Shaking, panting with fear, Sister Carole dashed back to the bedroom and followed the emergency route she'd prepared.
GREGOR . . .
Gregor inspected the dried blood on the teeth of the trap. Obviously it had been used before.
So this was how they did it. Clever. And nasty.
He rubbed the already healing wound on his lower leg. The trap had hurt, startled him more than anything else, but no real harm done. He straightened, kicked the trap into the opening beneath the faux step, and looked around.
Where were the rest of the petty revolutionaries? There had to be more than this lone woman. Or perhaps not. The empty feel of the house persisted.
One woman doing all this damage? Gregor could not believe it. And neither would Olivia. There had to be more to this.
He headed upstairs, gliding this time, barely touching the steps. Another trap would slow him. He spotted the rope ladder dangling over the win-dowsill as soon as he entered the bedroom. He darted to the window and leaped through the opening. He landed lightly on the overgrown lawn and sniffed the air. She wasn't far—
He heard running footsteps, a sudden loud rustle, and saw a leafy branch flashing toward him. Gregor felt something hit his chest, pierce it, and knock him back. He grunted with the pain, staggered a few steps, then looked down. Three metal tines protruded from his sternum.
The cow had tied back a sapling, fixed the end of a pitchfork to it, and cut it free when he'd descended from the window. Crude but deadly—if he'd been human. He yanked the tines free and tossed them aside. Around the rear of the house he heard a door slam.
She'd gone back inside. Obviously she wanted him to follow. But Gregor decided to enter his own way. He backed away a few steps, then ran and hurled himself through the dining room window.
The shattered glass settled. Dark. Quiet. She was here inside. He sensed her but couldn't pinpoint her location. Not yet. Only a matter of time—a very short time—before he found her. He was making his move toward the rear rooms of the house when a bell shattered the silence, startling him.
He stared incredulously at the source of the noise. The telephone? But how? The first things his nightbrothers had destroyed were the communication networks. Without thinking, he reached out to it—a reflex from days gone by.
The phone exploded as soon as he lifted the receiver.
The blast knocked him against the far wall, smashing him into the beveled glass of the china cabinet. Again, just as with last night's explosion, he was blinded by the flash. But this time he was hurt as well. His hand . . . agony he couldn't remember ever feeling pain like this. Blind and helpless ... if she had accomplices, he was at their mercy now.
But no one attacked him, and soon he could see again.
"My hand!" he groaned when he saw the ragged stump of his right wrist. The pain was fading, but his hand was gone. It would regenerate in time but—
He had to get out of here and find help before she did something else to him. He didn't care if it made him look like a fool, this woman was dangerous!
Gregor staggered to his feet and started for the door. Once he was outside in the night air he'd feel better, he'd regain some of his strength.
CAROLE . . .
In the basement Sister Carole huddled under the mattress and stretched her arm upward. Her fingers found a string that ran the length of the basement to a hole in one of the floorboards above, ran through that hole and into the pantry in the main hall where it was tied to the handle of an empty teacup that sat on the edge of the bottom shelf. She tugged on the string and the teacup fell. Sister Carole heard it shatter and snuggled deeper under her mattress.
GREGOR . . .
What?
Gregor spun at the noise. There. Behind that door. She was hiding in that closet. She'd knocked something off a shelf in there. He'd heard her. He had her now.
Gregor knew he was hurt—maimed—but even with one hand he could easily handle a dozen cattle like her. He didn't want to wait, didn't want to go back to Olivia without something to show for the night. And the cow was so close now. Bight behind that door.
He reached out with his good hand and yanked it open.
Gregor saw everything with crystal clarity then, and understood everything as it happened.
He saw the string attached to the inside of the door, saw it tighten and pull the little wedge of wood from between the jaws of the clothespin that was tacked to the third shelf. He saw the two wires—one wrapped around the upper jaw and leading back to a dry cell battery, the other wrapped around the lower and leading to a row of wax-coated cylinders standing on that third shelf like a collection of lumpy, squat candles with firecracker-thick wicks. As the wired jaws of the clothespin snapped closed, he saw a tiny spark leap the narrowing gap.
Gregor's universe exploded.
LACEY . . .
Lacey had been conscious for a while but kept her eyes closed, daring every so often to split her lids for a peek. It had taken all her reserve to keep from screaming when that bloodsucker had splashed a bucket of water on her.
At least they'd kept that Vichy broad, the one from under the boardwalk, from getting to her. Lacey didn't think she could handle any more pain.
She hurt. .. oh, how she hurt. Everywhere. In places and in ways she'd never imagined she could hurt. She didn't remember the details, but she knew those three Vichy must have worked her over good. Raped her every possible way.
Lacey ground her teeth. Goddamn human animals ... male human animals, using their dicks as weapons.
Then she remembered Enrico. They'd used a knife on him. Maybe he was the lucky one. He'd gone quickly. She'd been brought here to be someone's meal. After she was drained they'd rip off her head and toss her body on a pile somewhere to rot. But that was better than becoming one of them.
But why were they trying to wake her? They didn't need her conscious to drain her blood. Did they have another use for her in mind? Like using her to find out what was going on inside the church?
A shiver ran through her. She was freezing here on this puddled marble floor and couldn't keep her limbs from quaking. Had anybody seen? She split her lids and took a peek.
Not much light. Only a few candles sputtering but it was enough to make out faces. The female vampire with the big hair had been ranting in French before, but now she stood silent with her six armed attendants. Guards? Lacey had heard that some of the higher-up undead traveled around with what looked like bodyguards, but this was the first time she'd seen it. Why did the undead think they needed guards, especially when everyone else around was undead?
Four new undead males wearing machetes and pistols entered. They addressed the female as Olivia and spoke in English.
" 'Ave you seen Gregor, Olivia?" said a dark-haired guard with a British accent. He looked dirty, all in black, his shirtfront crusted with old blood.
Olivia replied in English. "Not since before sunrise." A small smile played about her lips. "Don't tell me you've misplaced him."
"Bloody bastard gave us the slip. We found makeup and cologne in his quarters. 'E's gone out on 'is own to find those vigilantes."
Vigilantes? Lacey thought. This was interesting. She hadn't heard anything about vigilantes. But then, she'd only arrived in town yesterday. Who was this Gregor and why was he hunting them?
"That seems rather reckless, don't you think?" Olivia said.
The Brit snarled at her. "I'm sure 'e'd never be out there if you 'adn't driven 'im to it. We were 'oping 'e'd come to see you first and we could intercept 'im 'ere, but I see we're in the wrong place."
"You certainly are."
"Look, Olivia," the Brit said, his tone becoming conciliatory. "If you've any idea where 'e might be, please tell us. We've got to find 'im. 'E could be in grave danger."
Lacey was struck by the concern in the Brit's voice. The undead supposedly cared about only one thing: blood. But the Brit seemed genuinely worried about this Gregor. Lots more than Olivia.
"Well, if he is, it's his own doing."