Ghosts of Atlantis (Immortal Montero Book 3) Page 18

  I stepped to my right and backed up. The Tek-9 matched my movements, keeping the narrow beam centered. A feint left.

  The gun began firing at me, deafening in the small room. I made a full turn before it stopped.

  In less than seven seconds, the weapon had fired all fifty rounds. Each time one of the bullets touched the space a millimeter from me in any direction, a blue translucent field encompassed me. With the rapid automatic fire of the Tek, the field remained solid for the entire test.

  Hamilton and Newsome took off their earphones and walked back into the firing range. I removed the sensor shirt, set it on the table. Newsome disconnected the shield.

  “That’s an amazing piece of hardware,” I told Newsome, pulling my shirt back on. “Congratulations.”

  “It’s unbelievable,” Hamilton added.

  “Thank you,” Newsome said, blushing.

  “Thank you for the demonstration,” I said. “I’ll take the new tracker and then we’ll have to go.”

  “Right over here,” he said, walking to a standing desk. He plucked a small black box the size of a 50-cent piece and handed it to me.

  I lifted the hinged top, revealing black plastic. For a moment, the interior appeared empty. I tilted the container and saw the slightest reflection of light.

  “A clear disc, two centimeter radius,” Newsome explained. “Adheres to any fabric or any solid object surface, including bare skin. Practically invisible.”

  “Range?”

  “Two hundred kilometers.”

  “Battery life?”

  “From the moment you activate it, about eighty hours.”

  I reached for the homer when Newsome stopped me.

  “Don’t touch it! It’s good for one application only. When you’re ready to use it, press one of your fingertips to it. It will stick to your skin. The correct side is already facing up. Be careful not to let that fingertip contact something before you plant the device on your target,” he warned.

  I closed the lid and slid the case into my jacket pocket. Newsome handed me a flat silver device the size and shape of a very thin wallet. “GPS display. Voice command and touch screen.”

  I pocketed that as well. “Thank you, Shoeshine boy.”

  “Do you know where my ring is?” he asked.

  “Let me check,” I said, heading to an unused desk near the door. I slid open the bottom drawer. The ring with the “U” on it sat in a small jewelry box. “Here you go.”

  Hamilton and I headed out of the lab.

  Newsome turned away, sliding the ring onto his finger and talking to himself. “The secret compartment of my ring I fill, with an Underdog super energy pill.”

  Chapter 31

  Saturday, February 14, 4:44 p.m.

  Hamilton waited until I had maneuvered the car out of the parking lot.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “The station. How soon will that personal shield be available?”

  “Two or three years, maybe a bit longer.”

  “That will be a day to remember,” he said. “Now, you want to tell me about Spellman? The truth this time?”

  I knew if I hesitated, or told him I could not reveal everything, he would erupt as violently as had the volcanic island of Santorini.

  “Darius Spellman was a priest, one of seven men who are responsible for a religious object. He and two others were killed by this whatever-it-is, leaving four in the group.”

  “What sort of object?”

  “A sacred ring.”

  “The man who led you to the house was another one of these priests?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me and Elliott you knew this man when we were in the alley looking at his ashes?”

  “I wasn’t sure of his identity until later, when his associates confirmed he was not where he said he would be.”

  “And these are people Aliena knows?”

  “She knows some of them. They’re a large population.”

  “Was she with you in Spellman’s place, too?”

  I admired how good he was, even when he trapped me.

  “Yes.” I turned onto Moorpark. “And one other member of their group.”

  “That’s a relief. I’m glad there were only four of you disturbing potential evidence in a homicide investigation. I may have had a problem if there had been five of you.”

  “This is a unique collection of people that—”

  “I don’t care if they’re the fuckin’ FBI, you know damn well that’s not the problem! This is a police investigation, goddammit! You shouldn’t have been there, either. Do I have to explain that you are admitting to the commission of a crime, and that you have admitted three others assisted, including Aliena?”

  “What crime? The men who led me there knew the man, and had every right to enter his residence. And you have my word they did not alter anything.” I considered. “Though they did remove two of Spellman’s motorcycles before you arrived.”

  “Torture!” he said. “You mean they stole them.”

  “No. Spellman has no living relatives, and he would not have assigned his property to anyone in the eventuality of his death.”

  “Then all of his stuff—including the bikes—would have reverted to the state.”

  “The bikes will be abandoned in the next couple of days.”

  “Well, good, that makes it okay, then.” He did some breathing exercises. Not the meditation kind. “How do you know Spellman would not assign his assets to anyone?”

  I hooked a right on Sylmar Avenue.

  “I don’t know it, but I suspect it. These people cherish their anonymity. If Spellman did specify a recipient for his property, that person or entity would likely have no idea who their benefactor was.”

  “And Aliena would do this, too?”

  “No, Aliena’s different.”

  “How?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Fuckin’ A.” He banged his hand on the window. “I swear, I would lock you up, but as far as I can tell, you’re the only one who knows what the hell is going on, so I need you.”

  “History is about compromise. Whenever people did not work together, there was much suffering.”

