Sharon Ashwood - Possessed by an Immortal

“Bree,” he said softly, sitting next to her in the row of molded plastic chairs.

“Mark.” Her hands twisted, fingers lacing and unlacing. “Or should I call you Doctor here?”

“Mark is fine.” He reached over, stilling her hands. The bones felt delicate beneath his fingers. “I’ll be honest. I still don’t have a diagnosis for you, but I’ve sent some blood samples to an excellent laboratory in Los Angeles. They’ll run whatever tests I ask for and not ask any questions.”

Her eyebrows lifted, expressing skepticism and hope in one gesture. “Really?”

“Yes. It’s a start. Depending on what those tell us, there are some other things we will probably want to do—we just don’t know yet.”

Her eyes clouded and she pulled her hands away. “We can’t stay here. Those men who were following me—they’ll check hospitals.”

Again, Mark wondered if they’d been shooting at him or at her. “Who are they?”

She looked down. “Like I said, I don’t have names. I’m really sorry you got caught up in this. You’re kind. You don’t deserve it.”

“You said you witnessed a murder.”

She shifted in the chair. “You don’t understand how powerful they are.”

You don’t understand how powerful I am. “Tell me.”

She bent her head, avoiding his eyes. “It’s been like this all along, from one coast to the other. And there have been close calls. Jonathan and I got cornered in the Chicago airport. They stuck both of us with needles full of some sort of sleeping drug. The only thing that saved us was that they got the dosage wrong. They didn’t give me enough. I woke up in the back of a van and managed to get out with Jonathan. I was so scared.” She covered her face with her hands. “He didn’t wake up for ages. I started to wonder if he would.”

Fury washed through him in a hot tide, followed by hard suspicion. Why drug Bree and Jonathan and not just kill them?

Her expression was bitter. “They’re getting closer every time they strike. One day we won’t get away.”

“You need a bigger city.”

“Maybe.” She looked away. “I’ve been through most of them.”

“I could take you to Los Angeles.”

She shuddered slightly. “No, I— No. Not Los Angeles.”

Clearly, something bad had happened there. “Seattle?”

She chewed her lip. “Maybe. For a while.”

The implication being that it wouldn’t work indefinitely. No hiding place would. What does she have—or know—that someone wants so desperately?

“I’ll take you there,” he said, almost before he had made a conscious decision. “I need to catch a plane, anyway. I can do it from there.” He’d just miss the one Raphael was sending for him and Larson. Oh well.

“You’re going away? And here I was getting used to personal service.” Her tone was careless, but a lift in her voice betrayed a hint of dismay. Then she laughed, shaking her head as if to clear away unwelcome thoughts. “No, I travel alone.”

“So do I.” He gave a slight smile. “But it’s just to Seattle. A couple hours, then I’m on a plane and out of your life. I can leave you a contact number so you can call me to get the results of the tests. No matter what, I’m still your son’s doctor.”

She was silent.

“Are you okay with that?” Mark asked. “Am I being too pushy?”

“Of course you’re not. I’m sorry. I’m not really this antisocial,” she said, flushing.

“But the men with guns totally ruin cocktail hour. I get it. Take the ride, no strings attached.”

“You’re a kind man.” She lowered her eyes. “Okay.”

Then she looked up from under her lashes. Her gaze caught his, holding it while his gut squeezed with guilt. Fiery hells, she’s beautiful. And she had no idea what he was. She was running away from one kind of killer and accepting help from another.

And right when Nicholas Ferrel was back in the picture. It was like Mark’s nightmare was unfolding again, and he was helpless to stop it.

Well, he’d get her settled in Seattle, and that would be it. There were other agents there who’d keep an eye on her if he asked. This didn’t need to be complicated. It couldn’t be.

Just then, Jonathan ran over, flopping into his mother’s knees with a giggle. Bree laughed, too, her waves of honey-gold hair swinging with her as she scooped her son into her lap. The sound eased the tension in Mark’s gut. If she could still laugh and Jonathan could still play, there was hope for them.

His cell phone rang. Mark rose, walking out of the playroom to get away from all that domestic bliss. He thumbed it to life. “Winspear.”

“Hey.” It was Kenyon.

“You have something?”

“I’ve just gotten started, but before I go any further, I have a photo for you to look at. Is this your girl?”

Mark’s phone pinged. He tapped the photo and it filled the screen. He felt his eyes going wide. It was Bree, but looking very different. Her hair was the same, but she wore a lot of makeup and a very tiny sequined dress. He was tempted to head back to the playroom for a detailed comparison of all that smooth, white flesh. What would she feel like, warm and alive, half-naked and in his hands? He felt his fangs descending, his mouth suddenly filled with saliva.

He sucked in a deep breath, crushing those thoughts. “Yes, that’s her.”

“Holy hair balls,” Kenyon groaned.

“Why?”

“You pick ’em, Winspear.”

“I don’t pick anyone. What are you talking about?”

“If there’s a train wreck within a million miles, you’ll put yourself on the scene.”

“Stop talking and say something,” Mark growled in icy tones. “Who is Bree?”

“Brianna Meadows. Daughter of Hank, also known as Henry Meadows of Henry Meadows Films.”

Mark knew the man’s work. Gorgeous sets, huge budgets, historical epics of doomed courage and noble sacrifice. Genius stuff, if you liked that sort of thing. Having lived the real deal, Mark didn’t.

“And of course that’s only the half of it.”

Mark waited through a beat of silence. “Which means what?”

“Don’t you ever watch Gossip Quest TV News Magazine? She’s the ex-mistress of Crown Prince Kyle of Vidon. That kid of hers is rumored to be his illegitimate son. She’s unofficially on the Vidonese most-wanted list.”

Chapter 6

Vampires were not made for road trips.

The red Lexus IS F Sport luxury sedan had specially tinted windows to block the sun, climate control, a V-8 engine that did zero to sixty miles in five seconds and a sound system calibrated to please extrasensitive hearing, but it was still a metal box on wheels. Mark needed to be outside, with the wind and sky. Free. Alone. He’d lost a good deal of patience along with his humanity, and what remained had been whittled away by the centuries that followed his Turning.

Speed was his only consolation, and the 416 horsepower motor of the Lexus was begging to give it. Except there were humans in the car, too fragile to risk on the twisting roads. Bree was dozing in the passenger seat next to him. Jonathan, wide-awake but silent in the back, clutched a stuffed duck.

Mark hadn’t let on how much he knew, or that he was taking them straight to the Company safe house in Seattle, where they could be protected. Explaining about the Company without revealing the existence of the supernatural was a delicate business, and he wanted the right environment to do it. Bree had to be convinced the safe house, with its guns and rules and guards, wasn’t a jail. If he got it wrong, she might bolt at the first gas station they stopped at, her ailing child in tow.

Mark cast a glance in the rearview mirror. The booster seat—pilfered out of the hospital lost and found—brought Jonathan just into view. The child met his eyes in the mirror. Mark was struck again by the watchful intelligence in that gaze. The kid didn’t miss a thing.