Eventide (Dark Ink Chronicles #3)

Eventide (Dark Ink Chronicles #3) Page 2

I jerk to a sudden stop. Confusion webs through my mind, and my memories race wildly. Craving? I crave only Krystal burgers and Krispy Kremes. Sugar. Greasy food. Those are my cravings. So what the hell is—

A body rushes mine and I am once again flung to the ground. Without looking I know it’s Victorian. Sharp pine needles and cones littering the wood dig into my skin as his weight presses against me. My face is smashed into the damp leaves and moss.

Quickly, my hands are tethered together.

“Sorry, love,” Victorian apologizes. He binds my ankles together, too. “You can’t imagine how I hate this, but somehow”—he helps me stand, then looks at me—“you broke free of my suggestion.” His head cocks to the side as he studies me, and the moonlight shooting a slender beam through the trees glances off his face. “Intriguing. I’ve never met another who can break free of my suggestion.”

Rage fills behind my eyes, pounds in my chest. “Well, now you have. So now what? What are you gonna do now, Vic? Throw me over your shoulder like a sack of dog food and haul me to the car?”

The slightest of smiles tips his sensual lips upward. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” In one move, Victorian bends his knees, and in the next instant, over his shoulder I go. He keeps his hands secured around my calves. God only knows my skirt is probably up around my waist, booty to the wind. We move out of the woods and start across the lawn of the rest stop, past the concrete picnic tables and restrooms. No one is around. Only a few semitrucks, their drivers more than likely sleeping. It wouldn’t do any good for me to scream; Victorian would simply suggest to anyone who heard that I was really okay, and they’d believe. So I keep quiet.

Until I hear the lock click and the Jag’s trunk open.

“No way,” I say, my voice only a little uneven, unsure. “Victorian, do not put me in there.”

He puts me in there. Lays me gently on a soft, down comforter. Had he expected to have to use his trunk to contain me? Warm brown eyes look down at me with obvious regret. Almost makes me forget what he is. “I apologize. I truly hate this. But for you to break free from my suggestion?” He shook his head. “You’re stronger than I thought—than you even think you are. You’re a danger to yourself, Riley. I can’t let anything happen to you.” His stare bores into mine. “I couldn’t live with it.” The trunk starts to close.

“Wait!” I say frantically. He waits. “Where are you taking me?”

Lowering his hand, Vic grazes my jaw with his knuckles. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere I can help you.”

Without another word, he closes me in. The moment he does, I hear another voice rise.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” a deep voice says, full of shock and anger. “I saw you put that woman in there.”

“Perhaps you’d be better off minding your own business,” Victorian warns evenly, gentlemanly.

A heavy thump hits the back of the car. “Perhaps you’d be better off shutting the fuck up and opening the motherfucking trunk,” the stranger says. “Now.”

Silence.

I have a bad feeling. Why isn’t Victorian using his suggestive powers to make the man walk away?

“What the fuck—”

The only noise I hear is a choked gurgle.

The car door slams, and in seconds, the purr of the Jag’s engine rumbles around me. I know without having seen what just happened. Victorian fed. In his defense, he tried to warn the guy. In the guy’s defense, he was trying to save me. It’s all so messed up. Victorian shifts gears and roars up the interstate. We’re on the move. To where, I have no clue.

The one question I have right now is where the hell did a centuries-old vampire get friggin’ tie-wraps? I jerk my ankles and wrists—no go. That thick, hard plastic won’t budge even a fraction. In fact, they tighten. So I relax and try to forget I’m in the back of a trunk, bound. And that back at the rest stop, a man lay dead in the parking lot, his blood drained. I close my eyes, the sound of the road and the Jag’s engine a respite. Everything seems so messed up now.

I think of the one thing in my life that calms me right now: Eligius Dupré. An ancient vampire from Paris, he and the Dupré family have been Savannah’s guardians since the 1700s. After making a pact with Preacher’s Gullah ancestors, who inhabited the isles off Georgia’s coast, they became the city’s protectors from rogue vampires.

Never did I think I’d fall for a creature of the night. Or that he’d fall for me. I’m not cutting myself down, but seriously. I’m not everyone’s type. I’m taller than most women. My back and arms are covered in wicked dragon tattoos, along with a dark angel wing inked at the corner of my left eye. I have pink highlights. And my past is far from stellar. As a teen, I got into everything a kid could. Drugs. Gangs. Ditching school. Luckily, with the help of Preacher and his wife, Estelle, I cleaned up my act. Went to school, became a successful tattoo artist with a shop in the historic district called Inksomnia. Still, I’m damaged goods. Eli overlooked my past, though, and only sees me now. Shocking, to say the least.

