Sharon Ashwood - Possessed by an Immortal

Bree’s hands stalled partway through unlatching the lid of the first aid kit. The plane didn’t look like anything special. Neither did Larson. Bulletproofing? What was he, a smuggler? That would explain why he seemed to be a pretty good shot once he finally decided to start shooting.

“I don’t want to know,” she replied, digging through the kit for scissors. She found some with rounded tips, made for cutting away clothing, and bent to slice through his blood-soaked pant leg. “I just want to get out of here with everyone alive.”

“I can get behind that.” He winced as she worked around his wound.

“At least they didn’t seem to be very good shots.”

“Don’t underestimate how hard it is to shoot a moving target in a stiff wind. They got me and they clipped you from a good distance. That’s better than you think.”

Bree didn’t want to think. She peeled away the cloth from his wound, exposing the bloody mess the bullet had made of his thigh. Stomach rolling, she turned away, searching in the kit for sterile pads. She wasn’t normally squeamish, but this was worse than anything she’d ever seen. Sweat trickled down her back.

She found a sterile pad and ripped open the pack. “I’m sorry if this hurts.”

“I’ve had worse.” Still, he sucked in his breath as she pressed down on his wound. He pushed her hand out of the way, and then pressed down twice as hard himself. It was a necessary evil. They had to stop the bleeding. Bree found a triangular bandage and tied the pad in place, knotting it tight but not so tight that the circulation would stop completely.

“Is there water on board?” she asked. “You need fluids.”

“Cockpit,” he ground out. “If you find anything stronger, bring that.”

Just then, Bree felt the plane lift from the water, a lurch as if she had leaped into the air herself. She grabbed the back of the seat, casting a glance at Jonathan. He was fine, his nose pressed to a tiny window. A typical boy, in love with anything that had a motor. She hoped he had no sense of just how much danger they’d been in.

Rising carefully, she shuffled forward between the seats. Mark was completely focused on the instrument panel and the scene below. That awareness of his presence rose again, and she made herself look out the cockpit window and not at him. Focus on what’s ahead of you. Don’t get distracted.

The view out the cockpit stopped her in her tracks. The scenery was breathtaking, a cluster of pine-covered islands scattered over silver-spangled ocean. The warmth of the sun through the glass touched her face, making her realize her skin was itchy with the salt of tears.

She raised her hand to wipe them away, but it was crusted with blood. Swallowing hard, Bree wiped it on her pant leg, which was already smeared, and then bent to scrounge around the floor for bottled water.

“How is he?” Mark demanded. Beneath his sunglasses, he looked even paler than Larson. Deathly pale. “I smell a lot of blood.”

Bree wrinkled her nose. She could smell it, too, but not enough to gauge quantity. Maybe that was a doctor thing. “Working on it. I’m looking for water.”

“Behind the copilot’s seat.” He caught her arm, reminding her that her shoulder was sore. “That’s your blood I can smell. Your elbow. It’s fresh.”

The way he said it sent a shiver through her, despite the warm sun streaming through the windows. She twisted to look, and vaguely remembered the bullet grazing her. Her sweater sleeve was soaked, but after Larson’s wound, it seemed trivial. “That’s nothing.”

“I’ll look at it when we land.” He turned back to the controls, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were fighting to concentrate on one thing at a time. He must have been tired, too.

She moved to get the water and then paused, aching to satisfy her curiosity. “How did you know those men were on the beach?”

He didn’t answer right away, but finally relented when she didn’t move. “Better to ask how they knew we were coming.”

“I’d settle for that.” The answer was simple, no big surprise. Someone had betrayed her. Someone always did. That’s why she worked alone. The moment she didn’t...

“There was only one other person who knew I was leaving the island,” Mark said.

Bree turned to the back, where Larson lay. The man had been shot. The man had kind eyes, and up until that moment, she would have sworn Mark had trusted him. “So much for friends.”

The doctor stared out the cockpit window, not saying a word.

Chapter 5

Late that night, Mark stormed into the office he shared with two other part-time physicians at Redwood General Hospital. He slammed the door behind him, beyond frustrated. Larson wasn’t talking.

At first, it had been understandable because he was unconscious. The wound was serious, but Mark had tended to it and thankfully Larson would recover.

But once Larson was awake, he hadn’t talked because he was afraid. Someone had threatened his grandchildren. Someone he feared more than Mark—and that was saying something.

The phone rang. Mark snatched it up. “What?”

There was a beat of silence. “I see someone had their grumpy pills today.”

It was Faran Kenyon, werewolf and fellow member of the Horsemen.

“What?” Mark snapped again. He wasn’t in the mood for Kenyon’s antics. His skin itched like the devil. He’d been exposed to too much sun on the plane and now he looked pink. He’d already used half a tube of medicated cream and smelled like the victim of a bad diaper rash.

And the scent of blood on the plane had gotten to him badly. As a doctor, he was used to it, but Bree had been bleeding. The blood of strangers was one thing. The blood of a woman who had caught his notice was something else. Dangerous. Tantalizing.

“Next time you send a top-secret report to the captain, blind copy me,” Kenyon said, breaking through his thoughts. “Otherwise, all I get are bits and scraps. I heard about the damsel in distress showing up and you deciding to get her and a sick rug rat to town, but why the shoot-out in the bush?”

“I was tracked. I found a letter inside my cabin.”

“Who from? The health department?”

“The Knights of Vidon.”

Kenyon swore.

“Indeed,” Mark said with wry humor. “Vampire slayers apparently take no vacations. Therefore, I don’t get one, either. Unfortunately, the letter was from one of my longtime fans. It was a surprise. I haven’t heard from that family for a very long time.”

“Who?”

“Nicholas Ferrel. I knew the taste of his ancestor.”

“Creepy. How long ago was that?”

Mark sat down at the desk, and was greeted with stacks of files plastered with sticky notes. Sign this form. Initial that one. Complete another mountain of logs and charts. He shoved them aside with a sweep of his arm. “Five hundred thirty years, give or take.”

“And his descendant still holds a grudge? What in blazes did you do?”

“It was a different era. Listen, I’m sending some blood samples by courier. I’ve addressed them to you, but would you send them over to the lab when they arrive?”

“Sure. Anything I should know?”

“They’re for the boy. There’s something about his case that worries me. Redwood is just a small regional hospital. I want the Varney labs on it.”

The Varney Center in Los Angeles was the West Coast hub of the Company and the North American headquarters for the Horsemen. As well as the usual mountains of data intelligence, spy toys and black ops coffeemakers, it had an exceptional medical facility. There were few things that made Mark go weak in the knees, but those labs counted. The fact that he got to work there was one of the main reasons he had joined the Horsemen.