Elle Jasper - Darklove

At the bottom, I land, crouched, and in the middle of . . . chaos. There’s fighting all around me, Ness boys fighting vampires. Blood. Piles of quivering dead newlings. I catch sight of Noah, and Seth and Rhine are close by.

He turns and sees me, then glances up.

Eli lands behind me, and I take off. I head straight for Rhine, and he doesn’t even look at me as he reaches into his pocket and throws me the key to his bike. I catch it and keep running, and I jump the last few feet and land, straddling his bike, jam the key in, and hit the engine. Just as Eli nears, I peel out down the drive. No time for a helmet. Eli’s on foot, right behind me. So close I can hear his grunts in my ear.

I run over two vamp bodies, and hit another one as he surges toward me; then I skid out into the street and take off. Vehicles are sparse, but still on the road, along with trash cans and plastic recycle bins as I nudge my way through and make it to the bridge. I glance over my shoulder; Eli no longer follows on foot.

But I know he and Carrine will follow me.

It’s me she wants.

And I fucking want her.

I hit the A-9 and let the throttle out. I’m heading for Dingwall, Ivy Cottage, and the standing stones. I’m going into the realm.

And I know Carrine and Eli will follow me.

I squint against the frigid Highland wind pelting into my eyes. In my rearview mirror, I see a single headlight. It’s growing closer. Faster. I look straight ahead and pray Rhine’s bike can outrun the one behind me.

The one carrying Eli and Carrine.

As I fly through Strathpeffer, then Dingwall, I’m pushing the bike to its limit. It’s pretty fast, and I’m relieved I don’t have to take the time to convince a local cop not to chase me down. Luckily, the cars are few and far between, and by the time I’m heading out of Dingwall and up the steep incline next to the car dealership, there are no cars at all. Ducking my head against the wind, I fly toward Ivy Cottage. At the drive’s entrance, I hit the brakes and skid sideways, coming to a stop. Kickstand down, I grab the key, stuff it in my pocket, and take off up the drive on foot. There’s a light in the living room of the crofter’s house, and I’m hoping he didn’t hear or see Rhine’s bike. It’s dark, and clouds obscure most of the moonlight. But I know where I’m going, and I rush past Ivy Cottage at the top of the hill, jump the sheep’s fence by the barn, and tear up the path toward the stones. In the distance behind me, I hear the roar of another motorcycle.

I’m running top speed through dead gorse and heather, the big prickly clumps catching my boots so much that I have to take large leaps to get over them without falling. Higher I climb, and before long, the moon slides out of the clouds, and the silhouettes of the stones rise before me. I stop, looking around me as I reach into my duffel, grab a handful of cartridges, and quickly load the scatha. I snap the lever in place and, without a glance backward, step into the stones.

The air shifts around me; a mist gathers and swirls up, crawling higher and winding around my legs and my torso and obscuring my vision. Then it begins to thin out, before me. Here, time is lost, from the world I just left, and this one. It’s unpredictable, and I might as well not hurry. I’ll fuck up if I hurry, and this is not the time for a fuckup. What I want is coming. Eventually. And I have patience this time. My head is clear. My will is stronger than it has ever been. And I have control.

I’m facing a slight incline: a hill, with a path walked smooth. I follow it, and notice a black iron gate ahead. As I walk, my fingers tighten around the scatha; my pack is slung over one shoulder. My arms are bare in my leather halter top, and yet the cold doesn’t bother me at all. Walking through the gate, I descend stone steps embedded into the cliffside, and at the bottom, a long, barren street. Abandoned cars line the curb on either side, tires flat, windows broken out, doors and trunks open. At the end of the street, another pair of tall black gates. A cemetery. I’m walking down the center of the street, unwilling to get too close to the buildings on either side. Some have doors; others have black, cavernous mouths. No way am I getting close enough to those, so I stay walking straight down the middle of the street. My gaze roves back and forth, up and down, searching. The building has no glass in the windows. No drapes. No lights. The lone click-clack of my black leather heeled boots against the paved street makes echoes in the silence, the solitude.

Only then do I see eyes staring at me from the shadowy windows and doorways.

Dozens and dozens of them. Red. Unblinking.

Then music. I hear it, coming from some back room in the building beside me. I glance over, the top-floor window glassless and dark, and the music grows louder. Billy Idol. “White Wedding.”

Then the eyes disappear, and a rustling, scratching noise begins, growing louder and louder, and then out of the doors and windows pours dozens and dozens—maybe hundreds—of cats. They crawl atop the abandoned cars and line the streets, and their eyes follow me as I walk, as Billy’s voice carries out through the upper window.

Cats? Am I really going to have to blast cats?

They don’t set one paw in the street; they stick to the curb. And as I slowly pass them by, they crack open their mouths and smile, their little cat lips pulling back over complete, perfect sets of human teeth.

They’re not moving toward me, not rushing me. Not attacking me. So I continue on my way to the large iron cemetery arch at the end of the street.

Then one solitary cat yawns, and its mouth widens to a disproportionate size: a big black jagged, gaping hole that takes up most of its head.

And it screams.

At once, they all stand on their hind legs, straight up, and join in the screaming. They look like some discombobulated Meerkat Manor of the alternative world, and the minute they launch at me, I take off. I run, hesitating to use my cartridges on a bunch of fucking big-mouthed cats.

The first one latches on to my hip, and those human teeth drop long and sharp and sink into my flesh. With my free hand I grab it by the scruff and fling it off, but it’s soon replaced by another, and another, and now they’re all lunging at me from their curbside perches. It’s the first time Billy Idol has ever, ever annoyed me.

I now have hundreds of vampire cats flying through the air and attacking me.

I focus, zero in on them, envision in my head a room filled with cats, and I release my energy. The shock wave rocks them all back, sends them flying against the buildings. I run top speed to the iron gates in front of me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the cats are dazed, but shaking their heads and watching me. Then they run after me. I hurry.

The moment my feet cross the cemetery’s threshold, the cats disappear. I breathe a quick sigh of relief that A: I didn’t have to blow a cat away. And B: I still have all of my cartridges.

As I glance around, the cemetery shifts, and tall Celtic crosses bend unnaturally to the side and back, and the marble statues, blackened with age, begin to move, walk, drag themselves toward me like stone zombies. Cemetery. Bad choice, Poe.

Only choice. Consecrated ground. Sanctuary. Better than out in the open, with rabid vamp cats throwing themselves at my throat. I hurry.

Just as I think, Where the hell is Carrine? she appears. Slipping from behind a leaning crypt, she emerges. She’s wearing clothes similar—no, almost identical—to mine. Tall black boots, leather low-riders, leather halter. Her hair is down, and her eyes are bloodred. Behind her, Eli stands still, watching me. Silent. Silent, but seething in bloodlust. Bloodlust and . . . confusion. He’s fighting her. I can tell it, sense it, feel it. I can feel it where I stand. But will he be able to withstand the brunt of her power if she enforces it? Jesus, I don’t want to kill my beloved.