In the mural she had been checking out right before the light had come on, there was a door depicted off to one side, as if the viewer could go through it to access another part of the fake estate.
Bringing the flashlight close to the wall, he found a faint break that followed the artist’s contours of the portal, an actuality in the midst of the illusion.
Duran backed up. Took three running jumps.
And slammed his body into the “door.”
The access panel gave way, the plaster that covered the wooden supports powdering under the impact, and he caught himself before he face-planted in the passageway beyond.
The scents were unmistakable. More than that, now that he was calming down, he could track Ahmare because he’d fed from her, zeroing in on her as if her body had a beacon attached to it.
She had not only come through here; she was somewhere not far.
Shining his flashlight ahead, he followed the cramped crawl space at a run and found her weapons thirty or forty feet down, the guns and knives scattered as if they had been stripped off her in a hurry. He almost left them. But as urgent as this was, he had no idea what he was going to find, so he tucked the pair of autoloaders into his belt and left the hunting knife and length of chain behind.
As he continued along, heart pounding, palms sweating, half his brain was enraged, the other terrified.
Some forty feet farther down, he came to the end of the passage, and he didn’t waste time. Turning his shoulder into the solid wall, he gave himself a runway, as he had done before, and threw himself at the panel—
Like a sledgehammer hitting a steel plate, instead of breaking through, his body baseballed back, becoming airborne.
Landing on his ass, he skidded over the concrete floor, losing his flashlight, the beam of which settled at a haphazard angle focused on the panel.
Back up on his feet, he gave it a second try. And like the panel was improving its punch, he was thrown even farther, his breath getting knocked out of him as he hit the floor.
Passcode, dummy.
As he caught his breath, he saw in the beam of the flashlight that there was a passcode pad to the left, and he launched himself at it. Entering the digits, he slammed that pound key—
On the far side, he heard with his keen ears the sound of a fight.
This was good. It meant she was alive.
He shoved against the panel. Nothing gave way.
Entering the code again, he banged with his fist so she might hear that he was coming for her—
The lock did not budge. The code he had did not work.
As Ahmare slid belly-down over the floor, she felt the chair leg go into the meat of her shoulder.
The penetration was so deep, her momentum stopped as the wooden stake pinned her in place to the linoleum.
Even through the pain, she stayed focused on the pearl, reaching, straining. Inches, she had only inches—
“Is that all you’re after?” the Dhavos said through heaving breaths. “Chalen’s worthless beloved?”
Thunderous impact. Over on the far wall. Like someone had hit it with their entire body.
Duran, she thought.
There was a sudden hush, as if the father had recognized the son’s presence. And then . . . an inhale. A long, slow inhale.
“Dearest Virgin Scribe,” the Dhavos whispered with reverence.
“I thought you only believed in yourself,” she muttered.
Another impact, so loud she could have sworn Duran was going to come through the plaster.
“No,” Duran’s father said. “Your blood . . . so long it has been for me. A proper feeding . . .”
Pounding now, like Duran was hitting the other side with his fists.
“He’s coming for you,” she vowed grimly. “Let me go, and run for your life. I’ve seen what he’s like when he attacks, and I promise you, you will not live through it.”
The chuckle above her was evil. “I’m not worried. That’s a steel door. He will not make it through—so we have plenty of time here together to get acquainted.”
All at once, the stake was removed and she was freed—from the floor at least. But before she could twist around and get at him, he gripped the back of her neck and pushed down so hard, she thought her face was going to be crushed—
Sucking. On the wound.
The bastard was taking her blood.
Ahmare felt a wave of power come into her, and suddenly, it didn’t matter that he was a male and he was strong and he weighed more than she did. Planting her palms, she did the push-up of all push-ups, lifting her chest and the body on top of her off the floor. So great was her anger at the taking, she got her knees up under them both as well.
And then she let out a roar and threw Duran’s father off her, sending him flying into the stacks of chairs.
She was on him in a heartbeat, attacking with her own fangs, taking a hunk out of the side of his neck—except he didn’t fight her. He went limp and laid himself open, his eyes rapturous as he looked at her, her reaction captivating him in an unholy way.
Yeah, she would cure him of that one.
Ahmare kneed that bastard in the nuts so hard, he sat up like a schoolboy, cupping what she’d nailed, his eyes popping from pain.
She wanted to keep going at him.