Laurie London - Bonded by Blood

Squinting in the direction she came, she estimated the distance from the paved road to the cemetery entrance. It was too far to pace off. A mile? Two miles? She’d clock it on the odometer when she left. After measuring the width of the gravel road, she scribbled the figures in her notebook. The camera and equipment trucks took up a lot of space, as did the large special effects trailer, but this road had no shoulder. Where would they all park? They’d have to drive the rigs in single-file. Would there even be enough room to pass another vehicle if they needed to move one closer? Access might be the real problem here.

Her research seemed correct that this was an old logging road, but she jumped back on her bike to explore a little farther.

Just around the corner, a rickety bridge spanned what was probably Bear Creek and her stomach sank. With a missing railing and cracked wooden slats, it couldn’t accommodate a heavy vehicle. The crew wouldn’t be able to park beyond the bridge, which didn’t give them a lot of room. After snapping a couple of pictures anyway, she climbed on the bike and headed back to the cemetery entrance.

At least it was only a one- or two-day shoot with none of the main actors and only a handful of extras. They didn’t need to accommodate a huge catering facility and provide private dressing rooms. Most of it was just special effects stuff. Yeah, maybe it could still work.

She licked a fingertip and flipped through the pages of her notebook. It looked like she’d gotten everything. After she tucked the pad and camera into the saddlebag, she grabbed her gun and stuffed it into her pocket. Now it was time for a different set of answers. Maybe something in the cemetery would jump-start her memory.

The clearing was cool and damp and the wind whispered through the branches of the trees, lifting them in an orchestrated wave as if welcoming her back. She took a deep breath and shivered, nervous about what she may find.

Stepping over the headstones, she swept her gaze over the pale green mounds of tufted grass and weeds that seemed to cover everything. She spied a familiar marker but wasn’t sure if she recognized it from being here yesterday or from the photos she’d reviewed back home today.

Then she spotted it. Her portable tripod. It lay on its side, still fully extended, as if she had removed the camera and left it there. How could that have happened? It was almost second nature to grab it when she did a shoot. Camera strap around the neck, unhook the camera, grab the tripod, fold up the legs. She’d done it so many times and she’d never left it behind before. Had she been distracted or startled yesterday? A chill snaked up her spine.

Distracted or startled by what?

She turned slowly, making a complete circle as her eyes combed the forest perimeter. Did this look familiar? Yes, maybe.

Drawn to the sound of water, she zigzagged around the crumbled tombstones to the edge of the cemetery. Beneath the canopy of a huge old cedar, she saw a large pile of leaves and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She slipped a hand into her pocket and touched the gun for reassurance.

Something crunched underneath her boot when she shuffled through the leaves. She stooped and found a hair clip. Hers? The plastic was cracked, the spring was broken, and it looked like the type she wore. But if she’d been right here, why couldn’t she remember? Had she fallen and hit her head?

She stared at the leaves and brushed her hand over the surface, stirring them up. Unlike the other piles, these were dry, protected under the thick canopy of the cedar tree. She picked up a handful. They smelled like the forest. With her eyes closed, she rubbed them against her cheek. Stiff, crisp … and familiar. But the memory was just beyond her reach—she couldn’t determine how to pluck it out. Crunching the leaves in her hand, she blew the pieces into the air and they fluttered to the ground.

She stepped through the bushes and down to the creek. Six or seven feet across and only a foot or two deep, the crystal-clear water flowed over a layer of dark-colored stones.

A small sandbar, bathed in sunlight, lined the bank on the far side and looked inviting. With the gentle sound of the running water, the hard knots of tension lodged between her shoulder blades seemed to loosen. She turned to walk upstream along the edge, but the undergrowth was thick with thorny blackberries and waist-high marsh grasses that looked like giant mop heads.

She stripped off her boots and socks, rolled up her jeans and sloshed to the other side. When she plopped down onto the sand, a gust of wind, warm with the promise of summer, ruffled her hair. She closed her eyes, just for a minute, and the ever-present tingling—an almost constant sensation since she’d woken up this afternoon—fluttered against her temples.

A twig snapped on the other side of the creek and she sat up. God, had she actually dozed off? She noticed the shadows had lengthened and the sun had dropped lower in the sky. When she bent to pick up her boots and tripod, the sun glinted off an object half-submerged in the sand.

A cell phone.

How did that get here? Even after she brushed off the sand, she had a hard time sliding it open. The touchpad screen was shattered. With a little bit of effort, she forced the phone closed again and rolled it around in her hands. Probably water damaged. She held it to her cheek; the molded plastic felt warm from the sun.

Small and sleek, it had to be a fairly new model. Maybe the contact numbers could still be extracted. Those were always a bitch to re-create. She’d take it to a cell phone store to see if they could find the owner.

With the tripod in one hand and her boots in the other, she stepped back into the creek and hurriedly sloshed through the water. But before she reached the far side, her foot slipped on the smooth river stones and she shrieked. Helicoptering her arms, she tried to catch herself, but she fell to her knees, submerging her boots and tripod.

She patted her pocket. The gun and the phone were safe. But crap, the ride home was going to be frigid.

“JACKSON, YOU all set? She’s coming.”

“Yep, I’m ready, although I think you’re going way overboard with this convoluted scent-masking scheme.”

“Just do as I say.” If only Dom could let her go straight home. Or better yet, invite her into his warm car with its heated seats. But it was crucial to confuse her trail if any Darkbloods got to the cemetery looking for him. They’d pick up her scent and follow her like bloodhounds. This was the only way to make sure they couldn’t track her.

He sensed her discomfort and wished there was something he could do. When he saw her fall in the creek, he had jumped to help, but he had to stop himself and could only watch as she got drenched.

After her bike roared past his location in the trees, he waited a few impatient moments before following.

“Where do you have the first detour?” Dom gritted his teeth as he glanced at the speedometer. Did she even know what a speed limit was?

“At Maple Grove Road. She’ll want to turn right, but I’ve got the road closure barricade set up and she’ll have to turn left. Hope there isn’t much traffic.”

“There shouldn’t be. Just don’t lose her, all right? And don’t get too close. Don’t forget she’s a sweetblood.” Why in the hell had he let Foss set up the detours anyway? He should’ve done it himself.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Here she comes now.” Jackson paused and Dom heard the low rumble of her bike through the phone. “Oh shit, dude, she’s pissed.” As Foss erupted in snorts of laughter, Dom bristled. “She didn’t see the sign until she was almost on it. She pulled a Uey and kicked the damn thing over. You should’ve seen her whip that bike around. And when she drove away … Man, she’s hot.”