The Vengeful Dead (31 page)

Nick had a broad smile plastered across his face. “Go,” he said.

Oak pews spread across the floor in neat rows 150 feet into the distance. Mosaic tiles, warm, soft, and colorful spread across the ceiling nearly one hundred feet above, between majestic, arching beams. Grand forty-foot stained glass divided up the nave with muted pastel colors. It overwhelmed Jackie with a sense of invitation. It made you want to come in and stay for a good, long while.

“God,” she whispered, “it’s gorgeous.”

Reverend Chambers chuckled. “Let’s hope He feels the same.”

Then Jackie’s eyes found the chancel, situated beyond the nave. Her heart skipped a beat and her breath stuck in her throat. Carved wooden supports held row upon row of metal pipes, towering toward the ceiling. There were dozens, hundreds of them even. In the center of it all, a wooden bench sat before a four-tiered keyboard, surrounded by rows of stops. It was an ancient computer of sound, symphony, and choir breathing through hundreds of feet of metal.

“Oh, wow.”

Nick hooked his arm around hers. “Come on. Let’s play.”

“What?” Her gaze snapped back to him. “Play? You serious?”

He pulled her down the aisle. “I didn’t give to the good reverend for an empty chapel to stand around and stare at it.”

“Wait,” she stammered, moving quickly to keep up. “We have the whole place to ourselves? You can do that?”

Nick glanced over at her, a brighter than normal sparkle in his eye. “When you donate to restore this glorious instrument, you earn special privileges.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” Reverend Chambers said, and Jackie looked back to see the double doors shut, closing them in.

At the end of the nave, Jackie stopped, disengaging from Nick and stared up into the warm glow of the chancel. The pipes gave the sense of rising to the heavens, built to project their sound to the angels and God above.
If only that were the case,
Jackie thought. Nick continued into the chancel to the organ itself and sat down on the bench. Dressed in his tailored suit, he looked the part of the church’s organ player.

Nick turned back to her. “Awe-inspiring, isn’t it?”

Jackie nodded. “I don’t even have words for it.”

“You ever played a pipe organ?”

“No. I have no clue.” She walked up to the bench, marveling at the four separate keyboards layered one above the other and the array of dozens of stops on either side to turn the various pipes on and off.

“Join me then. I’ll give you the basics,” he said.

Seated on the bench, Jackie felt incredibly small. She was within the confines of one of the largest instruments in the world, a work of art on a grand scale. It was difficult to not feel like a child in a museum crossing the ropes to touch the display.

“Ready?”

She gave him a sideways look and a soft bark of laughter. “No.”

“Good. First off we have the keys here. Each row is called a manual,” he began. For five more minutes he went through the various parts, explaining diapasons and mixtures and how one affected the sound coming from the pipes through the various adjustments of the stops.

“Nick,” she said. “I’m not going to remember any of this. Just play something.”

He chuckled. “Sorry. Easy to get carried away with this. So, any requests?”

Jackie shrugged. “Anything. Make the roof shake.”

After a moment of thought, Nick pulled and adjusted some of the stops and put his hands up to one of the manuals. When his fingers lighted upon the keys, Jackie felt sure the roof likely was shaking. The floor, the bench they sat upon, and the very air around them came to life, vibrating into her bones with a deep resonant sound.

She reached out instinctively and gripped his thigh, fingers digging in. “Holy shit.” Nick laughed and continued to play, the sound lightening up to something that didn’t threaten to send every cell in her body flying off in all directions. Her heart thumped hard in her chest. God, what a glorious sound it made. She closed her eyes and let the music course through her and goose bumps rose upon her arms. Her little Steinway did nothing to compare. After five minutes or twenty, the piece came to an end. Nick’s hand covered hers, still gripping his thigh.

“That look says it all,” he said, his voice whispering inches from her ear. “I’m glad I brought you here.”

Jackie opened her eyes to find Nick’s, bright and depthless, staring down at her, the smile upon his face faint but pleased. “What look is that?”

“Happy,” he said. “I think it’s the first time I’ve seen you actually look happy.”

“Oh.” The breath hitched in her lungs. Happy. When was the last time she had been able to say that? Months? Years? “I guess, yeah. For a moment there, I felt . . .” The creeping worms of nerves began to make their way back into her gut. No, no, no! She wanted that feeling back, just for a bit longer. Could Nick do that? Could she let him do that? “The song . . . was lovely.”

“Much like the company,” he said.

The nerves melted away. Jackie pulled her hand free from his and reached up to brush her fingers over the thin pink scar along his jaw. “You don’t have to say that.”

His face moved imperceptibly closer. “Even if it’s the truth? I’m the sheriff, Ms. Rutledge. I’m only after the truth, and you . . . are lovely.”

