The King(78)

Benloise was going to slowly die, alone.
And when someone found the bodies inside the facility? This year … next … a decade from now?
The cover Benloise had constructed was going to be blown.
Upstairs, Assail performed a sweep of the open room. He found two more phones, which he turned off, removed the batteries, and slipped into his pack. He left the guns and ammo, and was careful to shut the door and test that it self-locked.
It did.
Walking around the squat little building, he found a petroleum tank in the back. Locating the gauge, he noted that it was only a quarter full. Given how cold it was at this elevation, he guessed that the supply would run out within a day or two.
The bodies would be stored in a rather cool environment. Good to keep down the smell, not that there was going to be much of that getting out, given the small windows upstairs, all of which were closed.
He was about to take off when he noticed a car parked off to the side.
Heading over, he lifted its camouflage cover and tested one of the doors. Locked.
If he blew it up, the fireball would attract attention, and that was not desirable. He let the tarp fall back into place.
Closing his eyes in preparation to dematerialize, he saw his Marisol coming out of that door. And it was as he shuddered that he became one with the night air, casting his molecules to the south, to a rest area approximately twenty miles down the Northway.
Re-forming, he got out his cell and dialed Ehric.
One ring. Two. Three.
“She is just fine,” his cousin said by way of greeting. “She has eaten and had some water. And she is anxious to see you.”
Assail sagged in his own skin. “Well done. I am where we agreed.”
“Did you accomplish all and sundry?”
“Indeed. Is there anyone upon you?”
“Neither in front nor behind, and we are but two miles from you.”
“I shall wait here.”
Hanging up, he stared at his cellular device. His first instinct was to get her to his home, but she was going to require medical attention—and she would want to be cleaned up and clothed before her grandmother saw her.
Assail’s next call was to his own home, and when the heavily accented female voice answered, he found himself blinking away tears.
“Madam,” he said roughly. “She—”
“Not dead,” the old woman moaned. “Meu Deus, tell me she—”
“She is alive. I have her.”
“What? You say again, please.”
“Alive.” Although he wasn’t sure about any kind of “well” part. “She is alive and within my care.”
Frantic speech now, in the mother tongue. And though Assail knew none of the words, the meaning was not only clear, but something he agreed with.
Thank you, Scribe Virgin, he thought, even though he was not religious.
“We are far from Caldwell,” he told her. “We may not make it before dawn, in which case we shall be home after sunfall.”
“Speak to her? May I?”
“Of course, madam.” Up ahead, a pair of headlights mounted a rise on the highway and came down toward him, paring off on the exit ramp. “I need but a moment, and I shall put her on.”
The Range Rover piloted directly over to him, taillights flaring as Ehric slowed.
“Here she is, madam,” he said as he opened the rear door.
Marisol was wrapped in that sleeping bag, and her color was better—at least until she looked at him and what little blush she retained in her cheeks immediately disappeared.
As Assail felt confusion, Ehric twisted around, glanced at him—and recoiled. With a quick circle, he indicated his own face.
Oh, shit. Assail must have blood all over his mouth.
“Your grandmother,” he blurted, shoving the phone at Marisol.
Sure enough, that did the trick to redirect his female’s attention—and as she reached out like he was offering her a lifeline, he reshut the door.
Wheeling around, he headed to the public facility behind him at a dead run, located the men’s room portion and entered the lineup of urinals and toilet stalls.
Over at one of the sinks, he looked into the flat panel of stainless steel that served as a mirror.
“Fuck.”
Not what any female wanted to see, especially after she had been subjected to a capture: His face was indeed covered with blood, his jaw and lips marked with the stain—and his fangs … the tips of his fangs showed.
Hopefully the gore of his visage had been what she’d reacted to.
Bending down, he attempted to turn on the water and cup his hands, but the faucets were the kind one had to hold in place to make operational. The process took him too long, filling a single palm and bringing it to his face over and over again. And then there was nothing to dry himself off with.
Sloughing his hand down his features, he assessed his hair, which thanks to Paul Mitchell had retained some semblance of attractiveness—