Avenger of Sins (SPECTR Series 3, #6)

Chapter 3

THREE

John stared out the window as they crossed the city limits into Thomasville. It was a tiny southern town, split down the middle by a four-lane highway. So late at night, there was almost no one else on the road, though Caleb was keeping to the speed limit in case of bored cops. A scattering of strip malls lined either side of the highway, none of them open this late.

Foster lived in a residential neighborhood to the east of the highway. Peachtree Road, one of a thousand streets in the south with that name. Soon, John would be face to face with yet another of the people who’d turned his life into a living hell.

Would he recognize the man? If Foster had been a chemist, he might not have been giving the injections himself. John couldn’t remember him off the top of his head, but what did that matter? His mind was full of holes.

Trepidation formed a cold lump behind his heart. He didn’t want to see Foster, didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t even want to think about him. Certainly he didn’t want to be in the position of saving him.

It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be up to him to save someone who’d helped torture him. He shouldn’t have to stop Ryan, someone he loved but who had betrayed him.

He didn’t want any of this. If he could just turn back the clock…

To what? Ignorance?

They turned onto Peachtree, and a few minutes later, Caleb pulled off to the side of the road and put on the four-ways. “According to the GPS, the house is about a mile away,” he said. “Gray, Night, and I will go on foot from here.”

John shook his head. “We should?—”

“Stay as far away from Ryan as possible,” Caleb interrupted. “Assuming he’s here, that is. If he isn’t, we’ll throw Foster over our shoulder and get him away from the house, then meet up with the rest of you.”

“And if he doesn’t want to come?” Zahira asked.

“I was being literal with the throwing him over our shoulder bit.” Caleb unsnapped his seat belt. “Personally, I don’t give a fuck what this bastard wants. If I have to keep him alive, I’m doing it however I can, and there’s literally nothing he can do to stop me.”

The words sent a little frisson up John’s neck. Even without Gray manifesting, Caleb had a drakul’s enormous strength. No mortal could hope to resist; he could bundle up Foster like a newborn if he felt like it.

John had taken advantage of that more than once—it was hot, what could he say? But there was a vast gulf between being manhandled consensually and being kidnapped.

Caleb glanced in the back seat. “Take the wheel, would you, Zahira? You’ve had more sleep than John. Just drive around—I don’t like the idea of you sitting in one place if Ryan might be on the prowl. Call me if you spot him; otherwise, I’ll call you when we have Foster secured for pickup.”

John wanted to protest, to insist he go with them. But he’d already been controlled by Ryan once; it would be stupid to take the chance a second time.

“Please be careful,” he said, and leaned over for a kiss.

Caleb kissed him back. “Don’t worry, we’re not about to let Ryan get the drop on us again.” He opened the door and hopped out. “Come on, Night.”

Night followed him. By the time Zahira climbed behind the wheel, both drakul had vanished into the shadows.

Gray slips to the fore as they walk down the empty road. A few festive lights show from houses, strings of these new electric lights. Mortals love light; he has seen a thousand variations on this celebration, meant to drive back the darkness of winter. Candles and bonfires dance in the memories absorbed from his many hosts, defying the night which blinds them, making it his natural home.

“Will we hunt?” Night asks.

Her scent of night-blooming jasmine and copal mingles with that of the asphalt beneath their feet, the pine needles in the scattered woods. “Yes,” Gray says. “After.”

“We waste our time with these mortals. What do we care if this Foster lives or dies? He will be dust soon enough no matter what we do.”

She’s right, of course. But… “In this moment, he lives, and we must try to save him. What does the future matter? It is not yet here.”

Night remains silent for a short distance, then says, “I see. We will save him, then.”

“What does she think about the lights?” Caleb asks. “I mean, since this is a human pattern, and she’s, well, Night.”

His own curiosity sparked, Gray relays the question. Night cocks her head, considering.

“It is not…natural to me,” she says at last. “The light, that is. But I speak of the light of the sun. I can overwhelm or overlook anything a mortal can create.”

“Even the electric lights we have now?” Caleb asks. “I mean the ones with millions of lumens or whatever. Not Christmas lights.”

“This is nonsense,” Night says once Gray has dutifully asked in Caleb’s stead. “I have not encountered these lights. There are none here. Why does your host worry so?”

“He thinks like a mortal,” Gray explains.

“Hey!”

“Then you know what he asks is foolishness.”

“Hey! Wait…was that a joke? Can an undead drakul make jokes?”

Gray is unsure—jokes are still a concept he works to grasp. We should concentrate on the task at hand.

They slide through the darkness like a pair of shadows, passing single-story houses on large lots. “Doesn’t look like anything’s been built here since the 70’s,” Caleb says. “I guess this isn’t the swanky part of town. Though come to think of it, there might not be a swanky part of town.”

Gray ignores him; human architecture is of no interest. Light—steady yellow light, not the blinking dots of holiday lights—shines ahead through the trees. He slows, until their destination comes into view.

Unlike the rest of the houses, this one is three stories high and clad in brick. Floodlights beam up from the yard, illuminating the front. In the back, garden lights reveal a pool covered with a tarp.

“Looks like Foster bought the old homestead and plopped a McMansion on it,” Caleb opines. “Tacky.”

An iron fence surrounds the lot, but its gate stands open. Perhaps the fence is merely for show.

Or perhaps the telepath Ryan is here.

Gray stills, senses straining. A dog barks from somewhere within, its claws scrabbling on wood. Otherwise, there are no sounds.

Caleb’s unease filters through them both. “If anyone was alive in there, they’d be trying to quiet the dog down.”

