Blood Rites (31 page)

Helen might have been able to stop him from hurting her but she did not want to reveal her growing powers for something as minor as a burn. She settled for the dubious victories of motionless silence and, in spite of the pain, an unbroken bond with his mind. This last was a skill she had mastered too late. She should have demanded that Stephen teach her the more painful points of self-preservation rather than trivial mental games. If she had practiced using powers such as this before the kidnapping, she, Hillary, and the boys would be safe at home, this tragic ordeal long over. She hadn’t known enough to ask and Stephen, betrayed by optimism, had never thought to teach her.

Hillary. Daughter. Friend. I still can taste your blood. I still can see the world through your eyes as if you were fixed in time someplace within me.

Hillary, I promise you that he will never kill again.

She tapped something vital with that thought. For the first time, she faced her nature without any reservations, welcoming the predatory hunger directed at one creature and one alone. She wanted to devour Russ Lowell—as coldly, as ruthlessly, as painfully as she could. And nothing could stop her—not Lowell, not even Stephen.

He will never kill again.

As usual, Russ returned quickly, carrying a bag of warm doughnuts, some juice, and a small bottle of milk for Patrick. He waved the open bag under Helen’s nose as if the smell of food would accomplish what his occasional pinches, and worse, could not. “I know you’re faking, Helen Wells. I’ll even tell you how I know. I feel you inside my mind. Later, when IVe got the time, I’ll make you talk to me.” As he unlocked the back room, he laughed happily because he believed his plans were going so well.

Then he saw Alan.

Helen felt his alarm as he noted Alan’s flushed face and heard the deep congested cough when the boy tried to sit up. Patrick, who lay close to Alan on the blanket he’d refused to part with since the kidnapping, didn’t even open his eyes when Russ called his name.

“Is he sick too?” Russ asked Alan.

“He’s OK. I think he was up all night.” Alan cleared his throat before responding, and after he got out the words, he went into a spasm of coughing that left him breathless.

“Here,” Russ said, handing Alan the food. “There’s milk for Patrick,” he added and left.

“Something’s wrong with the kids, Helen Wells,” he commented as he locked the storage-room door. Walking past her without even a glance, he suddenly turned, hitting her hard in the stomach. Her mind had been fixed on the boys rather than Russ and the blow surprised her. She reacted with an automatic grunt and her eyes fluttered open, focusing on his face, immediately displaying a silent terror she knew he would relish.

“Better. Much better.” He took a towel from the camp supplies, ripped off one long strip, and gagged her tightly before leaving again. Though her gag and the extra wall between the storage room and the outside would muffle any noise they might make, she knew he intended to make as short a trip as possible. At least she didn’t have to attempt to persuade him to get medicine for Alan. Prudence dictated that Alan stay healthy until he was traded for his father or killed.

As soon as he left, Helen stretched so her feet could take some of the weight off her wrists. The leg that had been wounded was the stronger now and the shoulder where he had shot her the one that did not ache. Her wrists throbbed, her fingers were numb. She hoped the pain would make them strong.

II

Alan devoured the juice and doughnuts. After so long without anything and with his stomach so queasy from the coughing, he wondered if the food would stay down. Even so, he eyed Patrick’s milk with envy.

The room had grown hot, and concerned that the milk might spoil if Patrick slept too long, Alan decided to wake him. Doing so was difficult. The boy had fallen into a sleep far deeper than any Alan had seen before. On the days when Stephen had strung ropes from the rafters so the boys could climb, Patrick would play for hours without becoming exhausted. The mental games had taken more out of him and he would sometimes lay down for an impromptu nap, but never one as heavy as this.

As he shook the toddler, Alan noted how dry Patrick’s skin felt, how limp his body seemed, and he reacted with alarm, calling Patrick’s name in a low anxious voice until the toddler stretched and opened his eyes.

They had no whites showing, the way Stephen’s looked when he hunted, and the small body became suddenly tense as if Patrick had been pulled from some terrifying nightmare. But Alan knew otherwise. Austra children did not dream. “Are you all right?” Alan asked him.