  “And the law?”

  I hesitated. “It is an effective guideline.”

  “You understand I don’t have the liberty of taking that approach? My job is to uphold the law. I am expressly forbidden from the sort of interpretation you are using.”

  “I know.”

  “You know. That makes me feel better.”

  As I pulled into the parking lot of the Van Nuys municipal buildings, his tone finally irritated me. “The law can’t foresee every situation. I told you: a magic ring is involved. Are there any LAPD procedures for addressing such a thing?”

  “I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I can understand sometimes.”

  “Oh, God, I hate you.”

  I brought the car to a stop. Hamilton climbed out, leaned back in. “Remind me to kill you later.”

  “Roger that.”

  Chapter 32

  Saturday, February 14, 5:35 p.m.

  I was on the 101 freeway by sunset. My phone buzzed eight minutes later. The display made my heart thump.

  “Hi Aliena.”

  “I need to see you.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Are you at home?” she asked.

  “No. I’m on my way there now.”

  “How long?”

  I tapped the Ferrari into fifth. Speed records were in my immediate future. “Twenty minutes.” I wondered about her memory. “Your palm print is coded to my place.”

  “Please hurry.”

  She waited for me in the living room. As I crossed the foyer, I slid my hand into my jacket pocket, pushed the homer box open, and touched my fingertip to the bottom of the case, hoping I had captured the device.

  “How are you?” I asked.
>
  She stared around with knitted eyebrows. “This looks familiar.” Her gaze took in the chairs, couch, fireplace. Then she turned cool eyes on me. “You say I have been living with you?”

  The incredulity in her voice—so painful to hear in 49—was gone. This development had promising implications. She might be able to remember her experience at Bar Sinister. If a sense of her emotions mirrored the return of her general memory, she also might begin to recall our romance. Then maybe she would stay here, under my protection.

  “You’ve been doing more than that with me.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “My apologies.” Confident she would allow the contact, I reached out and touched her softly on the elbows. “We have only been intimate once, as I told you. You have never made love with anyone else, except Kismet. Do you remember her?”

  “I think so.” When she didn’t mention Kismet was a mermaid, I thought she probably didn’t remember her former lover.

  I looked her over. Tousled honey hair, taut t-shirt partially untucked exposing creamy skin, low-rise jeans belted across river-spanning hips.

  And the short leather motorcycle jacket on which I had just planted the homing device.

  “You wanted to tell me…?”

  “There is something wrong with me,” she said.

  “What is it? Would you like to sit down?”

  “No.”

  She allowed me to take her icy hands.

  “What do you mean there is something wrong with you?”

  “I feel funny inside.”

  “Funny how?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you remember anything about last night at Bar Sinister?”

  She blinked. Standing this close to her, I longed to take her in my arms and kiss her, stroke her hair and reassure her that everything was going to be all right.

  “A woman’s face,” she said. “She gave me a present, I think.”

  It appeared Aliena’s subconscious had been at work.

  “What sort of present?” I asked.

  Her brown eyes stared over my left shoulder. “I don’t know.”

  Quickly, I ran through the evening in my mind, trying to remember the women we encountered. Mary had taken our Kirlian photo. The delightful Kristina. After that…I had seen Aliena walking up the steps to the VIP room on the arm of a statuesque redhead.

  “Do you remember a red-haired woman?”

  She thought for a moment, shook her head.

  “Did you like the present?”

  She touched her throat. “I don’t think so.”

  “May we sit?” I asked again. She had a restless air, as if she were planning to fly off. “It allows for more intimate conversation.”

  Her expression changed. The eyes tell the story. She recognized me. And not just as a meal. She pulled me close, clasped me around the waist.

  “Sebastian?”

  This sudden change left me stunned with delight. I hugged her tightly, a gigantic sense of relief flooding through me.

  “My darling Aliena.”

  When she pressed her frosty lips to mine, her hand on my back, her hips jamming me, I gripped her windblown mane and tugged on it. Her icy tongue explored my warm one.

  She broke the kiss, panting. Her eyes flashed a familiar reddish glint.

  Uh-oh.

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  Too late. Her skin radiated icy coldness. She hadn’t eaten since waking. She probably recalled her drink in Spellman’s house, and how intoxicated she had become from it. Pressed against me, Aliena’s preternatural senses could easily smell the treat contained within my skin.

  “May I?”

  “Aliena…”

  Her fangs lengthened, long and wicked, and her hand snagged my hair.

  “Please, Sebastian? Oh, please, Sebastian, you smell so sweet, I want you so.” The note of ardent desire in her voice, combined with her ethereal ability to entice, undid me.

  “Yes, of course, sweetheart.” I steeled myself for the rip.

  Her canines punctured the sensitive skin of my throat. Excruciating. In my customary fashion, I slid my hands to her generous posterior and squeezed her denim-clad roundness to take my mind from the agony of my throat.

  She latched on and began draining me. My eyelids fluttered.

  There arrived a point in each drink where I felt no pain, and her deadly embrace turned sensual, causing an ecstatic swoon. This wonderful stage lasted an irritatingly short time.

