Nightwind (20 page)

a world of shadows.

“Love me, Syntian,” he heard her saying as her arms twined about his shoulders. He heard the ripping of

the silk covering his back, felt her long nails digging into his flesh, scoring deep, bloody furrows that

would take a long time to heal. “Pretend it is Lauren you are taking.”

A shaft of pain so agonizing rapped through him that it staggered him and his hand fell from her hair to

her shoulder, sliding down her neck until his fingers curled around the slim column of her neck.

“Don’t make me do this.”

She pressed her body to his. “You love her, don’t you, Syntian?” Her hips ground against him.

“Angeline, please.”

“If you ever hope to have her, you had best pleasure me as I wish to be pleasured, my demon lover, or I

will see to it that you never put your hands on Lauren Fowler this side of the Abyss!”

“Angeline, I beg you. Do not make me do this tonight.” His voice was a throaty moan of protest and

sorrow.

“Do it, Syntian,” she warned him. “And do it gently.”

With a sigh of defeat, his arms encircled her and his mouth dropped to hers, slanted across her lips with

tenderness he did not feel. As her tongue flicked across his rigid lips, seeking, probing, he opened his

mouth, accepting the torture she planned for him and let himself become lost in her vindictive embrace.

He had no needto sleep. The dead didn’t sleep. His restless prowling at night amused her. She watched

him from beneath half-closed lids as he stalked about her room, his body as rigid as stone, his eyes bleak

and lost and hopeless. She saw him sit down in her boudoir chair, shift uneasily then come to his feet in a

tiger’s leap of grace to stalk through the room once more. She saw him stop now and again and look

back toward the bed where she lay and she saw the hate and the fear and the frustration. His teeth would

gleam behind the drawn back curve of his snarling lips and he would commence his pacing once more,

the low growl in his throat a warning sign of what he wished he dared do to her.

“Find somewhere else to vent your anger, Syntian,” she told him and saw him spin around to glare at

her. “I give you leave to find some enemy you wish to tear asunder so I may sleep.” She wiggled down

beneath the covers. “But come back here as soon as you’re finished.” A sleek smile touched her lip. “But

do clean up before you crawl into bed with me, lover. I don’t want blood on my sheets.”

His growl of fury shook the room and Angeline saw him vanish in a swirl of violent light. Wind rushed

through the room with gale force at his departure and she shivered, feeling vaguely sorry for whatever or

whoever he got his hands on this night.

Blair VanLandinghamwas bored. She looked about her at the other young men and women lounging on

the hoods of their cars, necking inside the parked vehicles, or who wandered aimlessly about the river

bank, arms around one another’s waists. It was always the same: every Friday night no different from the

one that preceded it. It was all boring, annoying drivel that these southern bumpkins considered “fun” and

that Blair considered to be brainless inertia.

“Want a hit, BeeVee?” some stupid tenth grader asked her as she passed the front of his Nissan

pick-’em-up truck.

“Eat shit and die, yokel,” she snapped as she picked her way through the red clay muck that sucked at

her Nikes. Her gaze scalded the longhair boy with disdain then jerked away to her objective: Briton

Alexander.

Brit was by far and away the handsomest boy Blair had ever seen. His golden blond looks and sky-blue

eyes were enough to make the California-bred-and-raised teenage girl hot with anticipation. That he had

continued to ignore her all night didn’t help Blair’s mood any and his intentional snubbing was starting to

wear as thin as the herringbone bracelet clasped around her slim wrist. She made her way to his 1963

‘Vette.

“Are you planning on blowing this gig any time soon, Briton?” she asked in a waspish voice. As he

glanced at her through the halogen glow of Jack Ritter’s El Camino lights, she could see his annoyance

surfacing.

“What’s your problem, VanLandingham?” he snapped at her as he slid down from the hood of his

‘Vette where he’d been sitting with Angel Ramirez, one of the halfbacks on the Milton varsity team. He

flicked away a Coors can and hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his 501’s. “You’re the one who

wanted to ride out here.”

