Vampire Mine las-10 Page 2

  Connor strode toward the receptionist desk.

  The girl’s mouth dropped open at the sight of his drawn sword. “I—I—”

  She appeared incapable of communicating in a coherent manner, so he skirted the desk and headed for the double doors behind her.

  “Wait!” the receptionist cried. “You can’t go—”

  Her words were cut off when the doors swung shut. He hurried down the hallway, hoping to find the recording studio before Casimir could escape. If he could kill the bloody bastard tonight, the Malcontents would scatter in disarray. Countless human lives could be saved.

  He spotted the red flashing light outside a studio and resisted the urge to rush in with a war cry. Instead, he quietly opened the door and slipped inside. It was dark by the entrance, but across the room, two dim lights illuminated the stage. Connor weaved silently around the cameras, which appeared to be turned on, although they were unmanned.

  “You know I love you,” a male voice whispered behind a monitor. “You make me look so good.”

  Connor groaned inwardly. The voice didn’t belong to Casimir, but to Stone Cauffyn. Apparently, now that the Nightly News was over, the newscaster was dallying with a lover, perhaps a makeup artist who made him look good.

  Connor rounded the monitor and discovered Stone in a passionate embrace with . . . his hairbrush.

  “Aagh!” Stone jumped and his brush clattered onto the floor. “I say, you scared the dickens out of me.”

  Connor didn’t know which was more bizarre: a man who used the word dickens or a man in love with his own hairbrush. “Where’s Corky Courrant?”

  “Look what you made me do.” Stone grabbed his brush off the floor and inspected it for damage. “Dash it all, I could have scratched it.”

  “Where the hell is Corky Courrant?”

  “No need to use such coarse language. And I strongly suggest you put away that medieval monstrosity of a weapon.” Stone turned toward the monitor where he could see his own image and ran the brush through his thick hair. “I say, I do sorely miss the good old days. Regency England, don’t you know? When genteel people behaved with proper etiquette and—”

  “Ye bloody whoreson, tell me where Corky is!”

  Stone huffed. “Miss Courrant is not here. Thank God. She wanted to sully this stage with an unsavory character.”

  The studio lights turned on.

  “What’s going on here?” A bald-headed man stood by the studio door, his hand on the light switch. He eyed Connor suspiciously. “I’ve called security.”

  “I am security,” Connor replied. “Where’s Corky Courrant?”

  The bald-headed man sighed. “This is about that stupid interview with Casimir, isn’t it? I told her it would cause trouble.”

  “Unsavory character.” Stone Cauffyn shuddered.

  Connor gave the men an incredulous look. “He’s a wee bit more than unsavory. He’s a bloody terrorist.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” the bald-headed man asked. “His pal Janow held people hostage in this studio. Thankfully some MacKay S and I guys showed up— Hey, is that where you work?”

  “Aye.” Connor strode toward him. “Where is Corky?”

  “She threw a hissy fit when I said she couldn’t interview Casimir here. I told her to take a few weeks off to cool down. Next thing I know, she’s sending me a DVD of her interview—”

  “From where?” Connor interrupted.

  Before the bald-headed man could answer, he was shoved farther into the room by Angus MacKay and three other Vamps who had attended Mass at Romatech. All four of them had their swords drawn.

  “Where is Casimir?” Angus demanded.

  “I don’t know.” The bald-headed man nodded toward Phineas, Ian, and Jack. “I remember you guys from the Janow incident. You’re from MacKay Security and Investigation.”

  “I’m Angus MacKay. And ye are?”

  “Sylvester Bacchus, station manager.”

  “Tell me.” Angus stepped closer. “Are ye aiding and abetting a known terrorist?”

  “No!” Sylvester ran a hand over his bald head, which was gleaming under the bright lights. “I told Corky I didn’t want any part of it. I sent her on vacation, but then she sent me the DVD—”

  “From where?” Connor asked again.

  Sylvester shrugged. “She didn’t say. The package was postmarked California, a few days ago. Hollywood, I believe.”

