Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 52

I steel my courage for the battle ahead as Vander drives Emily and me for miles along a steep mountain road in the Beast—a black, gazillion-dollar RV tricked out against the sun—his getaway vehicle if one was ever needed, prepared for every contingency. It holds two dozen genetically modified rabbits, a weapons cache, top of the line medical equipment, plus a navigation and communication center linked to its very own space-launched satellite.

In a green down parka, Woody sits in the passenger seat.

The Biltmore's top secret security system is able to track every emergency response vehicle in the county and Vander has followed Santos' police vehicle to Whisper Mountain. He studies a blip on the screen before slowing and pulling over.

"Santos has parked somewhere close," he says. "He's hidden his car quite well."

Emily grazes her fingers over Woody's head as she steps out. I follow, but Vander stops me with a gentle hand on my arm. "I'll be waiting right here," he says. "If you can make it back by sunrise, I'll get us home."

I nod gravely. "Thank you, Vander, for everything."

He gives me a wistful smile. "Remember my dear, you two are no ordinary women. No ordinary Night Walkers. It is an honor to assist you."

I can't help but smile at our newfound kinship. I place my hand over his and squeeze, then turn and step out into the night.

With my sister by my side, I walk through the forest. It's like when we were girls roaming the moors, only this time we are better armed. Snow drifts down from above, obscuring the sky and a violet moon slants through the trees, cold and dim. The wind moans like a woman giving birth, while the scent of crushed pine breaks beneath our boots. I'm dressed inappropriately, wearing only a night-colored dress and ancient knee-high, lace-up boots and I shiver against the hard breeze. A sharp WWII dagger lies against my calf, snug in my boot, and I have a new saber on my hip.

Emily is tracking William and Santos through the softly fallen snow so that we can catch up with them after their head start. Like me, she never had any intention of waiting behind while they fought Webb without us. Her hunting skill is preternatural and she moves with a feline grace through the night. She's wearing her soft leather jacket, a thin taunt against the freeze. A knife is in her boot, a shotgun snug against her back, and an Uzi is grasped lightly in her hands. She looks ready for anything, while I, on the other hand, feel spectral as a wraith. A ghost walking. When I glance down at my hand poised above the snow, I barely detect a difference in shade.

Before us, high up Whisper Mountain, the great house looms, glowing like a demon camp. Its light leaks faintly through the night, straining toward us, swallowed by forest. Webb lives here, staring down on us, a malevolent king upon his throne. My hand goes to my throat where he bit me. It aches. My whole body aches at the horror of seeing him again.

I am cold and the night is black, but tonight I embrace the darkness and gather it about me like armor. A midnight owl watches from a gnarled tree limb then glances toward the house, blinking. A warning. The moon hovers above, brushing me, as if to say, I am here, sister. I am here.

What though the Sun had left my sky; To save me from despair

The blessed moon arose on high, and shone serenely there.

I have had friends all along. All this time, I have never been alone.

Emily suddenly stops, turning to me. "Anne, there's something I have to tell you. In case something happens."

"I assure you, Em, something is most definitely going to happen."

Her face is intent. Determined. "It's about Bran. Everything I told you is true. I've seen his art on walls and underpasses, broken-down warehouses, concrete roofs—"

"What's this have to do with anything?"

"It's all true, except—" she bites her lip, uncertain "—he's not what brought me here."

The wind has stalled and the forest is perfectly silent as if the earth is holding her breath. Even the owl barely breathes. "This can wait," I whisper.

"It was Santos."

"Santos?"

"I've seen him before in Afghanistan."

"So you told me." My impatience is growing. Our friends are about to be slaughtered and Emily has finally decided that now is the time to chat.

"He killed my . . . my . . ." She searches for the right word, then her shoulders sag. "Friend."

My breath catches. "Jadallah?"

Her eyes widen in surprise. "How did you know?"

"Jadallah was your lover?"

"Santos tortured him for three days then burned him alive," she hisses.

"He killed four of Santos' men."

"After they cornered and trapped him like an animal."

"He was an insurgent."

"Insurgent?" She gives me a bewildered look.

"What do you want with Santos?"

She looks at me sharply. "What do you think?"

I shake my head, astounded.

"To kill him. Once and for all. Tonight."

A blast shatters the night and I freeze. Emily pulls me behind a tree. "Don't get caught in the cross fire. Stay behind the trees."

Shrieking tears through the night, a crying and yelping sound, full of agony and fear. My memory is yanked back to the wilds of Scotland, hiding and scavenging, stumbling upon a great stray dog, all roiling eyes and long strings of red, frothing slobber, being systematically torn apart by wolves.

Only this time it is no dog that howls. It is a man.

"Wait here," Emily whispers. "I'll go."

"No!"

But she is gone, a shadow streaking through the night.

"Emily! Wait!"

The forest closes in on me, reeking with death. Screaming rends the air, trembling the trees, shaking snow from their limbs. In a panic, I run toward the cries, slipping wildly in the frost. Falling. Jagged stone rips my knees, scraping them raw. They sting with dirt and snow, but I am up, running toward gunfire and the scent of blood.

Wait for me.

They must all wait for me.

They must not leave this life without me.