TWENTY-NINE
The tram let Allen off at the edge of the residential neighborhood across from Letna Park. Had it really only been twenty-four hours since Allen had been here to supervise Evergreen's strange delivery? It seemed a lifetime ago.
Now he would get answers. He would make Evergreen give him answers. After all Allen had been through, he could not find the brusque professor intimidating anymore. The guy owed him an explanation.
He entered Evergreen's building and knocked on his apartment door. No answer. He knocked again. "Professor Evergreen?" He tried the knob. It was open.
He went inside.
"Professor?"
Allen noticed the suitcases straightaway, stacked in the entranceway next to an old-fashioned-looking steamer trunk. So they'd arrived. Good. Allen stepped into the apartment. The large crate Evergreen had been so concerned about was nowhere in sight. In a swivel chair across the room, Evergreen sat at a desk with his back to Allen.
"Professor Evergreen."
Evergreen didn't turn around.
Allen spotted the headphones, the wire leading to the MP3 player on the desk. Evergreen probably had the volume up to max and hadn't heard Allen knock or enter the apartment.
Okay, man. Time to do this.
Allen crossed the room, tapped the big man on the shoulder, raised his voice. "Professor Evergreen. We need to talk. A lot of strange fucking shit has happened since I got here and-"
Evergreen toppled over, slid from the chair, and landed at Allen's feet. His skin was as white as notebook paper. His eyes stared at the ceiling and his mouth hung open, tongue halfway out.
Allen hopped back. "Fuck!"
A ragged pink crater in the side of Evergreen's neck, like somebody had taken a giant bite of undercooked ham.
Allen swallowed hard. "Oh, man. That's not cool."
He backed to the center of the room, turned his head from side to side. What the fuck had happened here? Allen should call somebody. The local police, maybe. Or he could turn and haul ass. Why would anyone do this to the professor? Yeah, most of his students pretty much thought he was a dick... but this?
The light coming from the balcony dimmed, as if a dark cloud had passed in front of the sun. Allen went cold. The hair on his neck stood straight.
"Allen."
The voice so familiar it made Allen gasp. He stood frozen, wanting to back out of the room, but something sapped his will.
"Allen."
This time he turned his head, looked toward the half-open door of the apartment's master bedroom. The lights were off. A cold breeze picked up and came through the open balcony doors, tugged at Allen's hair and clothing. He thought he could just make out the shape of someone back in the dark bedroom.
"Who is it?" But Allen knew who it was.
"Allen, come in here, please."
Allen spoke slowly, like he was having trouble remembering how words worked. "Maybe you should come out here."
"I need you, Allen, need you to help me. Please. Come to me." There in the darkness. The eyes. They latched onto him. "Come to me, Allen."
He shook his head. "No." But he'd taken a step forward. His other foot moved. Another step.
He crossed into the darkness. Even with his head in a fog he noticed that the windows had all been covered with thick blankets. The room smelled of moist earth. She stood right in front of him now. The wind gusted behind him, and the bedroom door clicked shut.
"Allen," she said in a voice of clear crystal. "I need your help."
"Mrs. Evergreen, your husband is dead."
"Yes, Allen. I know. It was such a long trip, so hungry. I just couldn't wait. You must try to imagine how it was. You can imagine it, can't you? The longing and the need until nothing else matters. Nothing matters but satisfaction, and it burns, you need it so bad. Such a shame. So many plans. He'd brought me so far. I don't think he minded in the end. If it helps you to think of it like that, Allen, I don't think he minded at all."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mrs. Evergreen."
"I want you to call me Cassandra."
Allen did not want to call her that. But he said it. "Cassandra." The word tasted good in his mouth, delicious and painful. Like Thai food.
She put a cool hand on his arm. Her eyes filled the room, the rest of her face and body only vague shapes in the darkness. "He can't help me anymore, Allen. I need you. I need you to go a place I can't go. You will do this for me."
No. He opened his mouth to deny her, but the words that came out were, "I will help you."
She was right up against him now. He felt her along the length of him, his breathing so shallow, head dizzy. He realized she was naked. Her hands roamed him. He stood still as a statue, afraid and enthralled and wanting her. She rubbed his erection, and her lips brushed his.
