12.21.12: The Vessel (The Altunai Annals) Page 16

No more chasing ghosts. Shep had had enough. What he needed to get a grip on now were cold, hard facts. The first fact he needed to deal with was the cold, hard one lying in the bed in front of him. He’d come back to his bedroom after the conversation of the century to find his friend dead. But how?

  He turned over Dmitri’s outrageous claim to have been the cause. “I don’t understand,” Shep repeated again, shaking his head.

  “I drained his life from him,” Dmitri stated once more. “His chi, his aura ... however you want to understand. It’s ... it’s what I feed on.”

  Yeah, he had heard it the first time. And the second. He heard every unintelligible word Dmitri uttered, but that didn’t mean it made any sense.

  “You’re a ... vampire or something?”

  Though he was angry, though he was bitter, and frankly, though he was scared, Shep still understood that whatever Kronastia actually was—man, Altunai, or tuna fish—he was lethal, well-connected and well-funded. Shep still had enough sense of self-preservation not to leap to his feet and lay into him like he wanted. Christine’s death had nearly sliced his soul in two, but there was no target of vengeance he could pummel for that one. Except himself, and for that, alcohol had been his weapon of choice. With Hector, Dmitri seemed as good a hitting block as any.

  However, his need to make sense of this was taking his mind to fantastical places. Really, aliens were one thing, but soul-sucking, pyramid-building vampires?

  “I don’t care for the term, but Victoria’s used it from time to time.”

  Shep shuddered. He just had to ask, didn’t he? “Do you drink blood too?”

  “Only ceremonially, and not to take life away, but to transform it.”

  Shep heard movement behind him, but didn’t have the will to look. A moment later, he caught Dmitri’s form sinking down to his knees next to the bed and next to Shep. The Russian ... or, whatever, gave a long, languid sigh and bowed his head, speaking softly in a foreign tongue Shep didn’t recognize. The tone almost sounded like a prayer.

  “I regret his death,” Dmitri proclaimed sincerely. “Few humans have impressed me so. His loss is a detriment to your race.”

  Shep’s eyes turned first to meet the honest gaze and take in the confession, then, hesitantly, he made his wishes known.

  “I want to leave now.”

  Dmitri’s head cocked to the side. “I’m sorry, Shep, that just can’t happen.”

  “I swear, I’ll never tell anyone.”

  The remorse drifting away, Dmitri leaned in close and spoke only inches from Shep’s anxiety-laden expression. “You’ve already told everyone part of it, Shep. That’s the problem.”

  Confused eyes searched madly for understanding, but found none. He had already been convicted of his crime before he’d realized he was a prisoner. And that scared him. Scared him bad, because Shep suspected, whatever Dmitri’s plan was, it didn’t likely involve letting him live.

  The door of the bedroom was open, however, and Shep could haul ass like a rabbit.

  In one swift movement, he leapt to his feet. He was already heading down the hall when he heard his pursuer growl—growl? Yes, growl—behind him. He didn’t look back, just kept running toward the exit of the flat, determined to make it to the two flights of stairs that led down to the street and, hopefully, to freedom.

  “You cannot leave!” Dmitri barked behind him. The mobster was gaining, but Shep’s hands had already undone the deadbolt and were poised on the doorknob.

  He grinned, turned the piece of shaped iron in his hand, and ...

  ... was met with the barrel of a Colt .45 and the familiar, cocky sneer of its owner.

  “So we meet again, señor,” José hissed. “¿Cómo estás?”

  For a moment, Shep considered plowing forward, trying his luck against the brawn of the for-profit soldier. Behind him, unfortunately, and all the way up the hall and down the stairs at roughly ten-foot intervals, were copycat paramilitary just like his old buddy José, each one with a gun trained squarely at Shep.

  Instinctively, Shep’s hands flew up into the air, offering his surrender. José walked him back into the flat as Dmitri caught up to the ruckus. Dmitri and José exchanged a few words in Spanish, and with something that sounded like an attaboy and a pat on the shoulder, José holstered his weapon and returned to his post outside the door. Dmitri pulled Shep back by the shoulder, closed the door, and locked it.