Eli is different. Actually, his whole family is different. They’re…real. They love one another, like humans. I can’t put it any other way. I’ve grown to care for Eli’s papa, Gilles Dupré; his mom, Elise; his brothers, Séraphin and Jean-Luc; and his baby sister, Josephine. In all honesty, they helped save my life.

As I drift between sleep and awareness, a vision of Eli crowds my mind; his face, his jaw, his eyes. Ebony hair against alabaster skin. Blue eyes so clear, it almost hurts to look at them. Protective nearly to a fault, Eli is always conscious of my surroundings and cautious of any outsiders. The way he touches me; his lips against my skin. The sex is incredible. Mind-blowing doesn’t fully describe it. More than the sex, though, is how he makes me feel. If Jerry Maguire hadn’t said it first, I’d tell Eli, “You complete me” and sincerely mean it. Yet I can’t admit even to myself, much less to him, that I love him. How screwed up is that? The last words Eli spoke to me as Victorian drove me away from Tunnel 9 resonate inside my memory.

I will come for you.

I believe Eli. But how will he know where we are headed? The look on his face as I drove off with Victorian had been one of anguish—betrayal—then determination. All in about five seconds. It’s not in Eli’s nature to give up. I think he probably was that way, even as a human. Before vampirism. It’s definitely a quality I like.

Time flies by. I drift in and out of slumber. So much has happened since the night my baby brother, Seth, and his pals inadvertently released Victorian and Valerian Arcos from their entombed graves. It was then that I learned that Preacher and his mystical Gullah ancestry were responsible for putting the Arcos brothers away in the first place. The Gullah are direct descendants of the African slaves brought to the Americas. They grew to be a proud, strong culture as they gained their freedom and claimed the outer islands of Georgia and South Carolina. Preacher’s forefathers had bound their families with the Duprés in an effort to protect Savannah and its surroundings by, well, taking the savagery out of them. The Gullah supplied the blood Eli and his family needed in a humane and safe way. No lives were lost, no newlings created.

The biggest vampiric threat to Savannah and the Gullah had been Victorian and Valerian Arcos. They raided the city and countryside in the eighteenth century. All those who supposedly died from yellow fever in Savannah’s history? It wasn’t the fever that took them all. But you won’t find that in any book.

Vic was more or less forced on this rampage by his overbearing brother. But once they were entombed, the city fell quiet. Peaceful. Until they were released. Seems like a long, long time ago. Now I’m in the middle of it all. The same vampire who ravaged the city centuries ago wants my ass.

I’d be a liar if I said Valerian Arcos didn’t scare me. He does. Truly.

The back of my legs and back are sweaty atop the down comforter, and quills are poking through the material and sticking into my skin. I wish I could get a small breath of fresh air. I don’t know how long we’ve been driving, but I’ve reached my limit. With the flat of my Vans, I start kicking the side of the Jag’s trunk interior. I kick for maybe five minutes before the car comes to a stop. Victorian’s door opens and closes; the trunk pops. The scents of rubber tires and motor oil fill the cool air. I look around. We’re in a large underground area—one that echoes. Concrete walls and pillars fill my vision. Vehicles are sparsely parked. There’s an exit sign with an arrow pointing to the right a few yards away. It hits me. “Why are we in a parking garage?”

“Are you all right?” he asks, ignoring my question and pushing my long choppy bangs from my face. He traces my sooty angel wing ink on my cheek. Concern is etched in his face.

“You mean besides not having any air to breathe and being hot as hell? Not to mention I’ve had to pee for the last hour. Sure. I’m great, Vic.” I glower at him. “Get me out of here.”

The corner of Victorian’s mouth lifts in a slight grin, which quickly disappears. His face hardens; he glances around. “We’ve got to hurry.” Easily, he lifts me from the trunk and sets me on my feet. “Are you going to make me carry you again?” he asks.

“Nope,” I say. “But as soon as we get to where we’re going, you’re telling me everything.”

He nods, and produces a pair of wire cutters from his pocket. In a few quick snaps, my ankles and wrists are free.

“Let’s go,” he says, slamming the trunk and grasping my elbow. He leads me through the parking garage that is slightly lit and mostly empty. A sign catches my eye: WELCOME TO HARTFIELD-JACKSON ATLANTA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. My stomach plummets. “Vic, where are you taking me?” He’s putting me on a plane? To where? I don’t have a good feeling about this. Not at all. And I have to pee. Bad. “Vic. Bathroom?”