Forsaken (11 page)

The words Hannah read aloud poured over Akiva like a waterfall, and memories of simpler and sweeter times, when he had spoken those words to Hannah, flooded him. To hear them from her now, to watch her place a loving hand upon the stone that bore what once was his name gave him a jolt of confidence.

She hadn't forgotten him.

She remembered.

More than that, she hadn't let go of the love she once had for him.

Boldly, Akiva stepped out of the darkness, his gaze sharp on her, his mind pouring words straight into her heart. Seeing her again was like drinking in cool, refreshing water. He could drown watching her.
If
he could drown.

The words took shape in his mouth and he spoke them aloud: “
One of us…
”

Hannah gasped and jerked the flashlight from off the ground, swung it around, and the book tumbled onto the grave. Her long skirt tangling around her legs, she fell backward but scrambled back to her feet. Panic darkened her eyes, sharpened the edge of her jaw. The light struck him squarely in the face, but he didn't flinch or recoil. He stood as still as the headstones surrounding him.
It's me, Hannah. I'm home.

But the words stuck in his throat, and he could only speak them with his mind and hope she heard…recognized him…came to him. As so often in the past, her nearness tied his tongue into knots, and he could barely breathe. So he resorted to the words of the poet, who could say what he couldn't: “…
that was God…and laid the curse so darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce.”

His voice, supple and melodious, was his greatest weapon. Whether spoken aloud or into the silent spaces of her mind, it lulled and lured. Slowly, her hand lowered and the light followed, just as the sun arced in its descent.

“…
my sight from seeing thee,—that if I had died
…” His voice rasped raw with the strain of self-control. If he had died, he would not have had this moment.
This
moment that made the last two years almost bearable.

He watched emotions flicker across her face in quick succession—shock, disbelief, recognition. That tiny glimmer dawned in the chestnut depths and gave him hope. Hope of what would be. Her hand went limp and the flashlight fell to the ground and rolled, the light slanting across his own grave, oblique and forlorn.

He drew the Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem from memory—“
Men could not part us…nor the seas change us…our hands would touch…and, heaven being rolled between us at the end, we should but vow the faster for the stars
.”

Her eyes dilated, looking dark and soulful, and she took a step toward him, the words pulling her nearer. One tiny step—but a step. Which gave him hope, a soaring hope of promise.

“Hannah…” His voice deepened with a rash need. It was in the nuances of his voice that her soul recognized him. He held a hand out toward her. “Come to me.”

“Jacob.” Her perfect mouth formed his name but her voice was no more than a whisper. Her hand lifted toward him, mirroring his movement.

Then a cry split the night, an owl dove for a kill.

Hannah blinked. She gave her head a tiny shake and withdrew her hand as if she'd inadvertently touched a flame. Confusion clouded her eyes.

Akiva sniffed the air, tilted his head toward the fresh kill, the scent of blood, which saturated the night and awakened a fire within him.

Her gaze searched his face. The light of recognition vanished and the spiky talons of fear took its place, stabbing a hole in his heart. “W-who are you?” She glanced and took a step back. “How did you know my—”

Feeling the crushing blow of her fear, Akiva dipped his chin low, focusing on her eyes, holding her captive. She swayed as if the wind buffeted her. A strong will resisted his skills, but only for so long. But he couldn't make her see him for who he was. Immediately his tactics changed. He would need a new plan, something that would keep her near him, show her he really hadn't changed so much and remind her of their love. It would take time, but time was on his side. He'd have to take the risk he'd most feared. “You do not know me.”

It was a statement, raw with disappointment, not a question. He'd hoped despite the changes in him that she would somehow see the boy she'd once loved, a piece of him, a desperate part that yearned to be loved again.

“You're
English
?” Her voice sounded cold.

He felt the shield he'd built around his heart rise like a thick wall. “Would that be good or bad?”

Her gaze skimmed over him, resting on his chest, and his followed. A dark stain covered the front of his shirt and he tugged the zipper of his leather jacket upward.