  Shep’s chest heaved, his body too abused by alcohol, heartache and lack of sleep for the efforts he had just undertaken. “For someone ... only pretending to be ... Russian mafia ... you sure do ... wear the jacket well,” he gasped in quick huffs.

  He felt Dmitri’s arm around his shoulder as he was dragged back into the kitchen. With a light shove, he was forced into the seat where all of the unsolicited knowledge had been presented to him before. Dmitri made his way to the cupboard, pulled out a cup, filled it with water, and placed it before Shep.

  Shep just eyed it warily as his head spun.

  “Jesus Christ, it’s not poisoned, and you’re redder than a beet.”

  Yeah, right, Shep thought, but then considered that maybe poison was the best way to go at this point. He pulled the glass to his panting mouth and took a sip. Dmitri said nothing further as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, and waited for Shep to calm down. Finally, ten minutes later, a collected Dr. Smyth looked at him.

  “Jesus,” Shep mused, “did you know him too? You’re old enough, right?”

  “I don’t answer the Jesus question. If you’re interested in Buddha or Napoleon, my answer’s the same. My job is to keep everything secret. As much as possible, anyway.” He motioned vaguely toward the front door. “I apologize for all that, but it’s necessary.”

  “A lot of effort to keep me in.”

  Dmitri laughed, a slow chuckle at first that broadened into a full-on fit. “You think that’s all to keep you in?”

  What else would it be for? It wasn’t as though Scotland Yard or MI-6 was going to make an offensive with that kind of firepower being garnered in a civilian area.

  Dmitri calmed himself enough to speak sincerely, though the amused smile was still plastered on his face. “If you’re really determined to leave, then fine, leave. Where would you go?”

  He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Home, I guess.”

  “Right.” Dmitri filled himself a glass of water and downed a gulp. “Do me a favor. Close your eyes, and let your mind fixate on where you see yourself after you leave my care.”

  The professor humored him, and was surprised that his mind’s eye filled not with images of his own Brownstone on Boston’s south side, but with the carved arabesque façade overlaying the windows of a house in Cairo where he once camped.

  “Yeah, I thought as much,” Dmitri said, making Shep wonder if he’d somehow shared the vision or if his bemused expression gave it away. “She planted that in your head, probably while you were asleep in Mexico. Go if you want, Shep, but I suspect we’ll be heading in the same direction. I’ll tell José to let you pass. He was merely acting on orders not to let anyone in or out without my permission. You’ll forgive my being overprotective. The manners of an old man, I’m afraid.”

  He let fly the fact that this “old man” appeared to be at least a decade younger than himself.

  Dmitri fished the amulet from his pocket and held it up. “She wants this—badly—and she’s going to be pissed as hell that she has to come to me to get it. Those men, Shep, are there to protect us, to slow her down a bit when she does show up.” Dmitri leaned forward, looking suddenly drained as he stashed the object out of sight. “And she seems to have a thing for you, too. I’m sorry to use you as bait, but it’s the best chance I have to get her to talk to me, before it’s too late. And that’s all I want: for her to ta
lk to me. Though maybe if I’m lucky, I can also get her to listen.”

  Agony contorted Kronastia’s features, and all at once, Shep recognized the man sitting before him. It was the same man whom he had seen in his own bathroom mirror for the past three years, existing but not living, having loved but now without the hope he’d ever feel love again. A man who’d have given anything, everything, to have his heart returned to him for even just a moment.

  With a groan, Dmitri shifted and stood, taking the emptied glass to the sink. He tapped Shep on the shoulder with a firm hand as he fished his cell from his pocket. “Excuse me, Professor. I need to make a quick phone call.”

  Chapter 22

  Tap.

  Tap. Tap.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap ...

  “Victoria!”

