“Who the hell are you?” Her husky voice sounded harder than iron, but her eyes were wide and unblinking.
Adam didn’t answer. He was too busy appraising the locks. With enough time and the proper equipment, he could override the electronic keypad. Unfortunately, he lacked the luxury of either. Besides, it wasn’t his business. As a reaper, his obligations lay with the dead. He had no right to interfere with the living. Those lessons had been drilled into his head countless times. Always collect your appointed souls. Do not alert humans to our presence. Do not question Fate. And for the love of God, do not alter destiny. His mentor’s words echoed in his ears, the only thing keeping him from running to his truck for a hacksaw.
Frustrated, Adam balled his hands into fists. If he had a lick of sense, he’d leave the house before he did anything stupid. But something about the young woman called out to his soul, tugging so fiercely he found it impossible to turn away. A deep sense of connection flashed through his blood—swift, strong, and given the situation, completely inappropriate. He’d never experienced anything like it, and it knocked him completely off balance.
His phone vibrated in his back pocket, jarring him from his thoughts.
“Get your ass out of there,” Martin said when Adam answered the call. “Your boy’s on his way back to the nest, and it looks like he brought company.”
Shit. According to his notes, the killer worked alone. Since when had he recruited a partner? “All right, I’ll be there in a minute.” Adrenaline surged through his veins as he disconnected. There wasn’t enough time to break the blond free. But what kind of man would he be if he left a defenseless woman in the hands of psychos? Fuck destiny. The least he could do was give her a fighting chance at survival. To the best of his knowledge, she wasn’t fated to expire any time soon, and in his book that made her fair game.
“Hey!” the blond shouted when he stormed out of the room, fear rising in her voice. “Come back! Let me out of here!”
The sound of the garage door opening shot Adam’s pulse into overdrive. With time running out, he rushed to the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone from the charging station. He dialed as he walked, and by the time he reached the back room, a 911 operator had picked up the call.
“Please state the nature of your emergency,” a woman said on the other end of the line.
Adam shoved the phone through the narrow steel bars. His gaze locked with the woman’s long enough to insert a mental suggestion.
You’re at 816 Heron Cove. I was never here.
She stared at him, a puzzled expression on her face as he turned and raced for the exit. He heard her speaking to the emergency operator, and relief flooded his heart. With luck, the police would arrive within minutes and free the poor woman from captivity.
The sound of a car engine shut off in the garage. Adam’s pulse pounded in his ears as he flicked off the lights and yanked the front door open. As he stepped over the threshold, he heard the creak of the door that connected the garage to the kitchen. Quietly, carefully, he closed the front door, praying they wouldn’t notice the unlocked dead bolt.
Not looking back, Adam ran to the truck and slid behind the wheel.
“What took you so long?” Martin’s nose crinkled. “Dude, you smell like roadkill.”
Adam shot him a withering glare as he turned the key in the ignition. “What did you expect? It doesn’t smell like fucking lilacs in there.” He twisted his neck and sniffed the sleeve of his shirt. Yep, he reeked of death, which meant a shower and a fresh change of clothes before heading out to the bar. After he clicked on his seat belt, he reached over and switched on the police scanner.
Martin glanced down as Adam adjusted the dial to pick up the right frequency. “What are you listening for?”
“Nothing.” The code for a drunk and disorderly came over the speaker, followed by an officer acknowledging the call and stating that he was en route. What the hell? Where was the dispatch to save the woman? Maybe they’d already made the call and he’d missed it. He drummed his fingers against the gearshift, hesitant to leave the scene until he knew an officer was on the way.
Martin’s thick eyebrows furrowed. Even in the darkened space of the cab, it was obvious he wasn’t buying Adam’s bullshit. “What did you do?”
Before Adam had the chance to think up a lie, another call came over the scanner. Possible kidnapping and murder, suspects armed and dangerous. Dispatch advised officers to approach the scene with no lights and no sirens. Good. At least they were taking the call seriously. From the sound of it, one of the units was close enough to arrive in under a minute. Thank God. Adam slipped the truck into gear and pulled away from the curb. The last thing he needed was to get dragged into a multiple murder investigation.
Martin’s mouth dropped open as they sped past the killer’s house. “You didn’t.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Your job.” Martin let out a grunt of disgust. “Fucking Boy Scout. You know better than that. Samuel’s gonna tear you a new one.”
“Only if he finds out.” The memory of what happened to his mentor sprang to mind and an icy ball of dread settled in his stomach. Samuel always found out.
The Night Voice
Barb and JC. Hendee live in Oregon. Barb is the author of the Vampire
memories and Mist-Torn Witches series. Her short fiction and J.C.’s poetry,
nonfiction, and short fiction have also appeared in many magazines and
anthologies. Visit them online at www.nobledead.org or on Twitter at
@NobleDeadOrg.