For a moment it seemed as if the toddler’s eyes had tiny points of red at their center but they were just reflections of the room’s dim light and when Patrick sat up and looked away from the window they vanished. The boy answered Alan in an oddly slurred tone filled with questions, “My mouth is funny. My hands . . .” He left the sentence unfinished as he and Alan looked with alarm at the long, thin fingers curled and hardened into broad-tipped claws. Patrick grabbed Alan’s wrist, his nails breaking the skin on Alan’s arm. He pulled back and stared at the tiny red crescents his nails had made with avid interest.

—Helen?— Alan called but his cousin responded only with a weak assent and a quick reassurance that everything would be all right. She had problems of her own and Alan guessed they were far worse than his. He decided to try and take care of Patrick himself. “Relax,” Alan whispered. “Russ might come back any minute. He mustn’t see you like this.”

The toddler had been trained since birth to hide. He nodded, his mouth a tight, straight line. The other changes were harder to control but with effort he managed to close his pupils to an almost human size and relax his hands to a toddler’s soft, weak appearance.

“That’s good,” Alan said, then, amazed, asked, “How did you do that?”

“Father taught.”

“How?”

“He showed me in my mind,” Patrick said.

Patrick’s most likely explanation would be to demonstrate. At this moment Alan didn’t want it. Instead he tried to distract the boy. “Look, Russ brought you some milk.”

Patrick let him go and reached for the pint bottle. After the first swallow he retched and would have spilled the rest if Alan hadn’t grabbed the bottle from him. “Are you all right?” Alan asked.

In response, Patrick pulled his lips back in the mockery of a grin. In the few hours he had slept, the pointed second eyeteeth had reached their full length, resembling less an uncommonly long addition to a normal child’s mouth than the obvious fangs of his father.

Alan automatically slid away from the boy, moving fast until his back was pressed against the wall. —Helen!— he called, panic giving strength to his thoughts. Patrick echoed to the older boy’s fear with a vocal and mental, “—Mama!—”

—I’m here.— She seemed distracted and in pain and Alan almost regretted disturbing her. He felt her mind leave his and saw Patrick calm as she touched him.

As Helen merged with her son, she was rocked by a power stronger than her own and alarmed by the sudden changes in him.

They had happened too soon and in such tragic surroundings!

Austra children weaned slowly, living on milk and blood for months before their fangs grew to their full length. Patrick had given no warning that his body was ready to mature; perhaps his speedy, nearly human growth extended to the Austra powers, perhaps the circumstances had forced the change. No matter, it was done. At home this would be cause for celebration and, in Patrick’s case, his first night hunt with his father. Here the changes only meant additional physical traits to hide from their captor, additional needs that would have to be privately met, and one more reason to avoid any outside help for their escape.

She sensed the boys’ fear and quickly decided on a way to alleviate it. —Listen, both of you. I need your help. I want you to dream of Alan’s father and go to him with your mind.—

—It’s too far! We don’t know where to go!— Alan protested. He might have to share this tiny room with Patrick but sharing his mind filled him with terror. Patrick hardly looked like a child anymore as he squatted in front of Alan and stared at him with huge, hungry eyes.

—Distance isn’t important; that’s what the books said. And you found me over all those miles, remember? We’re much closer now.—

—Windsor.— Alan tried to relax and explain how they’d discovered it.

—See what you did together, Alan? Windsor is in Ontario across the river from Detroit. If we had a car we could be in Cleveland in a few hours. Your father is probably there waiting for us. Patrick, you call to Alan’s father the way you called to me after Russ kidnapped you. Your mind is much stronger now. You should be able to tell him where we are.—

—And if we can’t?— Alan asked.

—You tried. You tried together. Will you both help me?—

—I will,— they responded.

—We will— Alan corrected, looking at Patrick, refusing to lower his eyes or think of anything but what they might accomplish. As he felt Helen pulling away from him, he added one more thought, —Helen, I’m sorry that my dad and I came this summer.—

—I’m sorry this happened but not that I found you again.—

As he felt her slowly retreating from his mind, he heard her say, —I love you,— and repeated the words like a goodbye.

