Jivaja (Soul Cavern Series Book 1) Page 15

  The car turned left onto Route 78, which would lead to Stone Mountain Parkway. The Audi's headlights cut its arc through the woods. David ducked his head. The side windows, tinted so dark they couldn't be legal, didn't even give away the silhouette of the occupant.

  When the taillights disappeared over the rise, about half a mile away, David stood. He brushed oak leaves and pine needles off the knees of his jeans and then started toward the road where he'd parked the van.

  He hadn't gone ten yards when the noise of a second engine caught his attention. A dark — he couldn't tell whether it was blue or black — SUV pulled down the driveway. Its headlights flicked on. He'd already been out of the line of sight, but he ducked into a crouch anyway. The SUV turned along the same path the Audi had taken, heading toward Stone Mountain.

  David redialed the phone.

  “Mr. Trenow. I'd expected to be closer before you called.”

  “I told you to come alone.”

  “I am alone,” she said, her tone calm and all business.

  “In your car, perhaps. Tell the SUV to go back to the house. Or our meeting is canceled.”

  She didn't answer right away. Did he hear tapping in the background?

  “All right, Mr. Trenow. You win. They are turning around. You're following me, I assume?”

  He ended the call and waited. It didn't take long. Light edged the top of the hill, then crested, two bright eyes in the darkness. David stayed down, but watched until the SUV drove into the estate and the gate closed behind it. Then, he finally made his way back to the van.

  It bumped along the old service road until he hit 78, there he turned right. He figured he was about ten, maybe fifteen miles behind her, tops. He drove another ten minutes then rang Emilia again.

  “This is beginning to get tedious, Mr. Trenow.”

  “You'll get over it. Are you in Stone Mountain?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Take 285 north to the LaVista exit and go west. Stay on LaVista when Briarcliff breaks off at the mall. About a mile down, at the corner of Montreal, there's a diner. Go inside and wait for me.”

  Only two cars shared the diner's parking lot: the Audi and an old red Ford pickup truck with a fist-sized dent in the driver's side door. David pulled into a space away from both.

  Inside, the brightly lit diner wore its 50's motif like an old, second hand work shirt. The dull chrome reflected barely discernible, fuzzy shapes. The red vinyl bar stool seats showed their age — ripped in some places. Yellow foam padding oozed out the gashes.

  A frizzy-haired old man with leathery skin balanced on one of the stools, hovering over a cup of coffee. He didn't look up when the bell above the door twanged twice to announce David's entrance. Neither did the young waitress who thumbed through a magazine at the other end of the bar.

  The only other person in the dining room sat in a booth in the far left corner, with her back to the wall. He tried to keep the surprise from his face as he met her eyes. Anxiety settled in his skin. Emilia Laos didn't look older than twenty. She didn’t look older than Mecca.

  She smiled at him from across the room, her teeth small and straight. She didn't stand. And she didn't extend her hand when he slid into the seat across from her.

  “It's a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

  “I want my daughter back.”

  “I know.” The harsh diner lights glinted along her black hair. “But I need her.”

  Before he could say anything else, the young waitress bustled over. Emilia ordered hot tea with milk; he asked only for water. The girl poked the pencil behind a pale ear and walked away.

  “Need her for what?” He didn’t want to waste time, but he had to understand what was going on, exactly.

  Emilia looked through the glass to their right and watched a single car pass along the street outside. When she looked back, she met his gaze.

  “My people are approaching a civil war. Some of the fringe call it a holy war. It hasn't come to Atlanta, as yet, but the rumblings are there. The signs are clear.”

  A civil war? Her people? He tried to process this, but it didn't make sense to him. Even so, what did all this have to do with Mecca?

  The waitress returned. She pushed a tea cup on a saucer across the table to Emilia, set a small cup of milk beside it and then plunked down a glass of ice water, complete with lemon wedge and straw, before David.

  “Anything else?” The girl's voice squeaked and reminded him of a dog's play toy.

  “No, thanks,” David said. The waitress went back behind the counter and took up her post in front of her magazine. The old man who'd been nursing a cup of coffee had left. David and Emilia were now the only customers in the diner.

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” David said, continuing the conversation. “And I don't see how it relates to Mecca.”

  Emilia studied him for a time. The smooth skin of her forehead creased in thought and she made a faint humming sound. When she let out a sigh, the scent of cinnamon traveled across the table to him, sweet and spicy.

  “The purists of my kind wish to eliminate those of mixed blood. For a very long time, the full blooded have worked side by side with the mixed, but now suddenly, their blood is too pure and can't be tainted.” Her expression soured. “They wish to eliminate anyone who isn't of the full blood.” The young-looking woman leaned in a fraction. “I will be plain. I need Mecca to deal with my enemies, with those who would try to kill me, or mine.” Her dark honey-colored eyes narrowed for a second, then were open again. “She can kill with a touch. As you well know. And that is an advantage I need.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He wanted to lunge across the table at her, drain every bit of stolen energy out of that small, compact body. “You kidnapped my daughter to make her a killer?”

