Barnaby dragged his sorry ass back to Jane, steering the car back to the cabin.
His entire existence. For nothing. And the relief he felt from that kill earlier today, like it somehow gave his life purpose? Bunk and hypocrisy.
The only thing preventing his separation from humanity waited in that cabin.
His instinct for danger went off the charts, nearly blinding him.
Fifty yards before cresting the top of the mountain, he stomped the brakes and parked the Nova. Leaving the door open, he disappeared into the woods and slunk his way to the cabin. With the sun down, the darkness allowed him to get within twenty feet of the front door.
A dark Chrysler Imperial hissed and popped in front of the closed cabin door. Where the living room window had been, now jagged pieces of broken glass jutted up from the sill. Voices and thuds from within the cabin iced Barnaby’s blood.
Jane.
As he crouched and sidled to the window, the voices confirmed his worst fears.
“Why are you doing this, Thompson?” Her voice, thin in the night air, drove Barnaby to a protective madness.
When he peered through the ruined window, light from the bedroom cast two men in shadows. But the voices came from within that room.
The minion.
And Jane.
Barnaby heard a metallic click that stopped his heart.
With one smooth movement, he drew the knife from his leg sheath and hurdled the windowsill. In two steps, he’d reached the men in the doorway and felled them with lightning-fast thrusts of the knife.
Before the men could drop, Barnaby sunk the blade into the chest of a big, hulking man several feet away from Thompson.
Pivoting, Barnaby spied Jane’s mouth opening in an O of horror as Thompson aimed a gun squarely at her. She clutched the closet doorknob in a white-knuckled grip.
“Don’t move,” the man snarled.
Thompson could have been talking to either of them, but Barnaby held still, just in case. The distance to save Jane from a bullet was too great. The bed and a minion stood in the way. Barnaby could vault the bed but would never stop Thompson in time.
But if the minion fired and missed, that would give Barnaby enough time to get to Thompson.
Locking his gaze on to Jane, Barnaby mouthed the word “down.” When Thompson spun back to him, Barnaby held stock-still.
“I will not have my empire destroyed by lowlifes like you two,” Thompson seethed. His eyes darted over the bodies of his fallen comrades, and he wiped sweat from his forehead. “I won’t fail my master, either.”
“We won’t tell,” Barnaby said.
Thompson’s wild, minion-insane eyes rolled in his sockets. “Don’t care what you will and won’t do, Indebted. I’m removing your options. Besides, lord Jerahmeel requires my obedience. Therefore, if I cannot mate with her, then she will die.”
Barnaby hurled himself at the man.
Thompson pulled the trigger.
Jane dropped to the floor, limp.
Thompson nailed Barnaby in the head with the butt of the gun, staggering him backward. Barnaby shook his head and planted his feet, ready to strike, but his hands were empty.
The knife lay on the floor, inches from Jane.
As she lifted her head and reached for the knife, Barnaby howled a warning to stop. Any mortal who touched the blade would die instantly.
Recoiling as if a snake had bitten her, Jane curled into a ball as Thompson took aim at her again.
Barnaby hit the man square between the shoulder blades, and the gun went off in a splinter of wood inches from her head. Jane yelped. God, if she’d been hit ... Barnaby leveled Thompson with a few good blows and a cracking kick to the shin. Then Thompson planted his meaty fist into Barnaby’s cheekbone, enough to make stars spin around Barnaby’s head. Whoreson minion was tremendously strong.
Thompson cocked the gun again. “All right, you first, Mr. Hero. I’ll take my time finishing off Ms. Rat afterward.”
Not acceptable. Barnaby drove Thompson into the far wall, indenting the solid wood wall and knocking the gun out of the man’s hand. The desire to reconnect with the cursed knife drove Barnaby insane. He wanted to kill the minion, but he needed to have the knife in his hand when he did it. Separation from the knife tore Barnaby apart.
In the split second he turned his back on Thompson, the minion pounded Barnaby in a commendable set of kidney punches. Barnaby would piss blood later. If there was a later. He hauled air into his lungs and braced for another impact when he felt the man loom over him. Barnaby couldn’t discern much with his swollen eyes and addled brain.
Then, a bang and thud.
Then nothing.
Because he didn’t know what he would find, Barnaby raised his head slowly, praying that the gunshot had missed Jane.