  “I say, what a fortuitous coincidence.” Stone patted his hair as he regarded himself in the monitor. “There was a report that someone spotted that unsavory character in Los Angeles.”

  “Several nights ago,” Connor muttered. “That’s when the interview must have been recorded. Casimir could be anywhere by now.”

  “The devil take it.” Angus sheathed his sword.

  “Merda,” Jack grumbled. “I was hoping to kill him tonight.”

  “Yeah,” Phineas agreed. “And the really shitty part is that bastard’s back in America.”

  Stone shuddered. “Such coarse language. Thank God this isn’t being broadcast to my listeners.”

  “Sod off,” Connor told him.

  “Humph.” Stone lifted his chin and marched toward the door. “You’re just jealous because your hair is unruly and barbaric.”

  “You mean your hair is real?” Phineas asked as Stone passed by. “I thought it was a rug.”

  Stone gasped and ran from the studio, clutching his hairbrush to his chest. Phineas grinned and did a high five with Ian.

  “Sylvester, do ye still have the envelope Corky sent?” Connor asked. “We need that, and the DVD she made.”

  “Sure.” The station manager rushed out.

  Angus retrieved his cell phone from his sporran. “I’ll call J.L. Once we get a location in California, he can check it out.”

  Connor nodded as he sheathed his sword. J. L. Wang was a fairly new Vamp, but as a former FBI special agent, he knew how to get the job done. “We should check every place in America that Casimir has teleported to in the past.” Those locations would be embedded in his psychic memory, so he was more likely to use them than risk an unknown destination.

  “Aye,” Angus agreed. “Jack, go with Lara to the compound in Maine. If Casimir’s there, call for backup.”

  “Will do.” Jack teleported away.

  “Ian, go to New Orleans to warn the coven there,” Angus continued. “Then go to Jean-Luc’s place in Texas to let him know. Is the school well guarded?”

  “Aye, Phil is there with his werewolf lads.” Ian teleported away.

  “Phineas, I want you and Robby to check out St. Louis, Leavenworth, and those farms in Nebraska,” Angus ordered. “As soon as I get Corky’s DVD, I’ll be returning to Romatech, so call me there to report.”

  “Got it.” Phineas teleported away.

  “That leaves the campground near Mount Rushmore,” Connor said quietly. The accursed place where Casimir and his minions had slaughtered innocent people twice before. The same place where Robby MacKay had been held captive and tortured. If Connor had to lay a bet, he would wager this was Casimir’s favorite location in America.

  Angus sighed. “I dinna want to send Robby back there.”

  “I understand.” Connor knew what it was like to be burdened with bad memories. “I’ll leave right away.”

  Angus reached out to stop him. “Ye shouldna go alone. Drop by Romatech and take one of the shifters with you. Carlos or Howard.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “That wasna a suggestion, Connor. It was an or—”

  He teleported away before Angus could finish.

  Chapter Two

  A strong wind whistled through the forest, rustling the trees and welcoming Connor with an unmistakable odor—the scent of death. Connor swore silently as he weaved among the trees. How many mortals would have to die at this campground before the place was permanently closed? Sean Whelan of the CIA had covered up the last massacre by telling the media that a flu virus was to
blame. No doubt the owners had cleaned the place up and invited more happy campers. More victims for Casimir and his minions to terrorize and kill.

  Connor stood in the shadow of a large tree while he scanned the surroundings. Casimir could be long gone, or he might be hiding in the nearby caves.

  A storm was brewing, building pressure and moisture in the air. Thick gray clouds swept across the three-quarter-full moon and blotted out the stars. A banging noise echoed through the campground, an unlatched door or shutter abused by the wind.

  A sudden gust flipped his kilt up in the back, and he winced at the chilly air on his bare arse. He twisted at the waist to push his kilt down, and the wind ripped another lock of hair free from the leather tie at the nape of his neck. He hooked it behind his ear and continued his silent surveillance. Far off in the distance, he could spot the carved presidential heads of Mount Rushmore, the granite gleaming white among the dark hills. No doubt Casimir enjoyed the irony of mentally enslaving and murdering Americans so close to a monument of their strength and freedom.

