Embraced By Darkness

Chapter Nine

I have to say, my first reaction was one of intense satisfaction. I'd spent a good portion of my younger years afraid of this bastard and his siblings, unable to retaliate for fear of reprisals from their father. To be sitting here on top of him, sucking in the scent of his anger and fear—to see the blood gushing from his smashed nose and split lip—was an undeniably sweet turnaround.

But in the heat of battle I'd forgotten he wasn't alone, and that was a very stupid thing to do.

As the sharp snap of a gun being cocked confirmed.

"Put the weapon down and step away from him." The voice was soft, almost without threat, and that, in my books, suggested that the wolf with Patrin was very dangerous indeed.

I didn't move, didn't look at him, even though just about every sense I had was tuned for the faintest whisper of movement. I continued to stare at Patrin, letting him see the hatred in my eyes, letting him wonder if I really would pull the trigger.

"You willing to bet the life of your employer on the fact you're faster with a gun than I am?" Yes.

"Then you're a fool. And Patrin obviously hasn't told you what I am."

"You're a fucking useless half-breed who needs to be taken down a peg or two, that's what you are," Patrin snarled.

I smiled grimly and wedged the gun barrel into his neck a little harder. Sweat popped out across his forehead and the scent of his fear increased.

God, it felt good. Damned good.

"And who's going to do that, Patrin? You? Or will you run to Daddy for help like you always do?"

"Bitch, I don't need my father's help to take the likes of you. I never have."

"Which is why you're now on your back with a gun shoved into your throat, isn't it?" I said pleasantly.

He snarled and bucked, trying to throw me off. I gripped harder with my thighs, using more force than necessary. Indeed, more force than a wolf should have had. But then, I wasn't just wolf—and he, of all people, should have remembered that.

He swore at me, viciously and fluently. I ignored him, and glanced at the second wolf. He, too, was a red wolf, but from a different pack. His hair was so dark it almost looked black in the fast-disappearing light, and his eyes were golden.

"Please tell your employer if he doesn't remain still, I'm going to be forced to shoot something vital."

"I'm afraid I won't be able to let you do that." He was still using calm tones, and though there was tension to be seen in his lean body, the vibes he was throwing off were all cool confidence.

"And I'm afraid you won't stop me." I hesitated, glancing back at Patrin. "He didn't tell you, did he?"

"Tell me what?"

"That I'm a guardian." I glanced at the second wolf again. "I'm trained to track, fight, and kill vampires. Many of my kills have been several hundred years old, and far faster and stronger than you two ever could be."

Which was more than a slight fabrication of the truth, but neither of them would know that. Besides, I hardly think they'd believe me if I said I'd helped bring down a dark god, and that was nothing but the truth.

"No, he didn't tell me that. But I still can't let you shoot him. I have to try and stop you. You understand."

What I understood was that his calm demeanor suggested he was well trained, and probably a deadly shot. Patrin would only hire the best, after all. And as much as I would have loved to prove a point to these men, I'd really been shot at enough today.

So I eased the gun away from Patrin's neck, emptied the chamber, then pushed the weapon across the floor to the second man. "I actually have no plans to kill him today. Unless, of course, he refuses to answer my questions."

"Fair enough." The flick of movement had me tensing—and suddenly wondering if I'd misjudged him—but he was merely bending to retrieve his weapon. "I'm Kye, by the way."

"I gathered that." I looked down at Patrin again. "If I get off you, are you going to behave?"

"You're the one that attacked me" he all but spat.

"Nice change, huh?"

I climbed off him and stepped back. He got to his feet, rubbing his neck and glaring at Kye.

"So tell me, did that fucker you call Father arrange a hit on me?"

"No, though it's a damn good idea." He dug a handkerchief out of his suit pocket and dabbed rather uselessly at his bloody nose. "Why?"

"Because someone set up an ambush outside, complete with stiver bullets."

"Hence your rather dramatic entrance," Kye said, as he walked across to the window.

"Well, finding strangers sitting in my living room after a close brush with silver does make me a little wary." I looked at Patrin again. "And if you don't tell me why you're here, I might get violent again."

"A letter arrived for me yesterday," he said. "From Adrienne."

I raised my eyebrows. "I thought she was dead."

"She is." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Yet the emotion lacking in his voice was all too evident in his eyes. Patrin wasn't only angry, he wanted revenge.

That was why he was here—to hunt down and kill his daughter's murderer. Not an unexpected sentiment, even from a wolf as cold and as uncaring as Patrin.