Jackie blinked several times for her watering eyes.
Not crying, not doing it. Damn it, you idiot. Do not . . .
Jackie tightened her grip on Nick’s chin and pulled his mouth down to hers. She let her lips part beneath his, fingers cupping the cool skin of his cheek. The nerves in her stomach took on a whole different quality, tingling and warm, a feeling tequila and bars never let her have before. In their own way, more terrifying than having no feeling at all. She gripped his chin more firmly to keep her fingers from trembling.

Nick sucked on her lower lip for a moment, then nipped it lightly between his teeth. His hand had found its way up to the back of her head, cupping it in its broad expanse, fingers twining into her hair. And in the quiet solitude and warm glow of the Rockefeller Chapel, Jackie discovered something beyond the supple play of his mouth upon hers and the quivering flutter in her belly.

Safe. She felt safe with this man who had to drink blood to stay alive and had dragged her to the realm of the dead in order to save her life. A tear squeezed out through a closed eyelid and Nick backed off.

“Jackie?”

She laughed softly and shook her head. “No, it’s OK. I’m good.”

He leaned forward and kissed the tear off of her cheek. “Yeah? We’re good?”

Jackie nodded and kissed him again. “Yep. I think we are.”

“Great. Why don’t you try playing. There’s really nothing like it.”

She brought her hands up and slid them around his neck. There was nothing like him. How could there be? Tillie was right. This was a new beginning, a chance to get something right before it got all shot to hell. “In a minute,” she said, and pulled his head back down.

Jackie has encountered a startling new presence and she and the rest of the Special Investigations team will be tested as never before in the next book of the
Deadworld
series, a Kensington paperback on sale April 2012.

Turn the page for a special preview!

Prologue

Jessica Forsythe’s face was numb. The motorcycle helmet provided little protection against the cold October air, but she did not care. Hunkered down in the sidecar of Charlie’s roaring machine, her gloved hands gripped the lip of the shell, and she squealed with fearful delight every time Charlie took a curve too fast and the wheel of the sidecar lifted off of the ground. She was miles from nowhere with the coolest girl in the world, and no clue where they were going. It was glorious, terrifying fun.

It sure beat the hell out of shooting up on Petey’s dilapidated old couch that smelled like piss and vomit. There was more warmth in this wind-whipped sidecar than she ever got from his rusted-out charcoal hibachi. Not to mention the bonus of being miles away from his grimy hands and a mouth that tasted like rotted ass. Wherever Charlie was going, it had to be a million times better than that wretched dump.

The tree-lined highway gave way to another small town. Charlie eased off of the accelerator and they came to a stop at the single stoplight in the center of the town. Her pert, red mouth spread into a grin, and she stared down at Jessica through the gleaming, mirrored lenses of her aviator goggles. If the light was just so, Jessica swore she could see Charlie’s otherworldly eyes behind them.

“Doing OK down there, Sis?”

Jessica nodded. “This is so fucking great! I love you.” God! Where had that come from? But what else could this tingling, energized feeling be? No boy had ever managed to spark these sensations in her before. Warmth, comfort, desire. The feelings had been almost instantaneous. Charlie oozed cool out of every pore, and that little blonde curlicue on her forehead was to die for. And the whole “Sis” thing made her smile inside. They would be just like sisters.

The corner of Charlie’s mouth curled up. “Good. We’ll be home soon. Mom’s making us lasagna.”

“Sounds fabulous. My mom can’t stand up long enough to cook anything.”

Charlie’s hand reached down and covered hers. “Well, mine will just love having you.”

The heat from Charlie’s hand seeped right through Jessica’s glove, sending goose bumps up her arm. “Cool. I’ll just be happy to have a place with heat.”

She gave Jessica’s hand a squeeze. “You’ll love it here.” The smile softened. “Trust me.”

The light changed to green and Charlie turned off the highway toward the edge of town, winding back toward the oaklined hills. Jessica sat up straighter, watching the rustic old brick buildings rush by. It looked quaint, almost old-fashioned, and a far cry from the burned out, South-Side Chicago tenement she had been holed up in. Even in the frigid, dying light, the town looked peaceful.

On the back edge of town, an entire three blocks off the highway, Charlie brought them to a drive heading up into a stand of oak and maple, a stark, black web of limbs shielding the lighted windows of a house. A simple, wooden signpost next to the mailbox read in white block letters
THATCHER’S MILL
.

“You live in a mill?” Jessica shouted.

“A house next to the mill, silly,” she said. “My family has lived here for over a hundred years.”

“Oh, wow.” Jessica nodded and stared up the drive at the looming, two-story house. Over a hundred years. She couldn’t remember ever living in a place longer than two. This was a place with real family. People who cared.

