Possessed by an Immortal

“Jonathan!” Her voice held an edge she didn’t like.

The wad of boy and blanket shrank tighter. She rested her forehead on the arm of the chair for a moment, summoning patience. Forcing the issue would simply start a struggle that would last half the morning. Her son—oh, bliss—had inherited her stubborn streak.

She changed tactics. “If you’re good and put your shoes on right away, we’ll find waffles for breakfast.”

There was no response.

“With syrup and bacon.” Bree studied the blanket ball for signs of surrender. It was hard to read. “I’ll count to three. If I don’t see your feet, no waffles for you.”

She poked the blanket with a finger. That got her a giggle. Good sign.

“We have to go.” The doctor’s voice was urgent.

“In one minute. I have to get his shoes on.”

“Now.” Mark picked up the boy, blanket and all, as if he weighed no more than a stuffed toy, and braced him against his shoulder. Jonathan made a protesting noise, but not for long. Mark hushed him, one large hand ruffling the boy’s hair. He gave Bree a look made inscrutable by a pair of dark sunglasses. No hint of a smile.

She tried not to notice how well the dark glasses showed off the fine sculpting of his lips and chin. She wasn’t sure she wanted to like him, much less lust after him.

“You bring his shoes and my medical bag,” he commanded.

Bree obeyed, stuffing the shoes in her pack, but every instinct wanted to rip Jonathan out of the doctor’s arms. That was her son. He had interfered. Still, she followed Mark out of the cabin into the damp morning air.

Jonathan seemed perfectly content loafing against the man’s shoulder. That stung, too. She had grown used to being her son’s only protector. Hot, tingling anger crept up her cheeks, barely cooled by the mist.

Mark led the way beneath the trees, moving in a swinging stride that made her trot to keep up. The sun was up now, slanting across the dew-soaked greenery. Where autumn had kissed the leaves, golds and reds shone like scattered jewels. Her temper eased. It was hard to hold on to anger in the face of such beauty, and she was too tired to make the effort.

Easier by far to watch the lithe movement of his body through the forest. It was like watching a panther on one of those nature shows. The play of his muscles against tight denim did something to her insides.

As the path began to angle downward, she heard the distant purr of the plane’s motor beneath the incessant chatter of birds. The sound made her heart lift. On the mainland, they could get a decent meal, a bus to civilization, medical help, a new place to hide. Bree didn’t know what she would do after that, but there would be an after, thanks to that plane.

And thanks to Mark. He stopped at the edge of the trees, Jonathan still propped against his shoulder. He held the boy one-handed, which impressed Bree. Her son was getting far too big for her to do that for long.

She followed Mark’s gaze to the sky, now kissed a fading pink that reflected in the silvery water. Ropes of mist shrouded the end of a wooden pier. This spot was farther south than where she had landed last night.

“Where’s the plane?” she asked.

“There,” Mark said, nodding his head to the southeast.

Bree drew a step closer, suddenly far too aware of being near a good-looking man. It wasn’t just his handsome face that unsettled her. It was the fact of his physical being: tall and broad enough to shelter her from the searching breeze; strong and alert enough to offer protection. And yet—that was a problem in itself. It felt like an ice age since she’d noticed a man, and it felt risky. She’d shut down that part of herself for far too long. How good was her judgment? You’re better off alone. You know that.

And yet, solitude had its own vulnerability. Standing next to Mark reminded her how raw her loneliness had left her. Every kindness left her close to tears. But what if trusting him is a mistake?

She didn’t see the plane at first, but in a moment or two, it emerged above the trees right where he indicated. The stubby body made the craft more of a duck than a swan, but it made a graceful enough landing. It began gliding toward the shore, leaving a glittering wake behind its pontoons.

Bree took a step forward, but Mark grabbed her wrist. “Wait.”

High above, a raven croaked.

“What?” she asked, the sun losing all its warmth.

“Your friends from last night have joined us,” he said quietly. “Or maybe they’re here for me. Either way, they’re not bringing roses. Wait until the plane docks before making a move.”

“How do you know they’re here?” she said under her breath. “How did they know the plane was coming?”

