A Fall of Silver (8 page)

Kethan watched
Joe walk away. From the back, the priest’s thinning hair looked more gray than brown with small patches of vulnerable pink scalp showing through the strands. When had he grown so old? Kethan had always thought of Joe as the youngest of the priests, a nervous young man who always recognized the best in everyone.

Kethan
angled away sharply and studied the road, forcing himself to think of his job, his mission. Would Sutton accept their assertion that Quicksilver wasn’t a threat? Or would the vampire decide to improve his status by killing the priest before turning on Quicksilver, too?

Sutton c
ouldn’t be that stupid. If he hurt Joe, the Catholic Church would resume their previous stance against those they perceived as evil. Or worse, they might begin negotiations again with a different clan. There had to be other master vampires who could control the northeast more effectively than Martyn Sutton. The Church might also decide it no longer needed the services of Kethan Hilliard, either.

F
ind another job
, an evil voice whispered. Good negotiators were always in demand. He could leave it all behind, start fresh without the binding ties of his lifelong friends. Abandon both humans and vampires alike to their chosen paths.

Except he couldn’t.

He needed Joe’s friendship as a reminder of what was important and how easy it was to lose everything.

Whether he liked it or not, he had ties. H
e had colleagues, as well as friends, in the Church, decent men like Joe.

H
is gaze lingered on Quicksilver. A streetlight set her aglow with pearl-white incandescence. An arc of attraction hummed through him. His body tightened.

Then he took a deep breath and looked away.

Stay focused.

He
dug his hands into his pockets, jingling the change. Maybe it was time to get a new car, too. He definitely needed fewer visits to the repair shop and fewer glimpses of garage walls decorated with calendars of scantily clad women.

W
omen who reminded him far too much of Quicksilver.

Kethan
returned to Quicksilver after Joe disappeared around the corner. “I’ll walk you home.”

She held his gaze, her blue eyes silvery
. His chest tightened and as the tension stretched between them, she backed away, shutting off as if flipping a switch.

“No
need,” she said.

“We’ll use my car.”

“My motorcycle is on the next street over. I can’t leave it there.”

“Then let’s get your motorcycle.”

She sighed with exasperation. “You don’t have to guard me—I’m not going to go crazy and kill anyone tonight.”

“Let me see your hands.”

She held them out, staring down at her palms in puzzlement. “Why?” She turned them over.

He caught
one of her hands and held it loosely. Her long, slender fingers looked pale and fragile resting on his palm. “I just wanted to see if you had your fingers crossed.” He smiled. “I can’t believe you’d promise not to kill anyone.”

“
I’d never kill anyone who didn’t need killing.” She bared her teeth in a wolfish smile. “Although I’ve had to give some a little push to make them realize they were already dead and needed to lie down. Permanently.”

“Ah, I thought there had to be a catch.”
Reluctantly, he released her hand. “Believe it or not, I’m worried about your safety.” The image in the window might have been Sutton. Or Jason, still out of control and defying his clan leader.

They turned the corner
, walking past a row of deserted businesses. The darkened windows reflected the streetlights like obsidian mirrors. Quicksilver’s silhouette stretched from one pane to the next, flitting two steps ahead of him, always out of reach.

T
hey weren’t alone. In the slanting shadows between the buildings, he heard fluttering whispers, the scrape of a shoe, the rasp of a coat sleeve brushing against a brick wall.

Vampires wouldn’t make noises like that u
nless they wanted to be heard, unless they were confident of their prey. The back of his neck tingled.

Two blocks away, Kethan caught sight of a motorcycle parked
under a light.

“That your bike?”

“Yes.” Her face softened as if she had glimpsed a long lost lover. “How did you know?”

“Get serious.”
The motorcycle gleamed with long, sleek lines, all chrome and opal-white paint, as pale and sleek as its owner.

She tilted her head to one side and pretended to frown at him
although humor sparkled in her eyes. “Must be getting predictable if you know which bike is mine.”

“There’s only one.”

“I didn’t say anything. My bike could’ve been further down the block.”

“True
. But you don’t see a lot of white motorcycles. And you do like the color white.”

“It’s opal
—not white. Anyway, this is it.” She stuck out her hand in a brisk gesture. “Thanks.”

“Do you have a second helmet?”

“What for?”

“For me.
I’m making sure you get home safely.”

“I’ll be fine
, and I’m not going straight home.” She gazed down the street, her brows drawn down and hands shoved into her pockets.

He noticed
a second silver and gray helmet strapped to the back and reached for it. “No problem.”

A swirl of wind picked up
a rumpled newspaper and flung it at his head. He ducked, holding up a crooked arm. When he dropped it, Quicksilver was standing in the middle of the empty street, a whip in each hand, the silver falls gleaming against the black pavement.

“What are you doing?” he called as he glanced around
, his muscles tight and the skin between his shoulder blades tingling.

They weren’t alone.

“Quiet!” She tilted her head, listening.

A black figure, like the shadow of a man
, flowed toward her with the smooth grace of a water moccasin gliding through the water, deadly and sure.

“Don’t—” Who was he warning? Quicksilver or the vampire
?

Neither paid attention.

She cracked one whip in the air, a warning that brought the dark figure to a fault, not realizing he now presented a target for her weapon. The whip flicked out like lightning toward the abnormally still form.