They rolled to a stop in the gravel drive that circled in front of the wood-sided house. A shingled roof overhung a wide screened porch running the length of the house. Jessica had barely managed to get her helmet off when the porch lights flooded the drive and the front door flew open.

“Charlie!” A woman came bustling across the porch and knocked open the screen door, the hem of her ankle-length dress balled up in one hand. A facecracking smile reached nearly to the edges of the white bonnet on her head. “You brought her home!”

Charlie pushed the aviator goggles up onto her head and swung off the motorcycle. “Of course, Ma-ma. I always do.”

Home. Her home. How did that work? She returned Charlie’s irresistible smile. “Brought me home?”

“Yes,” Charlie said and reached down to take Jessica’s hand. “My home is your home. You belong here now.”

A corner of those still perfect red lips curled up, and in the bright halogen glow of the porch light Jessica stared into those bright, iridescent eyes and knew the absolute truth of her words. The momentary knot in her stomach melted away. “I really do love you.”

Charlie squeezed her hand, but then the exuberant clapping of Charlie’s mother interrupted the moment. “Come on, girls. This is just so wonderful. Dinner is almost ready. Do you want to change, Charlie?”

“Um, yeah. We better. Becca is smelling a little ripe.” She reached down and hooked her hands beneath Jessica’s underarms and lifted her out of the sidecar.

Before Jessica had an opportunity to say a word, Charlie’s mother embraced her. She smelled of soap and garlic and a hint of lavender. “You had us so worried, Rebecca, love. I thought you’d died.”

The hug left her breathless, and then Charlie’s husky whisper blew into her ear. “Just roll with it. I’ll explain later.” Charlie took her hand again. “Ma-ma, chill out. I told you everything was fine. So go get the table ready. We’ll be down in, like, fifteen.”

Her mother sobered up. “Of course, sweetie. Everything is almost ready, just the way you like it.”

Charlie nodded toward the house. “Come on, Becca. Let’s go clean up.”

Jessica followed, Charlie’s hand pulsing with warmth around hers. Inside, she was hit by a wall of heat from a woodburning stove in the corner of the living room that carried the scent of baked bread, garlic, and pasta sauce. A grandfather clock chimed that it was now five-thirty. The place was immaculate and so . . . old. Jessica marveled at the furnishings. It looked like she had just stepped into a Norman Rockwell painting.

A male voice yelled out from the kitchen. “Charlie? That you?”

“Yeah, I’m home, Pa-pa,” she yelled back. “Just getting cleaned up. We’ll be down in a few.”

Across the dining room, where slender candles burned and a setting for four adorned the table, the kitchen door opened and a tall, fortyish man in a simple black suit smiled at them. His sleeves were rolled up and there was a dishcloth in his hand. “Rebecca ?”

Charlie pulled her toward the stairs. “Yep. Just finish up. We’ll be down in a minute.”

Jessica leaned toward Charlie. “Who’s Rebecca?”

“It’s you, of course. Now come on. I’m hungry.”

The bedroom took up one end of the upstairs, two expansive Persian rugs covering most of the floor. Parked on each one was a full-sized canopy bed draped in silky, gauze curtains. An ornate, goldinlaid chest pushed up against the foot of each. Tiffany lamps gave off a diffuse glow from the nightstand of each bed. A faint scent of lavender suffused the air.

“Holy shit,” Jessica said. “Is this really your room?”

Charlie walked over to a walk-in closet, disappearing inside. “Duh. But it’s our room now. Your bed is on the left.” She came out a moment later, a floorlength, deep blue dress in her hand. “Bathroom is at the end of the hall. Wash up and then change.”

Jessica stifled a laugh. “Into that? But it’s so . . .”

“What?” Charlie brought it over and tossed it on her new bed and then stepped up to Jessica, her face inches away. “Old? Is that what you were going to fucking say?”

The depthless eyes intensified, freezing Jessica in place. “N-no, not that. I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s just not the kind of thing I usually—”

“It’s Rebecca’s,” she snapped back. “It’s yours. You are Rebecca now.”

Jessica swallowed and nodded. “Okay. That’s cool. Is it because—”

Charlie grabbed her arms and walked her over to the bed. Jessica’s toes barely brushed the floor. “Ow! Fuck, Charlie. That hurt.”

The slap came out of nowhere, snapping Jessica’s head sideways, and then was forcefully pulled back by Charlie’s hand gripping her jaw. “You don’t talk like that, not ever!” The twisted mouth abruptly softened. “Rebecca is a good girl. She doesn’t talk like that. Got it?”

Jessica whispered, blinking away the tears, “Got it.”

Charlie let go of her chin and sat down next to Jessica on the bed. “You are Rebecca while you’re here. No more Jessica. You,” she said and smiled, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek, “are my sister now.” Charlie reached into her pocket and pulled out the switchblade Jessica remembered from earlier in the day when Charlie threatened to castrate Petey if he mouthed off any more. The blade flipped open.