A sudden wave of panic hit her. Did he call them? He was holding Jonathan. Was this a trap? She wanted to grab her son and fade back into the woods, gathering the sheltering green around her the way Jonathan had hidden under the blanket.

For a split second, Mark studied her from behind the dark glasses, somber and silent. As if sensing her uneasiness, he handed her Jonathan. The boy settled on her hip, and the doctor tucked the blanket around him with practiced efficiency. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if he’d ever had a child of his own.

Holding Jonathan calmed her instantly. The next moment, Mark had drawn the Browning from under his jacket and was checking to make sure it was loaded. She clutched her son closer, glad that the walk had lulled him back into a doze.

The plane glided closer, turning to one side before the pilot cut the motor and drifted in next to the pier. Bree watched as a tiny arched door opened just behind the wing. A man jumped out, using one pontoon as a stepping stone before hopping onto the pier and grabbing a mooring rope. Using one foot to stop the drift of the seaplane, he anchored the craft securely to the pier.

Mark stepped from the tree line, motioning Bree to stay put. A bullet slammed into the rocks at his feet. Bree gave a startled cry that woke Jonathan. She clutched him, backing into the trees as he started sobbing in her ear.

Mark dropped to one knee, returning fire. He was angling the shot upward and to the right. Whoever was shooting was higher up on the rise. Bree saw the pilot of the floatplane draw a gun, scanning the land behind and above her. Even from this distance, she could tell he was hesitating, not sure what to do.

Bree’s heart sped, suddenly thumping double time. A jumble of thoughts raced through her brain, most of them focused on the open stretch of beach between her and the plane. How was she going to get Jonathan across without both of them getting killed? How did the gunmen know we’d be right here?

Another shot came from Bree’s left. The pilot fumbled with the gun a moment and finally returned fire.

Bullets were coming from the right and left. Two shooters! Bree’s breath stopped. She was no strategist, but to her it looked like the gunmen had them caught between pincers. And even if they got across the beach, a stray bullet in the plane’s fuel tank could cause an explosion.

Jonathan’s sobs were escalating to a hoarse, breathy wail. Bree cursed herself. He was frightened by the noise, but even more by her terror. She had to calm down. She took a gulp of air, forcing herself to breathe.

Mark wheeled. “When I start firing again, run for the plane.”

“Are you crazy?” Her voice was high and thin, choked with panic.

“Larson and I will keep them busy.”

“But—”

His mouth was a grim line. “It’s your one chance. Now, go!”

He started firing a deadly, insistent barrage of bullets. Blam! Blam! Blam! She understood what he meant by keeping the enemy busy. They’d either be ducking or aiming at him—and too busy to worry about her.

“Go!” he repeated, his voice on the edge of a snarl.

She ran, covering as much of Jonathan with her body as she could. It felt like a crazy game show, or a terrible episode from some thriller movie. It just didn’t seem real. Her. Bree. Bullets. She tried to pretend she was just running for the bus. It was about the right distance, half a long city block, maybe.

A bullet whizzed by her ear. She stumbled, Jonathan’s weight dragging her down. Somehow she got her feet under her and kept moving. Go, go, go! If she thought about what she was doing, she’d be too terrified to move. Only a few yards now.

Larson went down with a scream. Blood bloomed on his leg, staining his khaki pant leg crimson. Jonathan was wailing in her ear, a steady tearing sound that made her want to scream herself, to snarl at him to just shut up so she could think. She was so terrified, her breath was coming in wheezing gasps because her body was too tight to function.

Her feet hit the wooden pier, the pounding echo of her footfalls adding to the din. A black haze was clouding the edges of her vision, but whether it was fear or lack of oxygen was hard to tell. Another bullet skimmed her elbow, a lick of heat telling her it had grazed her skin.

She stumbled up to the plane. The pilot was on the pier, one hand pressing on his wound, the other still holding his gun. She crouched next to him.

“Get inside,” he ordered. “Fast.”

Bree looked for stairs, or a ladder, and then remembered he’d used the pontoon. A strip of ocean gaped between the plane and the pier, wavelets making the pontoon a moving foothold. She might be able to climb over the watery gap, but not her son. Fresh panic engulfed her.

“Go!” Larson barked, then let off another volley of shots.

“I’ll go first.” Mark was suddenly behind her.