Blair tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder and rewarded him with a look she had perfected over

her seventeen years that was meant to quell the strongest jock. Usually it worked, but with Brit, it only

seemed to amuse him. “I’m so bored I could fuck a baseball player,” she grumbled. Her head jerked

around at Angel’s guffaw and she fixed him with a deadly glare.

“You’d fuck anything that asked you,” Angel snorted, ignoring the look by lifting his beer up to his lips.

“Anything except you!” Blair’s voice turned frosty.

Angel turned his head and spit beer off into the dark. His broad Filipino face broke into a grin when he

turned back to look at her. “I’d never ask a cunt like you to fuck my duck.”

“Chill,” Briton mumbled to his best friend. He had brought the chick out here, might even be somewhat

responsible for her, but all she was worth was a quick one wherever he could manage it. All the same, he

didn’t want a scene between her and Angel that might escalate into something more than just that.

“Keep your twat’s mouth shut, Brit,” Angel warned, sliding down from the hood and crushing his beer

can in one powerful fist. “Or I’ll give her something to put in it.”

“Duh!”

“Knock it off, Angel.” Briton sighed. “I’m outta here.” He took Blair’s arm and pulled her toward the

passenger side of his ‘Vette. He barely waited for her to adjust herself in the deep bucket seat before he

slammed the door and hopped over the hood.

“Make sure you got a cast iron white fish in your pocket, Brit.” Angel laughed. “That bitch’s been under

so many dudes, she’s still dripping from two weeks ago!”

“Asshole!” Blair shouted out the window.

“Slut!” Angel called back.

“Will you just cool it?” Briton snapped as he turned the key in the ignition and put the ‘Vette into gear.

He flipped Angel the bird as he peeled away from the riverbank and could hear his friend’s hoot of

derision: “Promises! Promises!”

“I don’t know what you see in that Flip trash,” Blair grumbled as the red Corvette slid out onto the

highway.

“You wouldn’t,” Briton ground out. He reached down to turn on his Alpine stereo to drown out any

further babble from his “date.” The harsh twang of Nirvana exploded from the speakers.

Blair turned to look at him. His profile was crisp and clean, manly in the frosty green glow of the dash

lights. He had a chiseled face, a perfect face, a face meant to rain kisses upon, but so far all she’d gotten

from him was a poke and stroke, and not necessarily in that order.

“Where are we going?” She had to shout to be heard over the volume of the stereo.

“I’m taking you home.”

Blair flounced in her seat, folding her arms over her more than ample chest. She turned away, glaring at

the passing pines and scrub oaks along Highway 90. The scenery sped by as the ‘Vette reached seventy

on the straightway; the white line on the road skipped like dots beneath the front end of the car.

Briton felt like kicking himself. He knew he shouldn’t have allowed the little tramp to cruise with him

tonight. All she’d done was cause trouble from the time he’d picked her up until now. It had been one

thing after the other: at Wendy’s; at Wal-Mart; at the Penny Pantry when he’d stopped in for beer. He

was in a mean mood and he didn’t feel like sitting here beside her all the way to Pace with her brooding.

That tongue of her was going to flick out in a minute and she was going to lash into him like she always

did.

“Stop the car.”

He turned and looked at her. In the faint light glowing from his dash, he could see the pout on her lips.

“If I stop, I’ll put your ass out,” he warned her. They’d been through this before and he always wound up

soothing her ruffled feathers. He wasn’t going to do it tonight.

“Stop the car,” she repeated, never doubting that he would.

“I mean it, VanLandingham. If I stop this fucking car, you’ll be fucking out on your scrawny ass.”

She slowly turned her head and looked at him. “Stop the goddamned car.”

He took his foot off the accelerator and geared down until he could maneuver the right front wheel off

onto the shoulder of the road. They were in the middle of nowhere and there were no lights, no passing

cars, no nothing. As he brought the car to a stop, he saw her push open her door and step out into the

dark night. When the door slammed, he had the ‘Vette moving, back on the pavement and away from

the stupid cunt as fast as its wheels could turn.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Blair shouted after him, never once considering that he had meant what he said.