That would seem likely.

He exchanges a glance with Night; they have hunted together enough now that there is no need for discussion. They slip in through the gate, the grass beneath their feet bright green even in the dead of winter. Night fades into the shadows, while Gray scales the brick cladding, claws sinking easily into the mortar.

The cheap lock on an upper floor window gives beneath their strength. Gray slips inside, then pauses for a long moment, sensing.

The window opens onto what seems to be a guest bedroom, a fine layer of dust across bed and furniture. The dog is somewhere beneath them, scratching frantically to be let out. The only other sound is the occasional creak of a beam as the house slowly settles.

“Not good.”

Gray ignores Caleb’s obvious statement. He glides into the upstairs hallway, the carpet softening their footsteps. The scent of blood like cold copper wafts from the stairway leading down.

If Ryan is here, he is hiding himself from their senses. Gray prowls from room to room, alert for any twitch of a curtain, any shadow out of place.

There is nothing.

He meets Night on the second floor. “The dog is locked in a bathroom,” she tells them. “And there is a dead mortal in the first floor bedroom.”

“Damn it,” Caleb mutters. “We’re too late.”

“I have not found any other mortals,” Night adds. “I believe the telepath has already come and gone.”

Gray isn’t certain how to feel about this. He doesn’t like Ryan, but nor does he like this dead mortal who hurt John.

“Yeah, same,” Caleb says. “Let’s take a look at the crime scene and make sure the dog’s okay.”

The dog is grateful to be let out. It is a small thing with curly white and brown fur, and it presses against his leg whimpering in fear. Perhaps it understands what has happened to its guardian. Gray picks it up in one arm and keeps it tucked against their chest as they approach the master bedroom.

The room is cold; one of the windows is open wide despite the winter chill, its screen removed. Perhaps this is where Ryan entered the house, or where he left. The dead mortal lies sprawled beside the bed, dressed in plaid pajamas. In one hand he holds a revolver; a bullet wound splashes blood and brains across a wooden nightstand beside him.

Ryan forced his hand, no doubt. Used his paranormal ability, bolstered by Gray’s blood, to make Foster take his own life.

But not to make it appear a suicide. Because on the wall behind the body, someone has scrawled the word MONSTER in Foster’s own blood.

The dog lets out a sharp bark of alarm. Gray takes a step back from the scene, assuming it is alarmed from the sights or smells?—

The ice-cold shaft of a needle sinks deep into the side of their neck.

John hated waiting.

Most people did, of course. But, no matter how SPECTR had manipulated him, he hadn’t become a field agent because he didn’t like action. Driving aimlessly through the night, waiting for Caleb to call, grated on his nerves.

It also gave his mind too much time to come up with scenarios where everything went wrong. What if Ryan got the jump on the two drakul, forced Night to switch bodies, and took Gray prisoner again? What if their bet had been wrong, and Ryan could control their minds?

He could make them give up their blood. Worse: he could use them to enact his vengeance. He’d be unstoppable with them at his command.

“John? Is that you? I can feel you.”

John let out a hiss and put a hand to his head. That voice…

“Ryan,” he said aloud. “He’s nearby. He’s trying to control me again.”

Zahira stomped on the gas, heading away from Foster’s house at an unsafe speed on the narrow, winding road.

“No!” Ryan’s voice grew fainter. “I won’t hurt you. I won’t try to control you again. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You’re too far away.”

Was it true? John wavered: this was his chance to talk Ryan down. But it also could be another trap. “Slow down, Zahira,” he said at last. “I think he just wants to talk. But if I start acting weird, gun it.”

She slowed, but asked, “Are you sure this is wise?”

“No,” he replied honestly. “All right, Ryan. Talk.”

“I just…wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

John closed his eyes and concentrated on the distant voice. I am, he thought. No thanks to you.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would approve of…my solution.”

John shook his head. So you decided to take away my ability to say no. Just like Walsh and the others did at the Center.

Silence. Then, after a long moment: “This is our only chance for justice. You know it as well as I do.”

You’re not a murderer.

Something like dry laughter came through their connection. “Of course I am. Jennifer and Marc—Mom and Dad—didn’t kill themselves. Granddad didn’t just decide to take a walk at the exact moment a rougarou was outside.”

The day at the hospital came back to John. Ryan standing with his parents, the preacher, the hostility. I don’t understand. Why did you kill them?

“You don’t know what it was like. Granddad hated me when I came back. He learned not to say anything out loud, but I could still hear his thoughts. Just a stream of abuse, day and night. When I sensed the rougarou outside…I don’t know. I’d had enough.” A pause, then, stronger: “It must have been fate, since that was what brought you back to me.”

Arguing would be counterproductive. Where are you? Let’s meet face to face. It would be dangerous as hell, but with Gray and Night…

Ryan caught the thought. “I’m not letting monsters drag me back to SPECTR.”

They aren’t monsters.

“You’re wrong.” The sense of a shiver came through the mental link. “They’re fucking dangerous, John. I hoped I could get you away from them. I understand why you feel bad for Caleb, why you see yourself in his predicament, but you’re better off without them.”

John ground his teeth together. Like hell. You didn’t hear that from my thoughts, because I would never think it.

“We all deceive ourselves.” Ryan sighed. “I have to go. Please don’t try to stop me.”

The sense of another presence disappeared. John tried to reach out, but he was no telepath, and Ryan’s attention was clearly somewhere else.

Which…wasn’t good.

“Back to the house,” he said out loud to Zahira. “Something’s going down.”