Bree jumped as he touched her, her nerves wound too tight for surprises. But she was insanely glad he was there and in one piece. He jumped onto the pontoon, his movements quick and sure. Then he grabbed the handhold by the door and made the long step inside without hesitation. He turned. “Pass me the boy.”

Apprehensive, Bree rose from her crouch, still cradling her son. The pier was only a few feet from the edge of the plane, but it seemed miles. She put one foot on the bobbing pontoon and angled her body to shorten the distance between Jonathan and Mark’s outstretched arms. Her son protested, digging his fingers into the cloth of her coat and catching a handful of her hair into the bargain.

A bullet rammed into the plane, inches from Mark’s head. She jerked in fear, but he had Jonathan firmly in his hands. For a moment, she thought everything would be fine.

And then her foot slipped off the pontoon. Bree’s hands clawed for the handgrip, the edge of the door, anything, but she was falling. Another bullet smacked into the plane, just above her groping hand. Her knee hit something, and she was deafened by a loud, shrieking sound.

Her shoulder jerked in its socket, stopping her in middrop. The noise stopped, and she realized it had been her. As her mind cleared, she realized Mark had caught her under the armpit and was keeping her out of the water with the strength of one hand. Frantically, her feet scrabbled to find the pontoon again. Then, with both hands, Mark lifted her through the door.

“Are you all right?” The words were brusque.

“Yes,” she answered automatically. She didn’t actually know yet, but he was out the door again before she could reply.

She shoved the pain aside. She could still use her arm, so her own injuries were the least of their problems. The shooters were finding the plane a much easier target than humans running around the beach. It was only a matter of time before they hit something important.

There were four seats behind the cockpit, two rows of two, and some space for cargo. She put Jonathan in one of the seats and helped Mark pull the pilot inside. Larson was white-faced and sweating, letting out a steady stream of profanity as the doctor heaved him through the door.

“Lay him down,” Mark ordered as he left the plane one last time so he could release the mooring lines.

Bree helped the man to the floor behind the seats. Mark hopped in behind him and went to the controls, pausing only long enough to fasten a seat belt around Jonathan.

“Can you fly this thing?” Bree asked anxiously. Obviously, Larson wasn’t going to get them out of there.

“Yes,” he answered, starting the engines. “There’s a first aid kit in the back. Do you know any first aid?”

“I do.” She’d taken a course when she first found out she was going to have a baby. She’d been so determined to be a better parent than hers had ever been.

“Apply pressure to the wound. Elevate the leg. It didn’t hit an artery, so you should be able to hold him until we reach Redwood.”

“How long?” Bree asked, but the sound of the motors drowned out her question. Another bullet pinged against the side of the plane.

“Don’t worry,” Larson said, wincing as he shifted on the floor.

“Don’t try to talk.” Bree was hunting for the first aid kit, trying to ignore the rattling vibration as the tiny aircraft taxied toward open water. She’d been left in charge of a bleeding man, and her hands were shaking and sweaty. Don’t you dare die on my watch!

Mark was a doctor. It should have been him doing the first aid, but she couldn’t fly the plane. Irrationally, she scolded herself for never taking pilot lessons. If they got out of there in one piece, that was going to be high on her to-do list.

The waves bumped under the pontoons. The plane felt to her like a toy powered by a rubber band. Her stomach began protesting against the motion.

Finally, Bree spotted the familiar red cross painted on a white tin box. She pulled it out from under the right-hand seat. “You’ll be okay,” she said a little too heartily. “I promise.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine.” He winked, as if to give her courage. It would have worked better if he hadn’t been as pale as death.

He had a nice face and sandy-brown hair. She knew the type—a little past his prime, a little overweight and a lot of good, kind heart. He looked as if he would have been happy sitting in a bar telling fishing stories to his buddies.

“You don’t need to worry about the plane, either,” he added. “It’s got the best lightweight bulletproofing money can buy.”

Bree’s hands stalled partway through unlatching the lid of the first aid kit. The plane didn’t look like anything special. Neither did Larson. Bulletproofing? What was he, a smuggler? That would explain why he seemed to be a pretty good shot once he finally decided to start shooting.

