Alexandra Sabian 2 - Blood Secrets Page 25

  “He stuck Silly Putty to the doll’s head and then froze it,” Freddy Haver chimed in from his station across the lab.

  “Hey, it worked. You said it wouldn’t, and you still owe me twenty bucks.”

  Varik seized the back of Reyes’s neck and squeezed, earning a pained squeak from the analyst. “You could use your mother’s face to get the print. I don’t care how you got it. I want to know whom it belongs to. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you get a hit from IAFIS or VIPER?”

  “Freddy has it.”

  Varik released him and moved to Freddy’s station. It was standard procedure to submit all prints to IAFIS—the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System maintained by the human-run FBI—as well as its twin, the Vampire Identification Patterns and Enforcement Resource, or VIPER. The systems were maintained separately since vampire fingerprints weren’t as pronounced as humans’ and were often overlooked by them as smudges.

  Freddy handed him two sheets of paper. “VIPER lists the print as belonging to Peter Strahan. I knew you wanted it so I put a rush on the request for a current address for Strahan—5726 Caspian Drive. It’s in the southeastern part of Nassau County. The second page is a map showing—”

  Varik didn’t wait to hear more. He took the pages and in two paces had reached the lab’s entrance. “Radio Damian and tell him where to meet me!”

  Forgoing the steps, he jumped from the converted RV to the pavement, his feet already in motion as he hit the ground. “Hang on, baby,” he muttered, running for his Corvette. “I’m coming.”

  Alex banged the back of her head against the wall in frustration. A lunatic laboring under the delusion that she was his soul mate held her captive, and all she could think of at that moment was her growling stomach.

  She’d passed the night trying to get free of Peter’s elaborate restraints to no avail. After she’d worn herself out she’d slept fitfully for a time since standing up wasn’t the most comfortable of positions and her slumber was plagued by nightmares.

  In her dreams, winged demons and skeletal monsters chased her through an endless stone labyrinth. Shadows brandishing fiery swords stood guard at the exits. She’d been driven deeper and deeper into the maze. She called to Varik as she ran but it only seemed to spur the things pursuing her to quicken their pace. She finally awoke, to find herself still tied to a wall in a windowless attic and at the mercy of the Dollmaker.

  At least her eyesight had improved. Gone were the fuzzy grayness and amorphous dark blobs. Now she could see individual objects, although they were out of focus and blurry, and could discern different colors. So long as Peter believed she was still blind, perhaps she could use it to her advantage and find a way to escape.

  Trying to distract herself from the increasing amount of noise coming from her gut, her attention centered on the photo Peter had left on a table a few feet away. Everything he told her about it was a lie. It had to be. Her father wasn’t a Hunter. He’d taught history.

  But how could she explain the photograph? If it was even a photograph at all. From this distance, until her eyes made another improvement, she couldn’t even be sure it was a photo.

  The simplest answer was to rule it a fabrication, a product of clever computer manipulation.

  But then, where did Peter find source photos of her father, Varik, Damian, and all the others?

  The more she tried to deny the authenticity of what he told her, the more questions she raised that had no simple answer.

  What if Peter was telling the truth? What if her father had been a Hunter and had been partnered with Varik? It would mean everything she knew about her father was a lie. Her relationship with Varik, past and present, would also be a lie.

  It would mean the blood-bond was a lie, and she was forever bound to a man she couldn’t trust.

  However, she couldn’t allow herself to dwell on such matters. She needed to find a way to convince Peter to release her from the restraints so she could escape. The kernel of a plan formed in her mind and soon blossomed. But in order for it to work, she would have—

  Singing from the floor below the attic intruded on her musings. Footsteps on the stairs and the smell of freshly cooked sausage, eggs, and coffee signaled Peter’s approach. He bounded into the attic with a spring in his step, humming a ballad, and carrying a large wooden tray. “Did you miss me, darling?”