All he had to do was dream of his father, Alan thought, searching for confidence. That should be easy since he wanted nothing more than to see him again. He looked at Patrick, noting the shreds of misery still evident on the toddler’s face, and held the bottle out to him. “More?” he asked.

Patrick shook his head and pushed the bottle toward Alan. “You. You drink.”

Alan didn’t try to argue. As he swallowed the lukewarm liquid, it occurred to him that he might need the extra nourishment. But offering himself to Helen who he loved and trusted was an easy thing compared to allowing this unpredictable wild creature to drink his blood. But he would. He didn’t see what else he could do. They were, after all, relying on one another. Patrick rested a hand on Alan’s knee. Alan put his own on top of it. Neither boy said a word about Patrick’s sudden changing. They didn’t have to. Their situation, like the bond between them, had just become far more complicated.

III

Russ found what he needed in two quick stops, returning with blankets, some salve for Alan’s chest, and a bottle of cough syrup the druggist had recommended. He dropped the supplies next to the place where Alan lay, and after a long look at the toddler sitting beside him, glaring up at him with those dark, defiant eyes, Russ returned to his prize.

He pulled his sleeping bag and a tarp out of the car and began walking across the room to Helen. He had hours to waste until he phoned Domie. There would be no reason to let lust interfere with caution. Of course if he was to get any satisfaction from her at all, he’d have to lower her and untie her legs. Like the boys, she hadn’t caused any trouble so freeing that much of her would be all right.

Except the bitch is faking her weakness, idiot
, the soft voice of reason murmured.

He could lower her to a sitting position. Her arms would still be tied above her head. His weight would keep her from kicking.

And a twenty-pound baby damn near ripped off half your face. Do you really think this one’s afraid of you?

But her eyes were open, watching him. As he moved closer to her, she looked away, her lean body shaking. Everything about her drew him forward, especially the prominence of the pale line where he’d cut her yesterday. Thinking of the taste of her blood, he licked his lips and pulled the knife from his pocket. “You laughed at me!” he whispered, dreams and reality skewed and distorted. “Laughed!”

He had the knife open now. His head pounded and his eyes seemed unable to focus on anything but her and how she waited, so perfectly helpless. He took two involuntary steps toward her then, just as his hand reached for her breast, he forced his mind back to his will and spun on his heel, going outside for a long walk, one that would take him as far from the warehouse as he dared travel on foot.

He returned only when he’d decided on a plan. He focused on it and nothing else, refusing to even look at Helen as he pulled two heavy lengths of rope from the nets and attached one to each of her ankles, then, rather than touch her and risk losing his control, he used them to spin her to face the back of the warehouse. “I suppose you know about the medicine I gave the boy. Can you be thankful, Helen Wells?” He asked this as he threaded the ends of the ropes through separate trapdoor handles a few yards away. He tied each with a slipknot, then spread the tarp and sleeping bag in front of her. He removed the gag. “I don’t have to be anywhere until eight. That gives us hours to get acquainted. Let’s start with some conversation. Would you like me to lower you a little bit?”

She nodded.

“Then ask.”

“Please.”

“Better.” He abruptly lowered the pulley a half foot, not surprised to see her legs holding her full weight easily, only one showing some minor signs of stiffness. Victims normally rubbed their wrists or flexed their fingers to restore circulation but her hands didn’t move and her eyes never left his face. The fear that he’d noted in them earlier had vanished, taking some of his passion with it. But they were adversaries, after all, and soon she would know who was the smarter one here.

He slipped the knots holding her legs. Her feet were pulled forward, her hands taking all her weight again. He lowered her another few inches and again tightened the ropes. Even though he could feel her trying to control his thoughts, feeding him one frantic suggestion after another, each too ideal to ignore, he kept his mind firmly fixed on the plan he’d outlined on his walk and continued the careful balancing of pulley and ropes. Though she tried a number of times, she never had enough slack to reach the hook. In the end, he knelt at her feet and cut her clothes and the shorter rope holding her ankles together. Two final pulls on the slip knots and she was just as securely fastened as before and far more accessible.