  In the clearing, the wooden cabins were dark. Connor couldn’t hear any sound coming from them, no moans from dying mortals, no heartbeats. He would check them later, but for now, he assumed they were empty.

  The banging noise and odor seemed to emanate from the main lodge, a rustic building made of stone and varnished logs. He sprinted toward the lodge, positioned himself next to a window, then peered inside. A large leather couch, several wooden rocking chairs, a table with a half-played game of checkers. Glowing coals in the hearth of a large stone fireplace. A homey, friendly-looking place if you didn’t count the lifeless bodies on the braided rug.

  Anger and disgust roiled in his gut. There was nothing he could do. Casimir and his minions were probably gone. The bloody bastards had already done their worst.

  Still, he didn’t want to be caught unprepared, so he drew his sword before teleporting inside. He checked the entire building. Empty. He latched the banging door, then returned to pay his respect to the bodies left in a neat row on the braided rug. Seven bodies. Throats slit to conceal bite marks, but not a drop of blood to stain the rug. They’d all been drained dry. Rigor mortis had not set in, so they’d died this evening, probably soon after sunset.

  His anger grew, threatening to erupt. His grip tightened knuckle-white on the hilt of his sword. The Malcontents would have used vampire mind control on the campers to force them to submit. Two families, he assumed, since there were two sets of parents. Two lovely mothers. Three beautiful, innocent, young children. The controlled fathers would have watched helplessly while the Malcontents murdered their wives and children.

  Rage flooded him, making his heart race. Emotion this intense made the blue of his irises glow, tinting his vision with an ice-cold blue. His fists clenched with the need to kill. Please, let them still be in the caves.

  He teleported outside, his claymore raised and ready for battle. He would kill them. Every last one of them.

  He stormed down the dirt path that led to the nearby caves. The wind blew stronger, tossing the trees and littering the path with small branches and pinecones. Loose locks of hair whipped across his face. He shoved the strands back and glanced up at the moon. It was an eerie blue, almost completely enshrouded with thick clouds. Good. The darkness would conceal his attack. They’d never know he was coming until his sharp blade plunged through their black hearts.

  Kill them. Kill them all.

  He halted with a sudden slap of clarity. Déjà vu. The same cold rage. The same black night. The same icy-blue vision. The same storm-tossed trees and scent of pine. Kill them all.

  His extra-sensitive, glowing eyes stung with the biting wind. What a fool he was. Did he have no more control over his rage than he’d had centuries ago? What if Casimir had fifty minions with him? A hundred? Was he so damned bloodthirsty that he would walk into a trap?

  He slipped into the woods, leaned back against a tree trunk, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths. Control yerself. His heartbeat slowed. The rage dimmed.

  He opened his eyes, and his sight was back to normal. He retrieved his cell phone from his sporran. No signal. Bugger. He didn’t want to leave the area unguarded while he teleported to Romatech. He headed back toward the lodge. Still no signal. He couldn’t risk sending Angus a telepathic message since any Malcontents nearby would be able to hear it.

  His gaze fell on the gleaming granite heads in the distance. Mount Rushmore. He could probably get a signal there. And he’d have a bird’s-eye view of the entire area. If anyone ventured from the caves, he’d spot them.

  The world went black for a second, then he was there, his feet making contact with solid rock. Before he could gain his bearings, a hard wind slammed into his back and shoved him forward. Damn. He’d landed too close to the edge of Washington’s forehead. He skidded to a stop as a few loose rocks skittered over the precipice.

  With his feet more firmly planted, he gazed down the mountain. Pinging noises echoed in the wind as the rocks bounced their way to the bottom. He’d come close to plummeting, but it probably wouldn’t have killed him. He would have simply teleported to a safe place before hitting the ground.

  On the hill in front of him, rows of aluminum benches climbed the slope like a giant staircase, forming an outdoor theater. The hill was topped with a visitor center and parking lots. All empty. A good thing since he didn’t want an audience to witness him teleporting about. Or see his cold arse every time the wind tossed his kilt up.