  She bit back her sharp retort. She needed to do whatever she had to do to survive, to escape, and angering him wasn’t a part of her plan.

  Peter set the tray, complete with a glass bud vase containing a single long-stemmed red rose, on a corner of the worktable. “I cooked some of your favorites—scrambled eggs with cheese, spicy sausage patties, grits with extra butter, and of course, coffee.”

  Alex’s stomach churned with the thought of eating anything he’d cooked. She swallowed her discomfort and offered a weak smile. “Thank you. It smells wonderful.”

  He beamed and picked up a fork. “Well, where shall we start? Eggs or grits? This could get a little messy, but …” He shrugged.

  Alex laughed nervously. “Uh, darling …”

  Peter hesitated, looking at her with suspicion.

  “Before we start, I thought we could do without these restraints, and we could sit and eat together and talk.”

  He shook his head, still smiling, and picked up the plate of eggs. “You’ll just try to run again, my tricky chickie.”

  “No, I won’t. I’ve been thinking about what you said and want to know more.”

  He looked unconvinced but set down the eggs and fork.

  She tried to shift her weight and winced. “Plus my wrist is hurting, really bad,” she said, giving her words a slight whine. “Please, Peter.”

  He was in front of her before she realized he moved. His hands cupped the sides of her face, keeping her from looking away. “Say my name again.”

  “Peter.”

  His lips closed over hers and Alex forced herself to remain still, to not succumb to the urge to bite him as he kissed her.

  He stepped back and grinned. “I knew you would come around, darling. Now, let’s get you out of these restraints.”

  Alex waited as he first unbound her torso and then her legs. Lastly he freed her arms, but kept a tight grip on her injured wrist so she had to grit her teeth to keep from whimpering.

  “Just one last bit of business, darling,” he said as he forced her into a chair at the worktable. He produced a set of plastic zip-tie cuffs and looped one end over her uninjured wrist.

  “What are these for? I thought we were going to talk.”

  “We are.” He looped the other end over the chair’s ladder-style back. “There, that should do it.” He gave her another quick kiss. “After you’ve cleaned your plate we’ll discuss taking those off.”

  Alex tried to remain cheery while he placed the plate of eggs and sausage patties in front of her. She picked up the fork and thought for a moment of gouging out his eyes but dug into the eggs instead. She would need her strength for the next part of her plan to work.

  She shoveled the first forkful of cheesy scrambled eggs into her mouth. The softness of the eggs combined with the slightly oily bite of the cheese made her mouth water and her stomach grumble.

  Peter smiled. “You like it?”

  She hated to admit it but she nodded, spearing a piece of sausage with her fork. It was tender inside and slightly crispy outside. Peppery spices exploded across her tongue and she had to stifle a satisfied groan.

  “Now that we’re together, darling, I’ll make all your favorites—key lime pie, sweet-and-sour chicken, shrimp scampi.” He poured a cup of steaming dark coffee and set it beside her. “I even have your favorite movies on DVD. We can pop popcorn and watch To Kill a Mockingbird anytime you want.”

  She swallowed the soft mass of eggs that had suddenly turned cold in her mouth. “How do you know so much about me?”

  “We’re soul mates, darling,
” he answered as if that explained everything.

  “But I’ve only just met you. I’ve been blood-bound to Varik for years and—”

  “Do not speak his name!” Peter’s fist crashed onto the table with the force of a gunshot. “You will never speak of him again!”

  Alex recoiled from his anger. “I don’t understand. If you and I are soul mates, as you say, what harm can there be—”

  “He is a deceiver,” Peter hissed. “He tried to steal you from me. The sooner you forget about him the better.”

  Alex toyed with the coffee cup. “And if I don’t want to forget about him?”

  He grabbed her jaw, fingers digging into an already-tender bruise, and forced her to look at him. “You will forget about him. I’ll see to that.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” she spat and flung the scalding coffee into his face.

  He shrieked and released her, trying to wipe the burning liquid from his eyes.