“I don’t want to know,” she replied, digging through the kit for scissors. She found some with rounded tips, made for cutting away clothing, and bent to slice through his blood-soaked pant leg. “I just want to get out of here with everyone alive.”

“I can get behind that.” He winced as she worked around his wound.

“At least they didn’t seem to be very good shots.”

“Don’t underestimate how hard it is to shoot a moving target in a stiff wind. They got me and they clipped you from a good distance. That’s better than you think.”

Bree didn’t want to think. She peeled away the cloth from his wound, exposing the bloody mess the bullet had made of his thigh. Stomach rolling, she turned away, searching in the kit for sterile pads. She wasn’t normally squeamish, but this was worse than anything she’d ever seen. Sweat trickled down her back.

She found a sterile pad and ripped open the pack. “I’m sorry if this hurts.”

“I’ve had worse.” Still, he sucked in his breath as she pressed down on his wound. He pushed her hand out of the way, and then pressed down twice as hard himself. It was a necessary evil. They had to stop the bleeding. Bree found a triangular bandage and tied the pad in place, knotting it tight but not so tight that the circulation would stop completely.

“Is there water on board?” she asked. “You need fluids.”

“Cockpit,” he ground out. “If you find anything stronger, bring that.”

Just then, Bree felt the plane lift from the water, a lurch as if she had leaped into the air herself. She grabbed the back of the seat, casting a glance at Jonathan. He was fine, his nose pressed to a tiny window. A typical boy, in love with anything that had a motor. She hoped he had no sense of just how much danger they’d been in.

Rising carefully, she shuffled forward between the seats. Mark was completely focused on the instrument panel and the scene below. That awareness of his presence rose again, and she made herself look out the cockpit window and not at him. Focus on what’s ahead of you. Don’t get distracted.

The view out the cockpit stopped her in her tracks. The scenery was breathtaking, a cluster of pine-covered islands scattered over silver-spangled ocean. The warmth of the sun through the glass touched her face, making her realize her skin was itchy with the salt of tears.

She raised her hand to wipe them away, but it was crusted with blood. Swallowing hard, Bree wiped it on her pant leg, which was already smeared, and then bent to scrounge around the floor for bottled water.

“How is he?” Mark demanded. Beneath his sunglasses, he looked even paler than Larson. Deathly pale. “I smell a lot of blood.”

Bree wrinkled her nose. She could smell it, too, but not enough to gauge quantity. Maybe that was a doctor thing. “Working on it. I’m looking for water.”

“Behind the copilot’s seat.” He caught her arm, reminding her that her shoulder was sore. “That’s your blood I can smell. Your elbow. It’s fresh.”

The way he said it sent a shiver through her, despite the warm sun streaming through the windows. She twisted to look, and vaguely remembered the bullet grazing her. Her sweater sleeve was soaked, but after Larson’s wound, it seemed trivial. “That’s nothing.”

“I’ll look at it when we land.” He turned back to the controls, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were fighting to concentrate on one thing at a time. He must have been tired, too.

She moved to get the water and then paused, aching to satisfy her curiosity. “How did you know those men were on the beach?”

He didn’t answer right away, but finally relented when she didn’t move. “Better to ask how they knew we were coming.”

“I’d settle for that.” The answer was simple, no big surprise. Someone had betrayed her. Someone always did. That’s why she worked alone. The moment she didn’t...

“There was only one other person who knew I was leaving the island,” Mark said.

Bree turned to the back, where Larson lay. The man had been shot. The man had kind eyes, and up until that moment, she would have sworn Mark had trusted him. “So much for friends.”

The doctor stared out the cockpit window, not saying a word.

Chapter 5

Late that night, Mark stormed into the office he shared with two other part-time physicians at Redwood General Hospital. He slammed the door behind him, beyond frustrated. Larson wasn’t talking.

At first, it had been understandable because he was unconscious. The wound was serious, but Mark had tended to it and thankfully Larson would recover.

But once Larson was awake, he hadn’t talked because he was afraid. Someone had threatened his grandchildren. Someone he feared more than Mark—and that was saying something.

The phone rang. Mark snatched it up. “What?”

There was a beat of silence. “I see someone had their grumpy pills today.”

It was Faran Kenyon, werewolf and fellow member of the Horsemen.