He felt faint. Felt like he was floating out of his own body. No. He needed his body. Wanted it to do things to her body.
Cassandra ripped off his shirt. She hissed and backed away, pointing at his chest. Anger flashed in her eyes. "Get rid of that!"
Allen's hand went to his chest, felt the cold metal of the crucifix hanging there. "This?"
"Throw it away."
Allen pulled it over his head, and cocked his arm to toss it out of the room. Hesitated. Something-faces flashing before his mind's eye-stopped him. Father Paul. Penny. He couldn't throw it away.
"Allen." Waves of pure sex radiated from Cassandra's naked body. "I'm waiting for you."
Allen tossed the crucifix over his shoulder, heard it rattle and clank somewhere out of the way.
What followed was a patchwork of sensations and memory. He was naked and on top of her, her back arched, mouth open, animal growls coming out of her. Long fingernails raked his back. Then she was on top. Had hours passed or minutes? The eyes. Always the eyes burning, branding her ownership of him onto his soul.
And there was pain.
Along his inner thigh, a white-hot intensity, her mouth on him.
But the pleasure flooded back again, arms and legs wrapping him up, like she was trying to climb inside. A tangle of sheets. Relentless pleasure, sapping him, leaving him a spent husk. Exhausting, pulling him down.
Allen gave himself to exquisite oblivion.
He awoke to the night.
Allen sat up in bed, clueless where he was until patchy images clanged and tumbled through his brain. The windows had been thrown open, the curtains fluttering on a gentle breeze.
"Cassandra." He looked, but she wasn't there.
More memories, as they lay together in the darkness, her hot breath on his ear as she whispered his instructions. Somehow her words penetrated his fogged brain. He knew what he had to do to serve her.
He was way too naked. He saw his clothes on the floor and stood, winced at the slight pain in his thigh. He stood with legs apart, bent over to examine himself. Two dark punctures along his thigh about six inches from his scrotum.
He scratched his head, rubbed his eyes. Where am I?
He dressed himself. Every muscle ached. He grunted as he put on his shoes.
Back into the living room, and he saw The Professor's dead body still where it had fallen. Oh, yeah. He's dead. That fact no longer seemed very urgent.
Something cut through the haze of his programming, some prick of curiosity. Yes, he had his mission. He should get on with it, but he looked around the apartment, wondered. Where was the large wooden crate?
He headed for the second bedroom and walked into it. Completely dark. He felt along the wall for the light switch, found it, and flipped it on.
The room was barren of furnishings. There was only the crate in the dead center. The lid had been pried off and sat to one side. Allen approached, looked inside.
He saw an open casket with silk lining and a pillow for the comfort of the deceased. Between the crate and the casket, moist dark earth had been packed in tight, completely surrounding the outside of the casket. Allen's hand went to his throat. He stood there a moment, putting two and two together.
He ran out of the bedroom, darted into the bathroom, flipped on the light switch. He stood in front of the mirror, lifting his chin, feeling along his throat. Only smooth skin. He let his hand wander down to rub his thigh and considered the marks there.
He pictured the chunk that had been bitten out of Professor Evergreen's throat. He shivered. The man staring back at him in the mirror looked like a pale, shadow-eyed wraith. Some deranged derelict.
Allen left the bathroom, stumbled from the apartment, downstairs and into the street. The night was cool. Distantly he heard voices, somewhere a dog barking. He realized he was walking. Somehow his feet knew the right direction. South and west.
Strahov Monastery. The words had been put into his brain. So many words and images jumbling together, instructions and books and names and places all mixed up with a picture of himself, arms wrapped around Mrs. Evergreen-Cassandra!-her legs around him, heels digging into his ass, so many grunts and moans and just so much relentless thrusting.
He walked through the night, all of this information like a buzz in his brain growing louder and louder. Two words above all others throbbed within his cranium.
Edward Kelley.
THIRTY
Wake up, bitch."
The girl on the couch blinked, rubbed her eyes, focused on the other girl standing over her, hands on hips. Penny was doing her best to sound simultaneously pissed and accusatory, with a hint of righteous indignation thrown in.
"What did you do with him?" Penny jabbed a finger at the witch. "And don't mess with me. I'm a lot tougher than I look."