But the fact that Adrienne had sent a letter meant she'd known whatever she was investigating was dangerous. Perhaps she'd even seen her own death.

I wondered if she'd sent a letter to Jodie. I hoped so. "What did she say in the letter?"

"That something was going on at some club."

"Did she say what?" I walked across to the ironing basket and got a clean towel out. My arm was still bleeding but I didn't want to shift shape with these two men in the room. They might not be out to get me, but I still wasn't about to trust them. And shifting to wolf form would put me at a disadvantage—one the past had proved Patrin would use.

"She said the owners of the club were using one of the rooms to tape politicians and corporate personnel in compromising positions and blackmail them."

So that was why she'd disappeared? Because she'd been sticking her nose in where it didn't belong and had discovered too much? But what, then, was the connection between the club and the island? Why go up there at all if she was investigating the blackmailing?

"We are aware of the blackmail angle." Though we weren't following it up, because I'd forgotten to tell Jack about it. "Did she say who the owners were? Give a description?"

He shook his head. "But if the club's under investigation, you should already know that."

"What's on paper, and what the reality is, are often two different things. As you should know." Hell, thanks to the hours I'd spent listening to conversations I shouldn't have as a kid, I knew that Patrin and his bastard father owned several manufacturing firms. But for tax purposes, their names were hidden by a long paper trail. I glanced at my watch. "If that's all, I need you to leave. I have stuff to do before I go to work tonight."

He took a step toward me. Part of me wanted to step back. The other part, the part wanting revenge for old hurts, bristled. It was all I could do not to step forward and challenge.

"I want the name of the club." His voice was low, dangerous.

I clenched my fists, but resisted the impulse to lash out. To thump the cold arrogance from his already bloody face, "It's guardian business, and you will keep your stinking little nose out of it."

"Adrienne is my daughter. Her death will be avenged."

"Not on my shift, it won't. Not by you, anyway."

He looked me up and down, the cold arrogance giving way to familiar disdain. "And you're going to stop me?"

I gave him a cool, hard smile, then snapped the shadows around my body and ran forward. Before cither of them could even react, I'd snatched Kye's weapon and had it shoved hard under Patrin's neck.

For the first time there was fear, true fear, in his expression. Maybe he'd finally realized the pup he'd kicked for so long was no longer easy bait.

I shook the shadows free, then said softly, "Yes, I will stop you. And it won't matter how good Kye is, or how many like him you hire, I've learned to use all the skills of my heritage, Patrin, and I'm more dangerous than you could ever know."

Nothing like blowing your own horn, but hey, after years of putting up with his shit, it was the least I deserved. I shoved him, sending him flailing backward toward the sofa, then turned and handed the weapon back to Kye. He didn't say anything, just sheathed the weapon before nodding toward the window. "If your car is the Ford with the shot-out door, there's a couple of people down there looking at it."

I walked across to the window and looked down. I didn't recognize the faces, but the car parked behind mine was Directorate issue.

"It's a Directorate forensic team," I said, and turned around. "Now, is that all Adrienne had to say in that letter?"

"Yes, But this conversation isn't over. I want—"

"I don't give a fuck what you want. Leave, or I'll throw you out." I looked across at Kye. "If I see you or your boss anywhere near the nightclub Adrienne no doubt mentions in her letter, your asses will rot in jail for the next month."

"You can't—" Patrin began.

"Oh, trust me. I can."

He muttered something I didn't even try to hear, then pushed off the sofa and stomped toward the door. Kye gave me a polite nod, and followed.

I slammed the door behind them, then headed for the bathroom and a long, hot soak in the tub. It wasn't just the blood that needed to be washed away—there was also the dirt and anger from the past.

Marg rang at eleven. By midnight, I was standing at Wilson's graveside in the Fawkner cemetery, shivering inside my coat as the wind howled around me and slivers of the dead teased my peripheral vision.

"Here," Marg said, her pale skin giving her an almost ghostlike appearance under the flashlight's not-too-bright light. "Wear this."

"This" was a little sack attached to a looped string. The aromas coming from the sack were a wild mix that had my nose quivering—the sweet, licorice scent of fennel, the reek of garlic, a soft flowery scent I didn't recognize, and something woody. At least it was a better smell than freshly dug earth and old death that was coming from Wilson's gravesite.

A gravesite that had a whole lot of hair scattered around it. At least we finally knew where it had all gone.

I held the little bag from one finger and studied it dubiously. "What is it?"