  Alex jumped to her feet, grabbed the back of her wooden chair, and with a roar, smashed it across his back. The chair shattered, and Peter collapsed onto the table, groaning. The zip-tie looped around the chair’s back slipped loose, and she dashed for the attic exit. She neared the top of the stairs when Peter’s hand grabbed her hair and pulled her back.

  His leg swiped hers and threw her to the floor. He covered her with his body, pinning her like a moth stuck to a specimen board. “That’s the last time you’re going to do that, tricky chickie,” he snarled, inches from her face.

  “Go to Hell,” she growled.

  He gently stroked her face and then entwined his fingers in her hair. A savage grin split his face. “You first.”

  Alex felt the floor drop away beneath them, and she screamed as he forced his way into her mind.

  Hurtling down Interstate 55 at speeds nearing one hundred miles an hour, Tasha reconsidered the wisdom of agreeing to ride with Damian and his Enforcers as they raced to catch up with Varik. However, time had been a factor and she hadn’t been afforded the luxury of rational thought. Damian had simply held open the rear door of the black Ford Expedition and told her to get in or get left the fuck behind. She’d gotten in. Now she was sandwiched between two Enforcers decked out in body armor and carrying more firepower than she’d seen short of the last open house day at the National Guard Armory.

  “Talk to me, Reyes,” Damian barked into the handheld radio from the front seat. “What can you tell me about Strahan?”

  “Not much, unfortunately,” Reyes Cott answered amid the static. “His record’s surprisingly clean.”

  “I find it hard to believe one of the most prolific serial killers in history never had a run-in with the law somewhere.”

  “That’s my point. I’m not finding any records for Peter Strahan before 2003.”

  “How is that possible?” Damian asked. “There has to be something—driver’s license, tax records …”

  “Nada,” Reyes said. “No credit cards, bank accounts, parking tickets—nothing. I can’t even find a birth certificate. The guy’s a fucking ghost, sir.”

  “How was he able to buy a house without even so much as a driver’s license?” Damian asked.

  Reyes issued a low whistle. “He didn’t buy it. He inherited it.”

  “Inherited from whom?”

  “Benjamin Corman.”

  “Wait a second.” Tasha sat forward and grabbed the radio from Damian. “Is this the Cottonwood property?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Reyes said. “Court documents refer to it by that name and they’re all I’ve been able to dig up on Strahan.”

  “I was out there yesterday,” Tasha said to Damian. “No one answered the door when I knocked. The place looked deserted.”

  Damian’s fist slammed down onto the dash. “Goddamn it!” He took the radio back from Tasha. “Reyes, Strahan’s a fucking vulture. He’s been tailing Sabian for years, that much we know. Expand your search to include Louisville and surrounding areas. Look for properties like this plantation. Those will be his targeted marks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you mean he’s a vulture?” Tasha asked.

  “The fucker lives off carrion,” Damian explained. “He waits for someone to die and then uses a fabricated identification to swoop in and pick the estate clean. He’ll hop from one to the other, changing identities each time. Peter Strahan is just a shell name. That’s why we can’t find information on him.”

  “How do you determine his real ID?”

  “The only way is to keep him alive and question him.”

  “But he’s killed hundreds of humans,” Tasha exclaimed. “That gives him an automatic death sentence.”

  “We have a body for one, and we can’t conclusively tie it to him yet.”

  “He has Alex. Surely kidnapping a federal agent is something you can pin on him.”

  “That we can make stick, but depending on what we find when we get there, he could be sentenced to prison instead of death.”

  “Which gives you plenty of time to question him.”

  Damian fixed his golden eyes on her. “Only if we catch Baudelaire in time, otherwise there may not be anything left of Strahan to question.”

  twenty-one

  VARIK KILLED HIS CORVETTE’S ENGINE AND COASTED TO a stop outside the sprawling Caspian Drive farmhouse. The original house had been added onto in a haphazard fashion over the years with each addition featuring the dominant style of the period. Tying the disparate architectural elements to one another was the commonality of dingy and peeling white paint. The overall effect gave the house an appearance of a bloated toad lying in wait for its next meal.