Jessica stared at the keen, shining blade. “What’s that for?”

Charlie held out her other hand and drew the tip of it across her palm. A thin, dark line of blood oozed out. “Blood,” she said. “We’re sisters now, you and me. Now and forever, I swear upon this oath in blood.”

“What do you mean?” Jessica stared in lurid fascination at the trickle of blood slipping down Charlie’s wrist.

“Give me your hand.” When Jessica hesitated, Charlie heaved a sigh. “Do I have to ask again?”

This was crazy. Jessica could not believe she was going to do it. She held out her hand. “Like blood sisters or something?” Charlie took her hand, the point of the blade pushing at the skin. Jessica wanted to watch, but could not pull her gaze away from Charlie’s. Her hand seemed so far away.

Charlie’s face softened. “Exactly. My sister, my blood.”

She felt the knife score her palm but could feel nothing. “You really want me to be your sister?” Their palms pressed together and Jessica gasped at the rush of tingling heat that washed through her, much like that moment when Charlie had first touched her, only this time it went right to places she had not expected it to go.

“Now and forever,” Charlie whispered. “Our blood is one.” She squeezed and Jessica felt a cold chill brush across her face. “Say it, Becca.”

Her voice struggled up out of her throat, hollow and distant. “Now and forever. Our blood is one.”

Charlie grinned and lifted Jessica’s blood-smeared palm between them. “We’ll be together. Always.”

Jessica returned the smile. She was perfect. How could she feel so well-suited to this girl? It was fate. It had to be. Then, Charlie’s tongue brushed the skin of her hand, the lightest, feathery touch that traced its way across her palm. Jessica closed her eyes. It should not have felt so good. It made no sense, but nothing had ever felt so right as this. Charlie was her sister, now and forever.

When Jessica opened her eyes, the wound upon her palm was gone, barely a pink line, and her skin shone white with a glistening sheen.

Chapter 1

Jackie walked back to the kitchen area of the new Special Investigations office to make herself yet another espresso, the third one in two hours. What else was there to do? Cynthia had everything in perfect order. She had spent the entire previous day nodding in agreement to every suggestion Cynthia made about setting up the office. It was a showroom office straight out of
Architectural Digest,
and Jackie wasn’t even sure how to operate half the shit around her. All funded, of course, by everyone’s favorite millionaire vampire, Nick Anderson.

Worst of all, they weren’t actually doing anything yet. Belgerman was having the “special flagged” cases sent over at some point during the day. Cynthia had offered to train her on the needed software programs, but the last thing Jackie wanted was to start her first full day on the job as the head of Special Investigations with lessons in just how underqualified she was to do it. She could not even handle sitting in her own office.

From a cubicle with barely enough room to turn around in, to a three-hundred-square-foot cavern with its own bar and big-screen television. Nick had even had them put in a floor-to-ceiling corkboard along one section of wall to mount her case info upon. The space completely overwhelmed her. She felt like a child invading her parents’ private space.

“Agent McManus!” Cynthia’s voice rang throughout the office.

Thank, God!
Jackie made her way toward the front, around the dividing wall to where Cynthia’s grand, curving slab of mahogany greeted all who entered.

“Ms. Forrester,” McManus said, with a more-thanfriendly smile. “How are you today?”

He leaned against a dolly stacked four high with file boxes. Jackie’s greeting froze upon her lips. “Shit, McManus. Tell me those aren’t all full of files.”

Laurel’s voice interrupted her shock.
Look at that! I can’t wait to see what’s in there.

“Nobody asked you,” Jackie muttered.

McManus stood up straight. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jackie said. She needed more practice at the whole keeping internal and external conversations separate. It was getting really old.

“You talking to Agent Carpenter?” When Jackie rolled her eyes, McManus grinned and waved at Jackie. “Hey, Agent Carpenter. How are things going, um, in there?”

I’m good, thanks.

Jackie sighed. “Just quit, OK? It’s too damn weird. How many files did you pack up?”

He shrugged. “Going by weight, I’d guess a few hundred at least.”

“Lovely,” Jackie said. How many hours would it take to sort through all of that crap?

Days. We’ll need to build a database.
Laurel was clearly far more excited by the prospect than Jackie.

“Just put them over there against the wall, Agent McManus,” Cynthia said and pointed. “We’ll figure out where we want them later.”

At that moment the door opened again, and in walked Nick, carrying a cardboard box with Annabelle’s label emblazoned upon it. Shelby was on his heels. At least there were pastries.

“Morning, everyone,” Nick said. “I bear gifts. Agent McManus. Good to see you again.” He set the box down on Cynthia’s desk. “Help yourself if you like. Looks like we’ve finally got something to work on around here.”