"Protection. It'll help ward off evil."

Given that I'd seen what Wilson could do, I wasn't betting my life on this little bag. Still, I wasn't about to refuse anything that just might help, either. Wilson wasn't going to be confined without a fight.

I shoved the string around my neck, then tucked the little bag inside my jacket. That way, it was out of the way if I had to move fast.

Marg leaned forward and sprinkled something white into my hair.

"Now what?" I said, resisting the urge to shake my head.

"Pure salt. Works as a ward because evil hates it."

"This is a vengeful soul we're dealing with here, not evil."

She shrugged. "Same basics."

"And how many times have you done something like this?"

"It's not the experience that matters," she said calmly. "It's the knowledge."

Yeah, right. Believing that totally. I crossed my arms and scanned the night. Gravesites loomed out of shadows and wisps of white drifted about almost aimlessly. Part of me wondered what held them here, but I had no intention of opening myself up to them and finding out.

I returned my gaze to Marg. She and her assistant had begun to surround the opened grave with incense sticks while murmuring under their breaths.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, once they'd finished.

"We're going to start the summoning," she said. "Let us know if you feel his presence."

"Right."

I rubbed my arms and tried to ignore the growing sense of trepidation. None of the other women seemed concerned, but then, I'd seen what Wilson could do to people. They hadn't.

Marg and one of her assistants joined hands at the base of the grave and began to chant. Their words were so soft they were snatched away by the wind long before they reached my ears, but the power of them lingered, a sharpening spike of electricity that ran across the night and had the hairs on the back of my neck rising.

I scanned the darkness, my senses—psychic and regular—on high alert for anything out of the ordinary. The branches of the nearby trees tossed in the breeze, and in the distance, traffic rumbled. It might have been after midnight, but Sydney Road was never empty of life. And that worried me—especially when we were dealing with a soul who had the ability to control others.

The chanting continued. The feel of electricity in the air remained at the same sharp level, but something else ran under that power now. A throbbing, whispering demand that rode the wind.

Uneasiness swirled through me. I rubbed my leather-clad arms—an action that oddly sent little sparks skittering into the darkness—and scanned the graves again.

The wispy souls had disappeared. Only gravestones, tossing tree branches, and thorny roses were to be seen now. I wondered if the magic had chased the souls off, or whether it was something else.

Like Wilson being forcibly returned from his nightly hunting trip.

My gaze went back to Marg. She seemed to be putting more power into her chant now, her lips moving quickly and forcefully. I still couldn't hear the words, and I was beginning to think the wind had little to do with that.

I shivered. Tension wound through my body, and my nerves felt stretched to the limit. I flexed my fingers, trying to relax, but it didn't really do a whole lot of good. The sense of power and demand was growing, and the night seemed to hold its collective breath.

The third woman began lighting the incense sticks. They spluttered, the faint smells of rosemary and sandal wood touching the air before being spun away by the wind. She only lit half the sticks, leaving one side unlit and open. Then she repeated the process using the salt.

Were they leaving a gate so the spirit could reenter his coffin? If so, they were being overly hopeful. Somehow I didn't think getting Wilson back to his deathbed was going to be so straightforward.

In the distance, a horn blared, the sound cutting across the night. A car engine roared then shot away.

Youths, I thought. Or drunks. Or maybe even both.

Yet the tension in my limbs intensified, and sweat began to trickle down my back. I drew my weapon, feeling suddenly safer with the weight of it against my palm, even if a laser couldn't actually hurt a soul.

Was it this morning that I'd left my weapon locked up, refusing to carry its weight, feeling safer without it?

But now was not the time to worry about such things, because something was coming.

Awareness skittered along the outer reaches of my psychic senses, a darkness that was all power, all hate.

Wilson.

And he was approaching fast.

I scanned the night, trying to pinpoint his position, wondering what he was doing. What he was planning. Marg and her crew might have succeeded in summoning him, but he was fighting all the way.

Brightness speared the trees, twin spotlights that momentarily blinded. I blinked, saw the sweep of them move on as the car followed the road. But how had it gotten in here? We'd acquired the code to the main gates and had locked up after ourselves. The cemetery itself wasn't open to the public at this hour. No vehicles besides our own should have been in here.

As the car drew closer, the roar of the engine became clearer. It was being revved hard, the driver gunning it as he sped around corners. No sane person drove like that in a cemetery. He had to be under the influence—and I didn't think that influence was alcohol.