Kethan blinked.

Quicksilver stood alone, the whips sagging in her hands.

She
must have hit him, killed him, but when Kethan glanced around, there was no sign of ash. Nothing. Just a stretch of oily, black pavement that smelled of hot tar and gasoline fumes and car lights bearing down on them.

“Quicksilver! Get out of the road!”

She sprinted back to the sidewalk, a puzzled look on her face. “What just happened? I got him—I know I did.”

“I…don’t know.” Kethan
studied the shadows for movement and the faces of a few pedestrians who hunched over as if protecting their necks and avoided eye contact as they hurried home. “Who was it? Sutton?”

The lithe form hadn’t looked like Sutton
’s short, muscular frame, or even Jason’s more slender one. It looked like…a stranger.

She shook her head.
“I don’t know. He was…unclear. I don’t understand it.” Her hands shook as she coiled the whips and affixed them to her belt. “He had to be one of Sutton’s, doing the master’s bidding.”

“We don’t want a war.”

“It may be a little late for that.”

“It’s never too late for peace.”

“Nice sentiment. Idealistic and sweet, but not very realistic.”

Palms up, he gestured surrender. This was not the time to argue philosophy. Whether she killed the vampire or not, tensions were escalating
and they needed to let things go for now.

He picked up the second helmet and
settled it over his head as he slung a leg over the rear seat of the cycle.

After a moment’s hesitation, s
he grabbed her own helmet, a full model in opalescent silver with a dark face plate that completely covered her features. In silence, she climbed on in front of him.

His additional weight destabilized her for a moment when she kicked off
, but she quickly compensated and with a bone-rattling roar, the cycle sped out into the street. At the next intersection she made a wide circle, and they roared back the way they’d come.

She slowed down when they reached the Orchard Hotel. Going no more than twenty miles per hour, she drove past the hotel, her head moving from side to side as if searching for something
, or someone.

Of course. The missing girl, Kathy.
He prayed the girl had left this dangerous area and found her way home. If anything happened to her, tensions would escalate, and he would fail.

He refused to fail.
Kethan settled back, resting his hands lightly on her waist. Speech was impossible with their helmets blocking their ears and the wind whistling past them. The night air whipped through his thin wool jacket as if he had nothing on but his plain, white, cotton shirt.

Goosebumps prickled
over his arms and down his back. Quicksilver seemed oblivious. She leaned forward as if welcoming the embrace of the icy wind.

S
everal times they backtracked, circling blocks when a movement caught her attention. It took them nearly an hour to get to their next destination less than two miles away. He straightened in recognition.

The Convent of the Weeping Madonna
, or rather the children’s home since its conversion a few years ago.

The old, sprawling building
hugged a small hill at the outskirts of town, watching over the streets below like a guardian angel. A few windows twinkled with golden light, welcoming the weary traveler and easing some of the tension in Kethan’s body.

The convent had been
turned into a home for orphaned children by Theresa Blackstone after a tragedy killed most of the nuns living there. She’d been a novice at the time and never took her final vows. However, instead of running away to recover from the horrors she’d experienced, she’d found the resources to convince the church to convert the facility into a haven for those who most needed it: children who had lost their parents through similar, terrifying experiences.

The lights seemed vulnerable in the thick darkness, as
exposed and defenseless as the children seeking refuge within its stone walls.

Quicksilver parked
the bike near the main door, under the gaze of a pair of stone saints guarding the entrance. Their sad faces, streaked by years of rain, looked uncertain in the poor light, as if the world around them had changed beyond recognition.

After easing off her helmet,
Quicksilver shook out a cloud of pale hair. It flew around her head with an electric life of its own, moving with every soft breeze. The strands were so fine they never really settled over her shoulders but floated in a swirling mass as she dismounted and moved toward the door.

Again, he felt
the force of desire pull at him. He had a sudden vision of tangling his fingers in that soft hair, running his thumb over that plump lower lip. He wanted to taste her mouth, somehow knowing it would taste of winter apples and plums, like a rich, heady wine.

As if aware of his scrutiny, she glanced at him, pushing hair off her forehead with the back of her hand.
“I didn’t see any sign of Kathy. Did you?”

“T
he girl you’re looking for?” He shook his head.

She puffed an irritated breath through her lips
. That small action made him crazy with an itch he’d all but forgotten after years of repression, trying to hold fast to his vows. He ached to fold her in his arms and feel her warmth against him. It had been so long….

“Who else would I be looking for?”

“More vampires to kill?” The sarcasm in his voice seemed to please her.

The flicker of a smile glowed over her face, lighting up her eyes before she snorted and looked away.
Without another word, she edged around him. Using her helmet like a giant knocker, she pounded three times on the ornate door.

After a few minutes,
Theresa Blackstone yanked it open. Wrapped in a floor-length fuzzy robe of deep blue, she frowned at them. “What do you…. Oh, Quicksilver. You’re back.”

W
ith her face flushed with sleep, Theresa looked like a teenager dragging herself out of bed at noon. It was difficult to believe she managed a large orphanage and spent her nights in a small cell by the front door, guarding her charges like a living version of the stone angels outside.

She
caught Kethan’s gaze. “Father Hilliard? What are you doing here?”

“Kethan, now.
Just plain Kethan Hilliard.”