dead, finally dead. Caxton’s final bullet must have torn open her heart, her only vulnerable spot.
Her body was cold and motionless. It still felt wrong and unnatural when Caxton touched her skin. At least there would be something for her family to bury. Not that she had any family anymore, except for her brother.
One more thing. Caxton went to the wall where the four coffins lay. Three of them were shut. She threw them open, bending low to see what they contained.
They were all empty.
“Not again,” Caxton sobbed.
There had been a fifth half-dead. The one she had sprayed. It must have come back here, to protect its masters. Its mistress.
Justinia Malvern had spoken to Caxton on the phone. She had been regaining strength for the last two months, healing her body of the ravages of centuries. Jameson had been feeding her stolen blood.
Had she been strong enough to walk under her own power yet? Or maybe the half-dead had just picked her up and carried her away. It didn’t matter. Either way they could easily have escaped the mine while she was busy fighting Jameson.
Malvern was gone. She had escaped yet again. She had a real talent for it.
Caxton’s job wasn’t done.
As weak as she was, as injured, she smashed the coffin to splinters with a rusted old shovel, hurling curses at it until spit flecked her chin.
When she was done she turned around and saw Simon watching her. The light in his eyes was dim and his face was streaked with coal dust, but he managed to sit up a little. “Are you…okay?” he croaked out.
“Not yet,” she told him.
She managed to get him standing, and even to shuffle along a little as long as she supported him with her numb shoulder. Together they made the long and painful trek back to the bootleg mine and the only exit to the surface. Caxton had plenty of time to consider that Malvern must have come that same way, with the same slow hesitating walk, borne up by her half-dead servant just the way she was supporting Simon.
At the end of the corridor she pushed the trapdoor open and helped Simon crawl up, out into the cold, fresh air. Then she scrambled up herself and rolled on her back to just lie on the grass and stare up at the stars. She let Simon fall down beside her and for a while they both just breathed in clean air and let their bodies rest.
It couldn’t last, of course. There was a squeaking sound, the sound of shoes crunching through gravel and weeds. Her eyes had fluttered shut and she had almost fallen asleep, but as a pair of well-polished dress shoes came up even with her face she managed to bolt upright, her mangled hands reaching for weapons that weren’t there.
It wasn’t a vampire or a half-dead or a cop-hating resident of Centralia who had come for her, however.
It was Fetlock.
“I saved Simon. Jameson’s dead,” she told him. “So is Raleigh. Malvern got away, but if you give me back my star I can find her, I will find her—”
Fetlock shook his head. He managed to look a little sad, a little more compassionate than she had expected. He was still a Fed, though, and she knew what he’d come for.
Slowly, carefully, she raised her hands in surrender.
“I know what you did to Carboy. Ms. Caxton, I have no choice but to place you under arrest,” he said, very softly. “You have the right to remain silent,” he told her, as he reached for the handcuffs at his belt.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Carrie Thornton, Jay Sones, and so many others at Three Rivers Press who helped make this book possible.
My wife, Elisabeth, as always, showed me unwavering support during the writing process and deserves a lot more gratitude than I can express here.
About the Author
DAVID WELLINGTON is the author of