“You're hurt.” Concern erased the defensiveness and fear in her voice.

“I will be all right. Given time.” He moved back a step, giving her space but not too much, and sat on the top edge of a gravestone. “Forgive me, but I had to see you.”

“Me?” Her gaze remained steadfastly fastened to the wound in his chest.

It did not hurt, not anymore, as the healing had already begun. Nourishment would speed the process, and his need pulsed within him, exacerbated by the scent of blood on the night air. But he resisted. Waited.

“Do I know you?” She squinted, searched his face. “Why did you come here?”

“I'm sorry, Hannah.” He rested his hands on his knees, locking his elbows, bowing his back slightly.

A pinch of concern creased her brow, as he'd known it would. The tenderness in her heart was always easily stoked.

“I didn't mean to startle you earlier. I do know you. Or so it seems.” His voice sounded heavy with regret and sorrow. It was too soon to reveal himself; too many questions would stir up fear. So he tossed out the temptation, like a line in the river—bait—“Because of Jacob.”

Her breath caught. “Jacob. You knew Jacob?”

He gave a slight nod. “He told me about you.”

“How? When?”

He leaned forward easing the pressure in his chest and puffed out an icy breath. “We met in New Orleans. Two years ago. He told me of you, of the poems you read together, of your plans…of his love for you.”

Her eyes softened with tears, and she stepped toward him, this time of her own accord. “How can I help you? Let me go for some help.” She touched him first, a brush of her hand against his, and sucked in a breath. “You're cold. You've lost a lot of blood.”

The warmth of her skin was almost his undoing. He closed a hand over her arm, entrapping her, and her pulse tapped his palm with urgency, pulling him, calling to him. His breath snagged on his windpipe. “No one can know I am here.”

“But you need help.”

“I will not die, if that is your worry.” But instantly his heart contracted, as he stared into her trusting face and remembered the pain of that day when his life had changed irrevocably. A line from some poem bobbed into his consciousness. Was it Shakespeare? No, Lord Byron:

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

“What happened to you?” Her quiet question pulled him back.

“It would not be good for your reputation for others to know we met here. Jacob told me what it is like—the Amish community.” Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward hers. “What would you tell your family? They would not understand or approve.”

Her mouth set in a firm line, then she dipped her shoulder beneath his and lifted him to his feet, her arm slipping around his waist to offer support. “Come. I know of a place you can stay.”

Hannah
. No longer a phantom of his dreams or apparition in his desperate imagination, she was real and so close. So very close. Her nearness weakened his resolve. He breathed in the scent of her—grass, wind, milk, and moonlight. It surrounded him, penetrated his defenses, enticed him to abandon his plan and take her. His soul cried out for her. He yearned to tell her it was him, to make her his. Right now. This minute.
Now.

But if he wasn't careful, she could die. And then they would be parted forever. Right now, a fragile line held them together and if he wasn't careful it would be severed for eternity.

If not for this blasted wound, if he wasn't so weak from hunger already, he might be able to fight it off, not give in.

My love is as a fever longing still…

And frantic-mad with evermore unrest…

Shakespeare. Definitely Shakespeare—a man who must have known love and loss and all-consuming longing.

But no. He wouldn't take what had been taken from him. He wouldn't frighten her. She couldn't understand, not yet anyway, and he needed time to prepare her.

A shudder of resistance rocked through him and he clenched his teeth.

“You're in pain. Let me get you some help.”

“No, I'll be fine.” He should have pushed away from her. He should have run, to protect her, to protect them, but he could not. Instead, he rested his head against Hannah's shoulder, which was padded by her cape, and rolled the back of his skull against the soft curve, brushing her long, sleek neck with the tip of his nose. He drew in a slow breath of her intoxicating warmth. Her pulse was strong. Powerful. Intoxicating. He heard the ebb and flow, the rush of blood through her veins. The invigorating scent pulsed, called to him. He was torturing himself but he couldn't help it. It was the sweetest torture knowing she would be his one day. Clenching his teeth, he resisted what had become second nature to him.