  Emilia looked toward the counter, where the waitress had raised her attention from the magazine. When she looked back at David, her expression had hardened, her jaw set. Her voice came in a tight whisper. “She is already a killer.” She tilted her head and regarded him, her eyes unreadable. “She's your daughter, after all.”

  The weight of her stare pushed against him.

  She knows.

  Fear tamped out his anger. That old fear that he’d kept hidden for so long. He pulled in a slow, deep breath, and he reminded himself that no matter what this woman knew, she'd kidnapped Mecca. That was what mattered.

  “If I thought she would have come willingly,” Emilia continued, “I would have approached her that way. I didn't think she would. I now suspect she doesn't have the same mentality as her father. I suspect she will be an even more difficult sell. What do you think?”

  He didn't trust himself to speak right away. He took a swig of the cold water, holding the straw away from his face with a finger. The icy path it cut down his throat helped him reinforce his control over himself. He returned the glass to the table, centering it on the wet ring of condensation that had gathered where it sat.

  “I think you should release her.” His voice came out low and gruff — unintentionally, though he was glad of it. “She is not yours to keep or to use.”

  “For that, I need an incentive.” Emilia, who wore a turquoise blue silk shirt with pearl buttons down the front, reached into a pocket of her jeans and pulled out a few bills. She left a five on the table and stood. “I will take you in her place, if you wish to make a trade. Call when you decide. You obviously know the number.” A smirk traced her lips as she turned away from him.

  He reached out to grab her, but she moved impossibly fast. Emilia had reached the door before he'd even closed his hand around the air where her arm had been. The bells on the door tinkled as she went into the night.

  David jumped from his seat and rushed through the diner. He couldn't let her go. When he made it through the door, the Audi was already pulling out onto LaVista.

  Chapter Fifteen: Mecca

  Mecca re
ached back to grab the door knob, not letting Claude or the man beside him out of her line of sight. She waved her hand behind her twice before her fingertips knocked against the round knob. If she could just get out of the room, she might be able to outrun them.

  Claude rose and Mecca turned the knob, trying to be quiet. He watched her. She saw his gaze move from her face to her fingers wrapped around the doorknob. He raised one slender hand.

  “Go back out and to the end of the hall. Take the last door on your right. You will find your escape route,” he said.

  He was letting her go? She couldn't hide her surprise.

  He smiled. “Stay along the back of the house, going toward the woods. There are guards, so watch carefully. You’ll see a small building in the distance: the guest house. Behind that you will find a well. Walk directly away from the well in the direction of the woods. A fire road leads to a small gate and out to the main road. There will be a single guard there.”

  The door latch gave, and she pulled the door open as she stepped back and toward the hall. The other man in the room hadn't moved an inch from his spot. Claude didn't approach her.

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “You'd best go now. It won't be long before you're found out.” He sat back down on the sofa, sinking into the cushions, and opened his book. The dark-skinned man only watched her.

  She slipped through the open doorway and back into the hall, her mind reeling with confusion.

  Mecca leaned against the rough bark of a young pine tree. She lifted one foot gingerly and brushed a dead leaf from the bottom. A thin, uneven layer of blood smeared across her heel. Her fingertips skated along the a cut beneath all the blood. An electric spark of pain shot up her calf. She winced. A jagged rock had been buried in a pile of leaves and pine needles. Waiting in ambush, obviously.

  The cut burned with each step she took, but she knew she was lucky. She could easily have turned her ankle. That would have made this trek through the woods even more difficult.

  She pushed herself away from the tree. Sharp tendrils of pain pulsed up her leg with each step, but she forced herself to move faster. She knew it could only be a matter of time before someone found Will, or Claude reported her disappearance to Emilia. Mecca wasn’t even sure whether they’d find Will dead or alive. Sure, he’d been breathing when she’d left him, but who knew how all this worked?

  Dad.

  Dad knows.

  She pushed the thoughts away. Right now, she needed to concentrate on getting away. Plenty of time to freak out about everything later.

  Leaves rustled beneath her feet, and she couldn’t keep them from getting stuck to the blood every time she took a step. She traveled along the fire road, ten yards into the forest, just in case someone came along.

  The way out of the house had been exactly as Claude had told her, right down to the well behind the guest house. Why had he helped her? She didn’t think for a minute that he was on her side. If he had, he wouldn't have made her go back to the bed when she'd tried to escape earlier. Why hadn't he just let her go then?

  There had to be a benefit to letting her go now. What did he get out of her escape? She tossed it back and forth in her mind, but she just couldn’t make sense of it. Her escape had to undermine Emilia’s plans. Unless Emilia thought Mecca would let her guard down and trust Claude for his help.

  Well, trusting any of them wouldn’t happen in this century.

  She shoved her way through thorny underbrush and wished again that she had shoes. A sharp twig stabbed her ankle, drawing another trickle of blood. Christ, if she didn’t stop bleeding all over the place, they’d just be able to follow the smell.

  She froze. What if they could track her just by the smell of her blood?

  That thought got her moving. And faster than before.

  The back gate had to be coming up soon. She didn't know whether the guard would be human or Visci. And, truly, she didn't really know whether the difference would matter.