  With an annoyed growl, he shoved his kilt down again, then focused on the nearby hills. His superior vision zeroed in on the campground. No movement there. He spotted the rocky outcropping nearby that housed the caves. Quiet for now.

  He punched in Angus’s number, and the call went through.

  “The devil take it,” Angus growled. “I told you no’ to go alone. Do ye have a bloody death wish?”

  “I have a report if ye care to hear it.”

  “I care about following orders,” Angus shouted. “Maybe ye doona value yer own sorry hide, but—”

  “Seven dead in the main lodge,” Connor interrupted. That should put a stop to the annoying lecture. He was awarded by a moment of silence.

  “Seven?” Angus asked quietly.

  “Aye. Casimir’s usual MO. The victims were drained dry, throats cut.” His jaw clenched. “Three children.”

  Angus cursed in Gaelic. “That bloody bastard. Any sign of him? Nay, forget that! Doona do a damned thing until we get there.”

  A strong gust of wind pummeled Connor, and he raised his voice. “The murders occurred earlier this evening. Casimir could be long gone.”

  “Or he could be holed up in those bloody caves,” Angus said. “I’ll gather some men. Stay out of sight until we get there. Do ye hear me? Doona investigate on yer own. That’s an order.”

  Connor’s gaze flickered south, distracted by a bolt of lightning. “Bugger.” There he was, standing on top of a mountain with a sword in his hand during a lightning storm.

  “What?” Angus demanded. “Did ye see something?”

  A vision of himself fried to a crisp. Connor tossed his sword into the forest behind the carved heads. The sky flickered again, and he whirled around to catch the end of another lightning flash. Strange. The lightning had hit in the same place twice.

  “Connor!” Angus yelled. “What’s going on?”

  “Something . . . wrong.” He narrowed his eyes. “A few miles south of the campground.”

  Another flash lit up the dark sky.

  His breath caught. It wasn’t coming from the sky. “I’ll call ye back.”

  “Connor, doona—”

  He hung up and dropped the phone into his sporran. He debated fetching his sword, but decided to leave it behind. Instead, he retrieved a wooden stake from his sporran. No sense in drawing the lightning to him. Although he wasn’t quite sure it was lightning.

  A drop of rain plopped onto the top of his head, and he glanced up. Ano
ther raindrop splattered on his nose, then rolled a chilly path across his cheek. He wiped his face, then focused on the area where he’d seen the flash of light. Everything went black.

  He materialized in the dark shadow of trees, his feet landing on the soft cushion of pine needles. The light patter of raindrops sounded overhead, not yet heavy enough to filter through the thick canopy of treetops. He moved silently through the forest, tracing the scent of burnt wood and smoke.

  When he heard a man’s voice, he edged close enough to hear the words but remained hidden behind a large tree trunk.

  “You left them still alive!” the man yelled. “I had to go back to finish your job.”

  Connor stiffened. Either these were Malcontents, or he’d stumbled across some mortals on a murdering rampage.

  “We received our orders,” the man continued. “The humans were all supposed to die.”

  Malcontents. A mortal never referred to his own kind as humans. Connor tamped down on the rage that seethed within. He needed to stay calm and controlled. His grip tightened on the wooden stake. He had four more in his sporran and the dagger in his knee sock. But before he attacked he needed to know how many bastards he was up against.

  A female whispered a response, too faint for him to hear. Even so, the timbre of her voice lifted the hairs on the back on his neck. It brushed his skin like a caress. Bugger. This was no way to react to a bloody Malcontent.

  Her voice grew stronger as she made her final declaration. “I can no longer do this.”

  Was she rebelling? Connor’s heart lurched. If he could capture her alive, she could tell them all sorts of information.

  “You must follow orders,” the man snapped.

  “There was no reason for them all to die,” she argued. “I only wished to spare the children.”

  “You have failed to follow orders, Marielle,” he growled. “You must pay the consequences.”

  “No.” Her whisper trembled. “Zack, please.”

  The fear in her lovely voice made Connor’s gut clench, and he was seized with an overwhelming need to protect her. Bah, protect a Malcontent? She deserved to die.