along familiar corridors; he was bloodshot and haggard in dirty jeans and a torn camo T-shirt. By the looks of it, he’d been jumping out of his skin since last night.
Layla could absolutely relate. “But… You’resure? All of them?” Stunned, stupid disbelief was all she could scrape up. Somehow, hearing him say it aloud made everything horrifyingly real.
“Yeah. Dry as doornails, damn near mummified. I put ‘em near the east entrance with their IDs, so at least next of kin can…” Pete shook his head, the boxy yellow plastic light jittering in big capable hands. Towers of junk around them seemed to shift, re-settling only when he halted, peering at her. “I’m sorry. I know you and Dan were tight.”
“I can’t believe he was about to quit.” Why couldn’t she say something useful? Layla found herself smoothing the dress’s soft, heavy skirt over her aching hip with her free hand, rubbing over and over as if soothing a small animal. “I’m glad you’re okay, though.”
