Chapter Five
Jack rose the following evening and drifted toward Sera’s home. It was time he visited her there. Like cold fog lifting from a warm river, he slipped inside, bypassing the security system as if locks and alarms were only suggestions. In the entryway, he paused and tipped his head toward one shoulder. He inhaled. Only remnants of Sera remained: a fading trace of skin, clean herbs, flowers, and fear. Nothing living. Nothing breathing. She was gone. He could smell it. He could feel it in the hollow silence of the house. A howl tore out of him. Hands clenched, he stormed through her rooms, ripping books from shelves, flinging dishes from cupboards, kicking up rugs, smashing whatever would break. The splintering sounds pleased him for a moment, then enraged him further. In her bedroom, he tore clothes from drawers. In her home office, he stopped. An antique pie cupboard stood before him, its polished wood calm and orderly, as if it still belonged to her. Smirking, he threw open the doors. Five racks held herbs, minerals, flower essences, and rare dried materials: powdered root, cayenne pepper, cubed sugar cane, fresh honey, and strange organic curiosities sealed in glass. He leered at them, then swept everything from the shelves with one arm. Bottles shattered. Powders bloomed across the floor. When nothing useful remained, his rage emptied into a colder purpose. He turned and left, the front door hanging open behind him.
The dark companion had shadowed him, curious and afraid. Caliban hugged every corner of darkness, careful to remain beyond Jack’s notice. He knew the danger in Jack’s silence, in the way the vampire never turned to check his surroundings, never sensed he was being followed. When Jack disappeared into the study, Caliban crept inside and breathed in the scent of Sera’s house. The act steadied him. He pressed his nose to her things, lingering over what must have been a favored throw blanket, cashmere soft and filled with her clean, flowery smell. He tried to smile, but his lips were unused to tenderness. Then glass shattered. Caliban’s ears pricked. Jack was leaving. On silent feet, Caliban followed.
Sweeping into the night, Jack headed toward Macadam Avenue and crossed unseen into Willamette Park. Stretches of grass separated the restaurants and condominiums near the road from the Willamette River, which flowed north toward the Columbia. The tide was high. Somewhere in the park, someone would be settling in for the night. Jack moved softly, hunger sharpening every sense.
A short man in a greasy raincoat, mismatched boots, and ragged gloves clutched the handle of a Safeway shopping cart piled with blankets, bottles, and a blue tarp. Jack watched him from the cover of darkness, then turned away. Too old. Too thin. Too little life left to take. The river lapped against the shore. Rain had fallen earlier, leaving the grass slick and the air heavy with damp. More weather waited in the clouds.
Near the shore, a young runaway sat cross-legged in the wet grass, chilled and restless, swaying to music only she could hear. Mud streaked her jeans. A loose sweatshirt hung off one shoulder. Behind soup-gray clouds, the moon hid its face. Jack came up behind her without a sound. He smelled stale clothing, unwashed hair, fear waiting to happen. She turned on instinct and saw yellow eyes burning in the dark. Her scream barely escaped before his hand closed over her mouth. He fed on the rush of her terror, on the bright force of life surging through her veins. For a time, he could not let go. Vitality flooded him, hot and intoxicating, and he held her fast while the struggle weakened. When the energy began to fade, he released her. She fell into the mud, gasping, eyes wide with horror, and crawled toward the low rise of land above the river. Jack watched without pity. Her sobs broke softly between breaths. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out the scalpel. The silver blade caught a thin break of moonlight. He moved closer, took hold of her hair, and ended it quickly.
With precise, practiced movements, Jack made the cuts he needed. Caliban slid from the cover of night, transfixed by the kill and by the savage permission of it. He crouched near the fallen body, trembling with appetite, then gave in to it with a low, broken sound. Jack shoved him back. Blood darkened Jack’s hands as he took what he had come for. Cradling the prize against his chest, he glided to the river, washed it clean, wrapped it in his coat, and backed away from the shoreline.
Jack turned to Caliban, his eyes heavy-lidded and cold. Caliban froze. Without a sound, he dropped what he held and slipped into the water to clean himself. When he emerged, dripping and subdued, he followed Jack into the night.
Once they were away from the river, Jack mastered himself enough to speak. “Sera’s gone.” He pointed at Caliban. “Find her. That’s all you Barghest dogs are good for.” Caliban shivered. “Fail me, and your punishment will last a very long time.” Jack touched the bundle beneath his coat and glared at his pet. “I want to give her my heart.” He smiled, and the expression frightened Caliban more than rage.
Caliban closed his eyes and summoned Sera’s scent: clean skin, green herbs, flowers after rain. A moment later, he sprang into the air like a dark wind and headed east, snuffling as he went. Jack followed without a word, rage held tight beneath his silence, one hand clutching the wrapped package under his arm while the other fingered the scalpel in his pocket.
TO BE CONTINUED