Midnight's Kiss(64)

She feinted with her other knife, and he checked it with one shoulder. The blade bit deep, slicing through muscle to scrape the bone. He headbutted her and heard cartilage crunch.

The entire struggle, he knew, would have been nothing more than a confusing blur to Melly.

Telepathically, he shouted at her, We can’t risk her getting hold of you, or she’ll use you against me again. RUN!





Twelve




Melly knew Julian was right, so she whirled and ran. Leaving him was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

If Justine slipped out of Julian’s hold and came after her, the Vampyre could move so much faster, she could catch Melly in a matter of moments. Melly tucked in her chin and sprinted as hard as she could.

Her delicate ballet shoes had never been meant for the kind of treatment she had put them through, and they offered almost no protection now. Stones and uneven pavement bruised the soles of her feet. She forced herself to ignore the pain.

Meanwhile the sky continued to lighten with brilliant, deadly streaks of sunshine. She had thought nothing could ever be as bad as her nightmarish run through the tunnels, chased by ferals, but she was wrong. With every second that passed, she expected to feel Justine’s hands slam down onto her shoulders.

What was happening between Julian and Justine? The attack had occurred so fast, but Melly was almost positive she had seen Justine stab Julian at least once. Please gods, don’t let her kill him.

Still surrounded by silent buildings, she came to a T-section, turned right and kept running.

Then another intersection. Right again. Keep track of your turns, Melly.

Ahead, a rocky hillside rose up, strewn with bits of trash, signaling the end of the warehouses. As she reached the end of the buildings, she paused only long enough to glance both ways.

When she saw what looked like the shoulder of a real road to her left, she bolted toward it.

Her breathing came hard now, and she was forced to strike a balance between pacing herself while still running as fast as she possibly could. When she reached the road, she looked around. Small houses dotted the unkempt landscape. Several of the houses had boarded-up windows.

Three blocks away, a glaring blue neon light shone at the front of a shabby one-story building.

The illuminated letters read:

ROADHOUSE OPE.

No N.

Even though dawn was breaking, at least a dozen motorcycles were parked underneath the sign.

Motorcycles. Not a single car was anywhere to be seen. Damn it.

She raced toward the building, slammed through the front door and didn’t come to a stop until she was several feet into the main room of a bar.

Judas Priest rocked over the speakers. Bikers dotted the room. Some slouched at the bar, while a few played pool. Several were deep into some kind of card game that involved a pile of cash sitting in the middle of a table.

Most of the bikers were human, but there were a few ghouls as well. As she glanced around, she saw beards and black leather jackets everywhere.

Heads lifted at her precipitous entrance. As they all turned to face her, silence fell over the room. The bartender reached under the bar, and the song cut off.

“Well, damn,” somebody said. “That’s unusual.”

She could only guess what she looked like. She was wearing at least three days’ worth of grime and blood. Her trouser outfit, originally a stylish cream color, had turned gray and was covered with streaks of brownish red. The bruises on her arms and throat had bloomed into full Technicolor, her cuts and scratches were covered in dark scabs, and while she had finger combed her hair, her attempt at keeping it tidy had only served to make each individual curl spiral out in every direction.

Chairs scraped as everyone in the room stood. Eyes wide, they began to advance on her.

She retreated a couple of steps, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath.

She said, “I’m Melisande Aindris, and I’ve been kidnapped. I’ll pay someone thirty thousand dollars for a bike with gas in the tank, along with a jacket and a helmet, and a cell phone…” She had to pause to suck more air. “And does anybody have a gun?”

There was a concerted rush toward her. The bartender leaped over the bar, joining the rest as they jostled and shoved each other. Disoriented and overwhelmed, Melly backed up.

When all the movement finally stopped, Melly found herself pressing back against a wall, and every biker in the place extended a gun toward her, handgrip forward. Two were sawed-off shotguns. As she stared at them, a bearded fellow extended his other hand, offering a switchblade as well.

One of them said, “I realize this might not be a good time, but sometime when you’re having a better day, can I get your autograph?”

Another man snapped, “Seriously, George. Not appropriate right now.”