  He grabbed his Glock and badge and stepped from the car, leaving his cell phone behind. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he cautiously approached the house. Experience tempered the instinct to rush inside and shout Alex’s name. This was the Dollmaker’s domain and as such it gave an advantage to his opponent. Varik would have to proceed carefully and hope he found Alex before—

  He shook his head to clear it of negative thoughts. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by the what-ifs.

  Ancient cement steps crumbled in protest of his weight and porch boards creaked underfoot as he glided up the front stoop to the door. A screen door hung to the side but the weather-beaten main door swung open easily when he turned the knob.

  Crouching to make for a smaller target, he entered the dark foyer and toed the door shut, pausing to allow his eyes time to adjust to the gloom. Blocky shadows slowly identified themselves as display cases and shelves clung to the walls, each holding an inventory of dolls whose eyes seemed to follow his movements.

  He slipped through an archway and into what he assumed would’ve been a dining room if it held a table and chairs instead of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Hundreds of dolls watched him as he checked corners for hidden dangers. The room was thick with the stench of leather and old blood, and he was forced to sip the air to prevent himself from gagging.

  Methodically, he checked each of the main rooms on the first floor and found nothing save more dolls. He eased into the foyer, passed a small fireplace, and headed for the stairs. Moving to their base, he glanced up quickly, holding his Glock at the ready, and saw only more darkness. The entire house was silent and void of any apparent signs of life.

  As he mounted the first step, worry gnawed at him. What if he was too late? What if Alex had already been moved to another location, or worse, killed?

  He thrust the thoughts aside. He would not succumb to his fears.

  Hugging the wall, he slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  Peter crashed through the flimsy mental shields Alexandra tried to erect. Every barrier she placed before him, he knocked aside. He would not be denied. He would strip away all her memories of Varik Baudelaire and give her new memories—his memories.

  He plunged into her mind, pressing against the last of her shields until it collapsed. He sensed her fleeing before him, trying to hide from
him. He pursued and cornered her, enveloping her consciousness with his.

  Get out of my head! Anger colored her thoughts a bright red.

  Love me.

  No!

  It wasn’t a request, my tricky chickie.

  She screamed and lashed out, and he backed away. She lunged at him in an attempt to drive him out.

  He deflected her assault, using the momentary opening to dive into her core. He burned a path through her subconscious. Thousands of memories flashed before him, but he was only interested in a select few. Images of Varik appeared and he delighted in reducing them to cinders. Some he replaced with those of his choosing and others he left to smolder, consigned to the realm of the forgotten.

  A memory of her first kiss with Varik played before him. They were covered in mud and hiking up a steep riverbank. She stumbled and fell into his arms. They laughed and suddenly Varik kissed her.

  Hatred fueled Peter’s attack. The memory exploded before him and he felt her shudder as he ripped another hole in her mind. A new memory stitched itself into the fabric of her subconscious, one in which he caught her as she fell and he kissed her.

  A flash of yellow passed through her mind and he paused. Something tickled the back of his brain. Following the sensation, he withdrew from her mind and returned to his own.

  He groaned, weak from the effort of changing her past, and fell to the attic floor beside her unmoving form. His head pounded with a chorus of voices, shouting and screaming for help. The dolls were crying out, calling to—

  Peter bolted to his feet, staring at the attic floor as if he could see through it.

  He was here, in the house.

  Peter growled and rushed to the attic stairs. Now was the time for him to take what he started in her memory and finish it in his reality.

  Varik stopped his search of the second floor when he heard a faint thump. He waited, hoping to hear the sound again to determine its direction, but the house refused to give up its secrets.

  He entered a bedroom and the familiar scent of jasmine and vanilla rocked him. His pulse tripled and his breath came in sharp, shallow gulps.