“What?” Mark snapped again. He wasn’t in the mood for Kenyon’s antics. His skin itched like the devil. He’d been exposed to too much sun on the plane and now he looked pink. He’d already used half a tube of medicated cream and smelled like the victim of a bad diaper rash.

And the scent of blood on the plane had gotten to him badly. As a doctor, he was used to it, but Bree had been bleeding. The blood of strangers was one thing. The blood of a woman who had caught his notice was something else. Dangerous. Tantalizing.

“Next time you send a top-secret report to the captain, blind copy me,” Kenyon said, breaking through his thoughts. “Otherwise, all I get are bits and scraps. I heard about the damsel in distress showing up and you deciding to get her and a sick rug rat to town, but why the shoot-out in the bush?”

“I was tracked. I found a letter inside my cabin.”

“Who from? The health department?”

“The Knights of Vidon.”

Kenyon swore.

“Indeed,” Mark said with wry humor. “Vampire slayers apparently take no vacations. Therefore, I don’t get one, either. Unfortunately, the letter was from one of my longtime fans. It was a surprise. I haven’t heard from that family for a very long time.”

“Who?”

“Nicholas Ferrel. I knew the taste of his ancestor.”

“Creepy. How long ago was that?”

Mark sat down at the desk, and was greeted with stacks of files plastered with sticky notes. Sign this form. Initial that one. Complete another mountain of logs and charts. He shoved them aside with a sweep of his arm. “Five hundred thirty years, give or take.”

“And his descendant still holds a grudge? What in blazes did you do?”

“It was a different era. Listen, I’m sending some blood samples by courier. I’ve addressed them to you, but would you send them over to the lab when they arrive?”

“Sure. Anything I should know?”

“They’re for the boy. There’s something about his case that worries me. Redwood is just a small regional hospital. I want the Varney labs on it.”

The Varney Center in Los Angeles was the West Coast hub of the Company and the North American headquarters for the Horsemen. As well as the usual mountains of data intelligence, spy toys and black ops coffeemakers, it had an exceptional medical facility. There were few things that made Mark go weak in the knees, but those labs counted. The fact that he got to work there was one of the main reasons he had joined the Horsemen.

“Not to sound like the trolls in accounting, but he’s a human, right? Should we be using our resources for this?”

“Do I ever ask for favors?” He knew very well that the answer was negative.

Kenyon sighed. “Dare I ask why now?”

“The woman has insurance issues. If there’s a hassle, tell them to take it out of my pay.”

Kenyon was quiet for a moment. “If you’re that involved—”

“I’m not involved,” he said quickly. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong, and that frustrates me. I became a doctor for this kind of science.” Not to mention atonement for all the lives he’d taken.

Kenyon’s voice was cautious. “The boy’s really sick, isn’t he?”

“Maybe. Probably.” Closer examination had confirmed his earlier fears. Whatever was wrong was chronic and debilitating—almost certainly something in his blood. He could smell it. “But I don’t want to say anything until I’m absolutely certain. I don’t want to put his mother through any false alarms.”

He swiveled the chair around so that he could look out the window. All he got was a view of the parking lot, growing dim in the fading light. Besides sending a brief report to L.A., he’d spent hours treating Larson, then more time testing Jonathan and looking in on some other patients he had in long-term care. He’d lost track of time, and now the clock said it was after six in the evening.

A whole day back in the human world. He already missed the green of his island retreat, where he didn’t have to fight to wear a civilized mask. Where choices were easy.

“I have bad news,” Kenyon said. “You don’t get to hang around up there playing Dr. McGrumpy. The boss wants you in L.A.”

“Now?”

“Right now. He’s sending a plane to pick up Larson. Raphael got the copy of your statement.”

The boss. Raphael. “His timing is inconvenient.”

“Sorry. He wants you on the plane. He’s scooping up Larson’s family, bringing the whole lot of them in so that they’ll be safe. Then he’s going to question Larson again. He wants you present for that.”

We’ll see. Mark had never liked having his leash yanked, and thoroughly resented it now. “Then I need you to do one more thing. I want an ID on this woman. Her name is Bree. The boy’s name is Jonathan. He’s almost four years old.”