Amy sat up, shook the cobwebs out of her head. "What?"
"Pay attention, blondie. Where's Allen?"
Amy stifled a yawn. "Is there any coffee?"
"This isn't fucking Denny's. I asked what you did with Allen."
It registered in Amy's eyes what Penny was asking. She sat straight, suddenly alert. "Allen's missing?"
"Duh."
"What happened to him?"
"That's what I'm asking you," Penny said. "I let you guys sleep because you were wiped out, but I just looked in on him and he's not there."
Amy stood, went to the bedroom, and looked inside. "No signs of a struggle. Did he leave a note?"
Penny frowned. "Are you trying to say you didn't have anything to do with his being gone?"
"Why would I still be sleeping on your couch if I'd called my people to come kidnap him?"
Penny shrugged. "Hey, I don't pretend to understand your cloak-and-dagger bullshit."
"You're coming off a bit hostile."
"Fuck you."
"See? That's what I mean."
"Two years!" Penny held up two fingers. "Two damn years I've been working on that boy. I nursed him back from the edge after he broke up with that Goth whore Brenda. Two damn years invested, and you come along with your blond hair and suntan and tight little ass and get your hooks into him in twenty-four hours."
"I do not know what you are talking about."
"The hell you don't." Penny folded her hands under her chin and batted her eyelashes. "Oh, my. I'm just so tired. Let me climb into this tiny narrow bunk next to you with nothing but a towel on."
Amy frowned. "Hey!"
"I'm not doing the soft sell anymore," Penny said. "Allen's mine, and that had better be crystal clear right now or somebody's going to get hurt. And I don't mean me."
"Is that a threat? Are you actually threatening me? Do you know who I am, what I can do to you?"
Penny's grin was pure wicked. "And you don't know anything about me either, blondie. I can turn your day real bad real quick."
Muscles tensed, both women looking like they might pounce at any second.
See, now this is where we should have a totally awesome catfight.
Have you ever seen two women go at it? I mean, two furious women with blood in their eyes, claws out, teeth bared? It's pretty hot. Lots of long hair thrashing around and clothes getting ripped off.
If I were in charge of such things, it would be catfight time. But I have no such power to manipulate the universe. Alas, my role has been relegated to that of observer. And reporter. The cosmos has put me into this position for the sake of posterity. It doesn't mean I don't enjoy the occasional naked catfight. Not this time.
Instead, this happened:
Amy held up her hands, took a step back, and exhaled. "Whoa.
Hold on."
Penny eyed her with suspicion.
"I'm not after Allen," Amy said. "Not like that. Hey, I understand what it looked like. Sorry about that. But my only concern is keeping some very powerful magic out of the wrong hands. Nothing else."
"That's all Father Paul wants too," Penny insisted. "And he said he wants to keep Allen from getting hurt."
"Wait. Hold on. You talked to the priest."
"Uh..." Penny bit her bottom lip, looked away.
Amy backed away, tensed, glanced at the doors and windows.
"Oh, my God. Are they coming here?"
"No!" Penny said quickly. "No, I... I didn't think Allen would want me to do that. As a matter of fact, I went in to wake him up so I could talk him into seeing Father Paul. I wanted to convince Allen he could help."
"Oh, yeah? Like your priest helped back at the safe house. With machine guns."
"They were trying to rescue Allen because you kidnapped him."
"This is getting us nowhere," Amy said. "Did you mean it when you said you didn't tell the priests Allen was here?"
"Yes."
"I haven't told my people either," Amy said. "So let's say we're both being fair and honest. Who does that leave to help Allen?"
Penny narrowed her eyes at the witch. "What do you mean?"
"I mean he's out there somewhere. If the Society didn't snatch him, and if the priests didn't take him, then where is he?"
Penny frowned. She was trying to think it through. "You think he left on his own."
"I don't know. Maybe he was trying to get away from me, or maybe he just didn't want to put you in danger. But right now we're the only people who can help him. Neither one of us wants to see him hurt. Let's put our heads together and go find him." Amy offered her hand. "How about it?"
Penny eyed the outstretched hand a little longer than was probably polite. She took it, and they shook.
"I'm going to need a cup of coffee," Amy said.
"There's a place down the street," Penny told her. "Let's move."