"I think we've got a problem." I flexed the fingers of my free hand and shifted my stance a little.

"Wilson is here?" the third magi asked softly.

"I think he might be."

"Think? That's not good enough."

Annoyance rose through the tension. "Hey, you're the people doing the summoning. Why the hell haven't you got some means of knowing if he is or isn't in the area?"

"Because that takes more energy, and given the apparent strength of this soul, we need all the power we can get for containment. Which is why you're here."

Another reason to wish I couldn't communicate with the dead. I'd avoid situations like this.

The lights cut through the trees again, closer and sharper than before. I squinted against their brightness and raised the laser, "I think it highly likely that the driver of the car coming toward us is controlled by Wilson."

"Then stop the car."

"Easier said than done, lady," I muttered. Especially when there was a human life in that car. I didn't want to kill him if it was at all possible.

The car broke free of the trees. The front was smashed in, the hood scrunched up, and the windshield shattered. Bits of roses and other plants hung off what remained of the grill, and metal bits trailed along the ground, raising sparks. He'd obviously driven right through the gates rather then opening them.

The driver gunned the engine again and die car lurched sharply toward us, crashing over the curb and onto the grass. I switched to infrared, sighted on the front tire, and pressed the laser's trigger. Blue light slashed across die night, hitting the tire and slicing straight through. The sharp smell of burned rubbed filled the air as the car slewed sideways, crashing over a gravestone before it ploughed nose first into a tree. The engine gave a final splutter then died, and the hiss of steam began to fill the air.

There was no movement from the driver, and I hoped like hell the crash hadn't killed him. The sense of evil—of anger and fury—was very much alive, however, and it sharpened abruptly even as I stood there.

"He's here," I said, and wished it didn't sound like we were all in the middle of some B-grade horror movie.

"Where, precisely?" the third magi said.

"If I knew for sure, I'd tell you."

"I thought you could see souls?"

"I can. This one is just hiding." I stepped sideways, trying to get a better view of the car and the driver.

He was alive, thankfully, because he was breathing. But whether he was knocked out, or merely waiting for the unwary to step into his web was something I couldn't tell from where I stood.

Which meant I'd have to move again.

And I so didn't want to get any closer to that thick scent of anger and death.

I edged sideways a little more. The driver was big, hairy, and, even from this distance, smelled human. Meaning he was a threat only in the way all men with big fists were a threat.

I blew out a breath, then walked closer. A dark stream of fluid poured down the driver's rough features, then leapt off his chin to join the ever-widening stain on the front of his crisp white shirt. It didn't take a wolfs nose to realize it was blood. Maybe he was out cold. The wound had to be pretty bad to be bleeding that hard, and humans weren't as thick skinned or as tolerant to pain as us wolves.

He needed help and he needed it fast, but there was little I could do for him until Wilson was under control. Until them, paramedics just meant more bodies for Wilson to use.

"Sir?" I said loudly, my voice seeming to jar against the darkness. "Sir? Can you hear me? Are you all right?"

For several seconds, there was no response. Then the driver's head turned and he looked at me. His eyes were brown and staring, and there was absolutely nothing remotely resembling life or humanity in them.

He might be unconscious, he might be close to death, but none of that mattered because, right now, it was the dead who controlled him.

"He's in the driver," I said to the magi. "Can you guys amp up your summoning strength or something?"

"It's not like there's a dial we can turn," she replied crossly.

"Well, you'd better do something, because this bad boy doesn't seem inclined to move."

Of course, the minute the words were out of my mouth, the driver did move, thrusting the car door open and lunging toward me. I leapt back from his grasping fingertips then swung around, lashing out with a booted foot. The blow hit the already-bloody side of his face and sent him flying. His head smacked against the corner of the door. Bone cracked and more blood appeared as he slumped to the ground.

I hoped to God I hadn't killed him, but I had a bad feeling that might not be the case. I'd been reacting to Wilson, and had totally forgotten the body was human.

The thing inside the stranger screamed—a haunting, unearthly, and violent sound—then wisps of smoke began to unravel from the stranger, rolling down the outside of his body before exiting via his shiny shoes.

The snakelike apparition sat there for several seconds, pulsating in time to the ebb and flow of sharpening energy in the air. Then it lunged straight at me.

I yelped and leapt back, and almost without thought, pressed the laser's trigger. The blue beams shot through the smoky form, scattering it briefly but not permanently.