She took a few steps forward, saw his brake lights come on then smiled spitefully. “You’ll pay for that

piece of shit, Briton Alexander,” she promised, expecting him to spin the car around and come back for

her. But that wasn’t to be. The lights returned to their driving tint and then disappeared down the long

stretch of isolated road.

At first she couldn’t really believe he had left her. When the realization that he wouldn’t be back finally

penetrated the fog of surprise surrounding her, she stomped her foot like a child and let out a howl of

fury.

“You prick!” she screamed into the darkness. “You limp-dick butt-wipe!”

That was what she got by going out with a hillbilly, redneck Cracker, she thought angrily as she kicked

at the dirt beneath her feet. Varsity quarterback or not; Captain of the debate team or not; best-looking

boy in Santa Rosa county or not! She shouldn’t ever have gone out with the jerk. After all, his Daddy

wasn’t anyone! Not like hers.

Tiffany Blair VanLandingham spat a mouth full of vengeance at the asphalt in front of her and began to

walk. The closest service station was a good way off, but at least there was a phone booth there where

she could call her father to come get her.

“You just wait, you cotton farmer,” she mumbled as she stomped down the road. “When my Daddy

gets through with you, you’ll wish you’d never been born!”

And her Daddy was just the man to do it, Blair thought with a smugness that had been fed to her with a

silver spoon. Men like her Daddy could do anything they set out to do. You didn’t become a Rear

Admiral by sitting on your ass or kissing other peoples’! Rainor VanLandingham was the kind of man

whose ass other people kissed.

A sneer formed on Blair’s pretty face and she flung her hair back over her shoulders. “You just wait,

Briton. My Daddy’ll have you on your knees apologizing to me!”

The roar of the car engine blared out of the darkness behind her and Blair turned to see twin high beams

leaping over the hill toward her. Whatever the car, it was powerful and it was expensive by the sound of

its engine and the howl of an excellent stereo system fanned out toward her with the sharp electric sounds

of Guns ‘n Roses Blaze of Glory.

Blair stopped, shading her eyes as the headlights bore down on her. She wasn’t sure, but she thought the

car was slowing, the engine gearing down; the music was so loud, she really couldn’t tell. For a moment,

she felt fear, the cautions of her mother and every grownup rushing through her head, but she ignored

them and stuck her thumb up, cocking her tightly clad, jeans-wrapped leg out at a saucy angle. She

smiled. The car was definitely slowing down.

The motor purred like a giant cat as the sleek dark car slid to a smooth stop beside her. Blair watched

as the passenger window slipped down. Inside the car, two bright, feverish eyes glowed at her from the

light cast from the dash lights.

“You going to stand there all night, baby, or do you want a ride?

The voice was like molten gold: rich and warm, with just a faint hint of an accent.

“How do I know you aren’t Ted Bundy’s twin?” She kept a safe distance from the car’s door. She

couldn’t see the man’s face, but those eyes were latched on her like cockleburs on corduroy.

There was an amused snort from the interior of the car then she saw his hand reach down to the

dashboard to flick on the overhead light. What she saw as the light fell down on the man’s face made her

smile.

“Well, hello there,” she said, putting her hand on the doorknob.

Angeline Hellstromsat up in the bed, unease shifting through her. She looked about her, felt the cold

permeating the room. He was not in the room, but the essence of the great evil he was capable of doing

clung to the walls like a rime of frost. She shivered, drawing the coverlet up to her throat. She searched

the room, but without getting up to go to her conjuring room, she couldn’t tell what he was up to, what he

was doing. But she knew, without being told, that whatever it was, and whoever was on the receiving

end of his fury, would not live to regret it.

You gave him your permission. You told him to take his anger out on something.
“I was afraid he’d

take it out on me,” she whispered to the empty room.

A quiver of dread ran through her and she lay back down, pulled the coverlet to her chin.

“God help me,” she mumbled, feeling his icy fury invading her body. She sank further down in the bed,