Not now.
Not yet
. There would be a time though, but not to satisfy a physical thirst. It would be to gratify his soul. They would be together, Hannah and him, forever. Because being near her again was as close as he would ever come to heaven.

You look like hell.”

“Yeah, well, feel like I've been there.” Roc fell into the chair. The glare of a lamp made him squint, and he bent forward, shoving his fingers through his hair, and held his head in case it fell off like the headless horseman's and started rolling around on the floor. After what he'd seen tonight, it could have been a possibility. “Or maybe I'm still there.”

Mike shut the door to his apartment and gave the chair a wide berth, as if anticipating Roc might hurl or worse. He had, after all, come banging on his friend's door some time after three in the morning after he'd driven the hour from Lancaster County and then cruised the lonely, mostly empty streets of Philadelphia, letting the night's events churn in his mind.

Mike had the thick neck and bulging biceps of a workout guru, but it was the eyes, the been-there-seen-it look, and the constantly shifting and measuring gaze that said he was either a bouncer or a cop. He was most often the latter, but occasionally he worked late night hours in a bar downtown. With a practiced eye, he gave Roc the once-over. “You been drinking?”

“Not yet, but I'm ready if you have something.”

Mike clicked off the radio that he'd been known to play all night—classical music chased away the demons of his own past, memories that lurked in his dreams. Roc knew a few of the nightmares that chased Mike, the same that nipped at his own heels, and after tonight Roc figured he'd have a few more giving chase.

“So what's up? I'll let you know if it warrants a drink or not.”

“What am I, on probation or something?”

Mike watched him for an elongated second, a tight line forming between his brows. Then he went to the kitchen and brought back two beers. “So what gives?”

Roc twisted off the cap and tossed it on the nearest table. He took two long swallows and clunked the beer down next to the cap. How could he explain? What would he say without sounding like he needed to take up permanent residence in a psych ward? Digging his elbows into his knees, he peered at his friend through stringy hair that had flopped forward. “Tell me about the body. Better yet”—he grabbed the chair's arms—“let's go see the homeless guy.”

“Can't.”

That single word halted Roc's rise out of the chair and he fell back against the pillowy frame.

“Already been claimed and cremated.”

“Was it really like—” His throat closed up shop.

“Yeah. Too much like Emma.” Mike leaned back, holding the beer he'd yet to take a drink of, and stared at the blank television.

Roc wouldn't allow that image to spring to life in his mind, or else he'd find himself listening to strings or making some Three Stooges sounds. In self-defense, he shifted his gaze toward the radio then to Mike. “That why you've got Chopin going?”

“Mozart.”

“Whatever. That why?”

Mike shrugged a shoulder. “So what's going on here, Roc? You show up and suddenly folks are disappearing…dying.”

Roc's belly knotted. “You accusing me of something?”

“If I thought you were guilty, you'd already be locked up.”

“So you must've checked with Brody when I was last in New Orleans. Confirmed my alibi.”

Without any sign of remorse, Mike tipped his head sideways as if he suspected Roc would have done the same. “Ruby Yoder was already missing before you left New Orleans.”

He reached for the beer. It would wash away the nightmares, the craziness he'd seen tonight. But without taking even a sip, he set it back down. “Okay then, so tell me.”

“There's nothing. No fingerprints. No nothin'. Like some phantom with big teeth. Explain that to me. The coroner said if it was an animal, which I never thought for a second, there'd be saliva. And there should be something.”

“Just like when Emma….”

“Yeah. And the coroner said something else.”

Roc waited, his heart contracting.

“There wasn't enough blood.”

“What do you mean?”

“There should have been more at the scene. The wound hit an artery, for Christ's sake. So there should have been more blood. Everywhere. But where did it go?”

“Maybe something blocked it. So it stayed in the body.”