Then, with almost light speed it was on me, wrapping itself around my legs and slithering upward, the cold chill of death, destruction, and hate eating into my senses. I swatted at it, trying to get it off me, my heart racing nine to the dozen as Wilson's wispy form climbed higher and the thick scent of hell seemed to encase me. Then the bag on my chest began to burn, and the sweet scent of fennel and flowers flooded the air.

Wilson screamed again, and the wisps of him were torn from my clothing. Relief flooded me, though I knew the danger was far from over.

But one thing was certain. I was never, ever going to mock anything a magi handed to me for protection again. The weird-looking bag had not only saved me, but probably them, too. Under Wilson's control, I would have been a very deadly weapon.

The bits of his soul were condensing, solidifying again. Once whole, he began to slither away. But his progress was sideways more than forward, because part of him was being dragged ever closer to the gravesite and the open casket.

"He's about six feet away," I told the third magi, "but he seems to be heading for the trees more than the grave."

"He's a strong one," she said, seemingly unconcerned.

I glanced across at Marg and the other magi. Sweat dotted their faces now, and the veins along their necks were beginning to stand out against their pale skin. Marg in particular looked ready for a seizure.

But the sense of command and energy was stronger, the sparks of it crawling across my skin and making my hair float out from my scalp.

Slowly but surely, Wilson was being drawn closer to his grave.

He still wasn't going easily, twisting and rolling and snapping against the leash of magic.

Then another power joined the energy in the night, one that contained the chill of death.

Wilson, not the magi.

Trees moaned and splintered, then there was a huge cracking sound. A massive tree branch broke free and went hurtling through the night. Not at me, but at the magi.

I cursed and raised the laser, quickly incinerating as much of it as I could. Ash, splinters, and leaf rained around the three women. There was another crack, then another, and suddenly the air was filled with flying debris. I kept the trigger depressed, the laser growing hotter in my hand. Branches, leaves, and gravestones filled the air—deadly missiles that crashed toward the women. I was never going to get all of them and I didn't even try, merely slicing through the biggest of them, the ones that could do the most damage.

Through it all, and no matter how many times they were hit, Marg and the other magi continued their chanting. The power they were raising grew so sharp it felt like thousands of ants were clawing and nipping at my skin and the air was so thick it burned my lungs.

Then there was another high-pitched scream, and the wisp that was Wilson's soul shot toward the open grave. The wood and rubbish in the air fell to the ground, and the night was suddenly quiet except for the thick and edgy sense of power.

The third magi quickly lit the remaining incense then completed the salt circle.

"He can't leave now," she said, with a glance at me.

Her eyes were cat-bright in the night, and filled with a sense of power.

"He can still attack us, though."

"Trust me, he'll soon have something else to worry about."

She walked past the two women and reached into the small carryall that was sitting several yards behind them. What she drew back out looked an awful lot like a nail gun.

"What's that?"

"A nail gun."

Which explained why it looked like one, I suppose. "What do you intend to do with it?"

"Shoot specially made iron nails into his chest and his skull."

"What?"

She glanced at me. "The iron nails will pin his spirit to his remains and prevent him from leaving."

"Really?"

She nodded. "Iron has been used throughout history as a preventative or warding measure against demons and ghosts."

"But… how? Why would something like iron—a real material from this world—affect a spirit, who is very definitely not of this world?"

"No one is really sure. There are some theories that the slow fire of the oxidation process has something to do with it, but no one has ever truly tested it. We just know it works."

She sighted the nail gun and let off two quick shots. Almost immediately a scream ripped through the air, a sound filled with anguish and fury combined. A sound that went on and on, sawing at my nerves and making my ears ache.

I had no sympathy for the spirit that was Wilson, however. He deserved the pain he was in. Deserved the eternity of it he was now locked into.

The magi with the cat's eyes looked at me. "You'd better call an ambulance for that poor fellow in the car, then you can go."

I raised an eyebrow. "Really? You sure?"

She nodded. "He's pinned now. We'll just finish the binding, then add some extra protection around his coffin before we get it backfilled."

"What happens if he gets handy with his psychokinetic skills again?"

"He won't. We have him totally contained with the salt, the incense, and the magic. This is one bad soul whose nights of destruction are over."

Thank God for that. I walked over to the man from the car, checking that he was breathing, and that he wasn't likely to choke in his own blood. Then I called in the medics as ordered. At least I hadn't killed him outright. For that, I was grateful.

With that done, I got the hell out of there. Wilson was no longer my problem, but that didn't mean I'd finished dealing with the dead.

After all, I still had Adrienne to find.