  Anton could hardly believe his own gall at calling her by her given name, or her nom du jour, as the case may be. Luckily, she didn’t take offense. What she did seem a little peeved about, however, was Anton’s pushing her hand off the center console and forcefully into her lap.

  Her eyes flared as her irises darkened to black, and essence of her anger turned to heat, filling the car, all clear signs of Victoria’s rage.

  The way Anton saw it, he had two choices: he could cower, offer his humble apologies, and in all other measure grovel—

  “You’re obsessed with Alex.”

  —or he could call her out in the open.

  “Just admit it, and have some sympathy for the fittings of the car. My Subaru may not be much, but it’s all I’ve got.”

  He had read her perfectly and the point-on remark served to make her retract her fiery veil of rage. With a sigh and huff, she sank back into her chair like a petulant child.

  “It’s not just that. I’m also really blown away by Dmitri’s gall.” Then, almost mumbling, she turned to look out the window as the South England countryside whipped past them. “If something happens to him, then I’ve broken my promise.”

  “Your promise?” Anton laughed as he bypassed a slow moving, late model Renault. “Your promise to do what?”

  “I swore to Cleo’s children that I would always protect their mother’s bloodline.”

  Anton nearly veered them into oncoming traffic. A swerve and a honk from the offended passersby prompted him to right the car. He winced and grabbed his arm when Victoria pelted him in the bicep.

  “What the hell, Anton?”

  The priest’s mind took off firing, putting together all the clues. Suddenly, the relevance she’d held for the otherwise unimpressive acolyte made sense. Alex was Cleopatra’s blood. As such, he was also the sworn protected ward of Sekhmet, and in Victoria’s eyes, inheritor of all rights reserved by her solely for Pharaoh.

  “Alex will be priest when I’m gone.” Anton uttered it as a conclusion; there was no need to question what he instantly understood.

  “Would have been,” Victoria confirmed.

  She looked up in the rearview again, and for a second that alone distracted Anton. She had been doing that a lot, hadn’t she?

  “If we survive, I’m dissolving The Order.”

  Anton nearly choked on his own tongue. “What? You can’t ... I mean ... Then I wouldn’t ... Ah, hell!”

  With a few more select curses, the car made its way to the side of the road and moseyed to a stop. He put the car in park and rounded on Victoria, eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

  “What the hell do you mean, dissolve The Order?”

  “I’m not a goddess, and I’m tired of playing the part,” she admitted, her tone a mixture of shame and retaliation. “I’m tired of the ceremony and the bowing and the silly adoration. I’m not freaking divine, Anton. I want out. I just want to spend the rest of my days living. No cover-ups, no conspiracies, no secret societies.” Her chest rose as though she were sucking in all the air from the cabin, before letting it out in a long stream like a train whistle. Finally, she perched her head on her raised fingers, her eyes closed. “I don’t want to be bigger than life anymore. Isn’t it enough that I’m simply alive?”

  Anton rolled his eyes and tried, unsuccessfully, to cage his anger. “And do what? Have a dog and cute little flat in Leicester? Get a job, pay taxes, and complain about the weather?” he croaked. “Jesus H. Christ, Victoria, you can control the weather. Think you’re just going to find a nice guy and settle down, do you?”

  “That thought has crossed my mind.”

  Anton snapped, “You have no right to make that kind of decision without consulting us.”

  She gasped, almost as shocked as if he had slapped her in the face. “Who are you to tell me that I can’t make up my own mind?”

  Tension built as an unspoken secret danced a jig on his tongue. Victoria had always told him he had one of the rare minds that she had trouble accessing. She was ignorant of the depth of his devotion. If anything, all she could fish from Anton’s mental stream were snippets, and usually only when he was woefully spent or divinely relaxed. But now, in the heat of the moment, that long-buried secret was threatening to pour forth.