Mike shook his head. “That's the other thing…there should have been more blood in the body but it was damn near drained.”

Roc felt the blood drain out of his head, and his heart went into overdrive to handle the excess.

“An Amish kid and now a bum on the streets.” Mike finally drank some of his beer. “So what's the connection?”

“Don't forget Em.” Roc's voice sounded as if it was not coming from him, as if someone else was speaking…thinking. He swallowed hard. “And the teen dressed in an Amish costume in New Orleans.”

“Some fetish for plain folks? Or bad timing? In the wrong place?”

“Emma wasn't plain.”

“No, but she was wearing scrubs that night. Plain blue scrubs, remember? Plain.”

Roc rubbed the heel of one hand with his other thumb, back and forth over the deep lines. “I have a suspect.”

Mike's hand paused midair, beer poised for his mouth. “What? Who?”

“I don't know much more.” He explained about the Amish kids and the woman known for drinking blood—chicken blood—and how he ran into her and Akiva.

“What kind of a name is that?”

“Hell if I know.” He stood, paced a few steps. Did he really want to confess this? What would Mike say? Think? If Roc actually said aloud what he was beginning to believe, would it make it all the more real or scatter the delusion? Mike was waiting. Watching. Roc felt his gaze on him, studying, analyzing, dissecting. Drawing a shaky breath, he admitted, “Thing is, I saw him…Akiva tonight, following an Amish woman through a field.”

“And?”

“He ran. I chased him.”

The tension in the room shifted a notch. Mike leaned forward.

Roc faced him, like he was on a lineup. “And I shot him.”

Mike jerked back slightly then his eyes narrowed. “You're not gonna tell me you have a body in the trunk of that Mustang, are you?”

“I wish.”

“So what happened? Where is he?”

“I shot him. Square in the chest.”

Mike didn't blink or move. He waited.

Roc wished there was a different ending to the story. He wished there was a body. Anything to disprove what he was about to say. “And then—” Roc looked down, stared at his boots. Dried grass and mud from the field still stuck to the soles, which made the night real—too real. “He disappeared.”

Mike blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I shot him. Here.” Roc splayed a hand across his own chest, smack in the middle.

“You sure?”

“I know how to shoot.”

Mike gave a clipped nod of agreement. How many times in years gone by had they stood side by side at the shooting range and then compared bullet holes in their outlines? Roc's accuracy was gold-medal worthy.

“So he ran away. Maybe he was on crack. That happens. Perps' bodies all pumped up on speed or some other drug and nothing but a Mac truck will stop 'em.” Mike reached for his cell phone lying on the table. “I'll call for—”

“No. I'm telling you, the sonofabitch crumpled forward and…I don't know. It was like he folded inward. And…Poof!” He couldn't meet Mike's gaze. “He disappeared. Zippedeedoodah. Just like that.
Sayonara
. Gone. Like he flew away.”

“Flew?” Mike dipped his chin and stared at Roc, suspicion darkening those jaded eyes that had seen his share of the bizarre. “You have been drinking, haven't you? Or smoking something.”

Roc shook his head, wishing he could explain and knowing he couldn't. He rubbed his face with his palms. It had been a mistake to come here. He'd hoped in some way that saying it out loud would make it seem ridiculous—and it certainly sounded that way—but speaking the words had the opposite effect on Roc and somehow made the incident more real. His shoulders tensed in defensiveness—trying to turn the irrational into the rational was hopeless—and he turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

He fished in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper Anthony had given him. “I'm gonna talk with a priest.”

“A priest. You think you need forgiveness for something?”

With his hand on the doorknob, he looked back at Mike. “I need help. And not the kind you're thinking of: a doc with a notepad of prescriptions ready to hand out. I have a bad feeling Anthony was right.”

“Anthony?” Mike was on his feet. “Who's Anthony? And right about what?”

“That we're not dealing with your ordinary serial killer. More the
Twilight
kind. And this one isn't a vegetarian.”