  The tips of my fingers went numb. My hands fell away from that curvy can and my arms dangled. Consciousness dimmed, then ceased as Aliena drained me to the dregs.

  Chapter 33

  I walked in on Karina one afternoon while she bathed. In the seventh month of her pregnancy with Laurena, she had become excessively rounded everywhere, an irresistible sight.

  Earlier, I had carried steaming buckets of hot water, heated over an outdoor fire, into the bathroom and poured them into the tub until it was half full. When it was ready, she walked in ponderously.

  I returned to my work in the barn. A few minutes later, the thought of her in the hot water, her big belly soapy and wet, her breasts bare, struck me as extremely erotic.

  She jumped when I came back in. Bathing was a private activity, and few did it with someone else, unless bathing in the river. She looked up at me shyly, a rag in her hand. I knelt behind her and took the rag, rubbed it across her shoulders. I dropped the cloth and ran my hands over her breasts, skimming my fingertips across her nipples. Her skin glistened in the afternoon light and her nipples became engorged.

  When I moved my hand lower, into the water, and began gently rubbing her distended stomach, the skin taught and slick, she shivered. I used a circular motion, all the while in wonder that on the other side of this thin layer rested my first child.

  I leaned over and pushed lower, my fingers questing over her mound, and prised her apart, sliding two fingers inside. She made a small sound in her throat, and spread her legs until they were leaning against the sides of the bath

  I hadn’t intended to go this far, and made to stand up. She gripped my elbow with one hand, and with the other reached into the water and held my fingers inside her.

  Realizing I had kindled her lust, I began moving my hand back and forth, increasing my pace, pushing as far into her as I could, curling my fingertips on the outward pull. The water churned from the motion. Karina slowly raised her legs until they were above the water, her feet dripping, her toes curled. Her body tensed for a moment, then began undulating beneath my hand, the water sluicing across her breasts as she quivered in the water. She opened her mouth and let out a low moan, her hand clamped on my elbow.

  I continued my rough work, pistoning my fingers into her, roiling the water to foam. Her moans turned to gasps. Her head flopped back, lips parted. Her sparkling chest heaved rhythmically. She cried out and her body began trembling. I leaned over, bit her softly on the ear.

  “Ah—ah—ah—ah—”

  My hand continued pumping frantically as she shook beneath me.

  After thirty seconds or so, Karina sighed as her muscles slackened. Her feet dipped back into the water, her hand relaxed on my arm.

  I continued moving my hand gently until her spasms had ceased.

  Her eyes smoldering, she raised my soaking hand to her mouth and kissed my knuckles.

  Two weeks later, she called me while she was bathing. When I came in, an inquiring look on my face, she stared at me, her lips parted.

  “Yes, my darling?” I said.

  Blushing, she smiled sweetly, mute with desire.

  I knelt down and kissed her forehead.

  “My darling Kari, I love you so.”

  As I began caressing her, she spread her long legs wide and tilted her head back. Lifting a hand, she clutched my hair.

  “Oh, I love you, my Sebastian…”

  Chapter 34

  Saturday, February 14, 6:27 p.m.

  To wak
e with no memory of falling asleep can be disconcerting.

  Rough carpet pressed my cheek. My immortal engine roared in my ears, a sign that my body was under repair—in this case replacing massive blood loss. Consciousness trickled back slowly, like a traveler returning to his home.

  Aliena had been dining on me. Then why was I face down on the floor, jammed against the coffee table, with one arm awkwardly trapped beneath my left hip?

  Rolling and pushing up to my knees, I noticed a tiny stain of blood on the carpet where my head had been. The familiar itch at my throat as my skin healed Aliena’s bite was accompanied by knitting at my right temple. The edge of the table had a tiny smear. More blood.

  A quick look around confirmed Aliena had gone.

  She finished her drink, dropped me, and left? Such poor table manners.

  Aliena had been drinking from me for over a hundred years. I always awoke in her arms. Her sudden departure had something to do with her illness.

  All day I had waited to see her, and she was gone again already.

  I called her cell. It went to voicemail. No point in leaving a message. I pulled the GPS display, turned it on. A map appeared. A small, blinking green dot moved across it. Aliena reached Calabasas. Now Reseda. A tactical grid in the lower right corner indicated she was moving at nearly two hundred kilometers per hour. Wherever she was headed, she was in a hurry.

  Kneeling on the floor, the itching of my scalp fading, my vital blood filling vessels and chambers, I waited.

  The dot stopped moving.

  Studio City.

  Chapter 35

  Saturday, February 14, 6:51 p.m.

  My phone chimed as I sped along Las Virgenes Road en route to the 101. I glanced at the dashboard display, pressed the button on the steering wheel.

  “Steve. What’s up?”

  “We have another pile of ashes.”

  For a moment, I could only think one thing: Aliena. “What do you mean?”

  “Call came into the station twenty minutes ago. Woman in Studio City claimed someone was screaming at her neighbor’s place. Said she also saw bright flashes of light against the curtains.”