  “You can’t do it to us,” he pled. “Our whole purpose is you. All our efforts are for your benefit. Our actions, our loyalty—we serve at your leisure. Yeah, maybe you aren’t divine, but who’s to say who and what are worthy of worship but the worshipper? You’ve guided humanity for so long, kept so many of us safe. If there’s no Order, then I don’t know ... What I mean to say is—”

  Her eyes begged for him to finish, but Anton was cut off mid-sentence by the ringing of his cell. A frustrated groan ground out as he dug through his pockets to find the cursed mobile. “Hello?”

  Victoria saw all the color drain from his face in a rush, leaving Priest a cotton façade in the seat next to her.

  “I ... I wasn’t expecting your call. After yesterday, I thought perhaps ...”

  Victoria understood immediately who was on the other end of the line. The servile lilt was back in Anton’s voice, as it was on the day she had first had him contact Dmitri to offer himself to his service.

  Victoria’s face went nearly as white as Anton’s. Without hesitation, she snatched the phone from his hand and pressed it to her ear.

  “Alex?” she demanded.

  Dmitri snickered. “Is that this one’s name? You like patterns, it seems. Is there just something more intriguing about a man named Alexander destined to perish at a young age?”

  “Damn it, Dmitri. Is he dead?”

  Clearly realizing there was to be no small talk, he answered, “No. Or should I say, not yet? But we’re preparing for his arrival. He’s been canvassing the building most of the afternoon. I’m guessing he’s waiting for nightfall.”

  Worried eyes turned toward the horizon and surveyed the sun’s zenith. It rode low in the sky, sinking into the abyss of twilight and taking her hope with it.

  “You’re so predictable, darling,” Dmitri continued in his condescending snarl. “Between the fallibility of The Order and the half-half-breeds of yours. Every time you want something from me, you throw these insignificant and doomed proxies my way. Are you that reluctant to face me, or do you detest humans so much?”

  Her hand was shaking; fear mixed with despair and anger, screwing up her face into a tempest the likes of which she was willing to bet Anton had never witnessed. Priest’s knuckles went white as he clutched the steering wheel.

  “How long do I have?”

  “Hmm?”

  The timbre of his voice had remained dark, tempting, despite the passage of time. He was catting with her, and what she hated most was how it reminded her of when things between them had been different.

  “Looking at my monitor here, I’m guessing thirty seconds, tops, before you’re intercepted. Given that, I’m going to give you until sunset before I start
pulling out his toes. You might need to stop for a bite to eat on your way over, huh?”

  “I’m sure I can find plenty to eat when I get there, you arrogant …”

  Her words turned to an ancient tongue, but one no less pregnant with insulting possibility. Victoria let loose a string of slurs that would have made a Hashashin weep with appreciation before she opened the door and sent the device into a crash course with the ground. Jumping out, she circled behind the car with fevered strides. Anton wilted as she nearly tore the driver’s side door off and dragged him out by the lapels.

  “Idiot!” She tossed him to the ground, but he didn’t fight her wrath. Anton merely cowered in the heap in which he landed. “You’ve been carrying around the phone you used when you were with Dmitri!”

  “I didn’t have time to replace it!” Anton pled, scrambling to his feet. “I didn’t want to risk being out of contact if—”

  “Shut it and get in! Now!”

  Barely had he registered her request when the grind of a whirring engine building to a crescendo caught his ears. Looking in the distance, they caught the remote speck of black tearing up the road. Anton froze, trailing the object with his eyes until he realized it was an all-too-familiar Humvee, one just like the kind Kronastia furnished for his security detail.

  “Holy—”

  “Anton!”

  Victoria’s shout broke through his shock. In two blinks, he had thrown his body over the hood and shimmied into the passenger seat, barely lifting his feet off the ground before it blurred underneath them. Victoria must have mistaken the station wagon for an Italian sports car. Her foot mashed the pedal as though it had insulted her mother’s honor.

  “Five thousand, one-hundred and twenty-five years!” she screamed. “That’s how long I’ve been planning, and it’s all about to be ruined because you couldn’t toss your Motorola in the Thames.”