  She wondered how many others there were like Will. What would possess someone to enter into a situation like that? Or maybe she assumed too much about his part in it all. Perhaps he just didn’t want to die. Who really did?

  Her toe caught, and she staggered forward, into the outskirts of a clearing. She stumbled back into the tree line for cover. Crouched low, she took stock of the situation. She was glad of the moon tonight. It gave her light to see by.

  Several feet from the small pipe back gate, a guard leaned against the stacked stone wall, a folding chair nearby. In one hand, he held a gun. She didn't know what kind, but it looked big and ugly. Mecca could outrun a lot of people, but she doubted she could outrun a bullet.

  The stone wall rose seven feet high, easily, and barbed wire topped it. Mecca’s spirit waned. An armed guard and no way to scale the wall. How was she supposed to get out?

  She could try to drain him, but she didn't know how she'd sneak up without him seeing her. The area around the gate was wide open. He'd see her approach from the woods. She strained her ears and heard a rumbling in the distance, coming in fast. She ducked down into the underbrush and listened.

  A battered, gunmetal grey Jeep came into sight, bouncing along the rough pathway and kicking up clouds of dirt. Mecca covered her mouth to stifle a surprised gasp. The man behind the wheel of the Jeep looked just like the man who had stood at Claude’s side in the library. What the hell was going on?

  He scanned the sides of the road as he drove through. Mecca crouched lower. The Jeep passed, leaving a trail of dust like a stunt airplane. She pivoted and watched it approach the gate. Just before reaching the guard, it swerved and parked, its hard top blocking her view. She moved ten feet down the tree line, bringing her a little bit closer, and watched Claude’s man swing out of the Jeep.

  He took long strides toward the guard, and his height gave him such a strong presence that Mecca could feel it even at her distance. The man at the gate looked him up and down and then swaggered over, closing the distance between them. Claude’s man jerked his hand, and the Jeep’s keys went flying to the guard. Surprised, the man fumbled the catch and had to stoop to pick them up from out of the dirt. The tall man hooked a thumb in the direction of the house as they exchanged words.

  Were they talking about her? Had Claude decided he didn’t want her to escape?

  Fear and bile gathered in the back of her throat. It was all a game. Claude had let her think she could get away, and now he'd sent this man to bring her back, just so she’d know who was in charge.

  The fear turned to anger. She’d made it this far. She’d be damned if they were going to put her back in that room with those tubes and needles! She’d drain anyone who touched her.

  She’d worked herself into a good fume by the time she noticed that the guard had climbed into the Jeep and gunned the engine. He cut the wheel and circled around. Mecca scrambled behind a bush just as its headlights swung in her direction. As the vehicle roared down the fire road, Mecca looked back to the gate.

  Claude’s man stood still, except for the slight movement of his head as he scanned the tree line. As his gaze came to her bush, a grin slid across his lips. He turned and made a show of setting the gate ajar and then he moved several yards away. His gaze swung back around to her bush for a moment before he looked away.

  He was sending her a message! Mecca pushed all her questions to the back of her mind. She would figure out why he let her go later. Right now, she just wanted to get through that gate.

  Unease prickled at her skin. He knew she was here. No use being subtle. She rose to her full height. Her movement brought his attention to her and that grin lifted the corners of his mouth again. He took another three steps away from the gate. An invitation.

  Mecca came forward with quick steps, not looking away for even a moment. The black oxford shirt he wore clung to his chest, stretching across his muscles. She glanced down at his gun, then back at his face as the distance between them shortened. He made no moves, only watche
d her.

  Almost there.

  She only needed another twenty feet to get to the gate. Would he spring on her just as the taste of freedom sweetened her tongue? Would she have to kill him?

  Ten feet.

  He remained motionless. Maybe he really would let her go. Maybe Claude wasn’t toying with her, offering her an escape. But she still couldn’t figure out why he’d work against Emilia.

  Five.

  She couldn’t keep from speeding up until her hand closed over the cool metal gate and she slid through the tiny opening. She forced herself to pause, muscles taut and ready to flee. She watched Claude’s man, waiting for him to spring toward her. He only gave her a slight smile. She pulled the gate shut.

  No more fooling around, her mother’s voice said in her head. Get going.

  Mecca turned on her heel, sending a jolt up her leg. She spotted the main road about fifty yards up and broke into a jog. Pain radiated from the cut on her heel, but she embraced it. It meant she was alive.

  The pavement curved, taking her out of eyesight of the rutted fire road. She stopped, drawing long, fiery breaths. Her nerves were shot. Blood covered both feet and her arms looked like an old dartboard from the bushes and tree branches she’d run past. She didn’t even want to see her face.

  The realization that she’d gotten away from that place struck her with a suddenness that made her knees give out. Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back. No time for crying. She’d gotten out, but she wasn’t safe yet. She wrapped a hand around the small trunk of a young birch and hauled herself to her feet.

  She pulled the hem of the shirt up and wiped the sweat and grime from her face. She just wanted to lie down and sleep for about three weeks, but instead, she moved along the shoulder of the road, stepping gingerly with her tender feet.