Her tear-streaked face and wide, teal eyes smashed his heart to pieces. Thompson lay gasping on the cabin floor, a spreading bloom of blood soaking his shirt. Jane’s hand shook, but she kept the gun aimed at Thompson.
Then the damned minion planted his meaty hands on the floor and pushed to a sitting position.
He was getting up.
And his furious gaze had locked on to Jane.
No. Barnaby grabbed his knife and plunged it into Thompson’s chest, right below the sternum. The knife flared as it drank the corrupt soul into the metal. Barnaby sighed in blissful relief.
At a strangled cry from Jane, though, his joy at the kill drained into the floor to mingle with Thompson’s blood.
“Oh, my love,” he said softly. Easing the gun out of her grip, he set it far away from the now-still body on the floor. Quickly, he cleaned and stowed his knife.
“Barnaby? You came back.” When her voice cracked like that, his heart flipped over.
He pulled her into his arms and held on until she squeaked in pain. His grip was too tight. Couldn’t help it. This was Jane. He’d nearly lost her because of his pride. She was his last anchor to humanity.
Without her, he would be a husk of a man. A sham of a living creature.
He brushed his mouth over her forehead, almost to convince himself that she lived. Her skin, clean and vital, reassured him.
“Oh my God, those men—Thompson—was going to kill me. What happened to Thompson? He looked bigger, meaner ... possessed, almost,” she said. “You killed them so quickly? With that knife?”
Leaning back, he blew out air he didn’t know he’d been holding. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“You really are a killer, aren’t you? That whole story was completely true.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you.”
She pushed a fall of hair off of her face. “Well, I’m a killer now, too.”
“It’s not the same. What you had to do was different.”
Her voice registered as barely a whisper. “I killed him.”
“He would have hurt you, Jane. Besides, you only slowed Thompson down so I could finish him off.”
Staring at her shaking hands, she said, “It’s still a crime.”
“No. It’s self-defense. Truly.” How refreshing to see someone care about their kill. Barnaby had lost that sensitivity a hundred or so years ago. “Let’s get out of this room,” he said, helping her step over the two bodies in the bedroom doorway.
He deposited her on the couch, knowing he should clean up the cabin and dispose of the bodies. But he couldn’t do it right away. He couldn’t let go of her.
That damned knife warmed his leg in sated satisfaction, almost taunting him.
Because the reason Barnaby hadn’t been here to protect her would be an issue until the end of time.
Which was more important? Feeding the incredible knife lust and retaining near-immortal status?
Or Jane.
After dropping a kiss square on her soft lips, he stroked her long, tangled hair. What would life be like, spending every day with her in his arms?
Damned amazing, to be honest.
He eased her away from him with another kiss and worked on setting the cabin to rights. When he moved the bodies, lifting each one like it weighed nothing, the horror in her eyes indicted him more than any uttered phrase ever could.
A monster. He’d become a monster.
Hours later, as false dawn made the sky glow, Barnaby had removed all traces of blood and glass. He’d run the Chrysler off a cliff and scattered the bodies all around. Hopefully carrion birds would take care of the evidence well before anyone discovered the dead men.
All that remained was to replace the window, and the cabin would be back to normal.
Only, truth be told, he never wanted to come back here.
This cabin represented his attempts to escape his empty existence. This place represented where he nearly lost what he held most dear in this world.
God willing, this cabin would soon be part of Barnaby’s distant past.
Slumping into the couch cushion, he leaned back.
“Are you okay?” Jane asked.
“You’re alive, so yes.”
“Yes, well ...”
So he went for levity. Anything to smooth the furrows from her brow. “Hey, great shooting, by the way.”
“Thank goodness they taught us women some useful skills.” Her tiny smile gave him hope.
“You were perfect. I’m only sorry I wasn’t here before Thompson found you.”
“You had to go. Your job.” She held up her hand. “Look, it’s okay. I understand that some things are out of your control. Lord knows, I get that.”
Pushing back to his feet, he paced. “I want to try for a future with you, but not as the creature I am right now.”
“I don’t understand.”
A caged animal. He’d become trapped between what he wanted most in this world and the monster he had become. He pivoted and stared at her. “I can’t live like this anymore.”
Even in the early morning light, he couldn’t miss how her cheeks paled.
“Live like what?” she said.
“Jane, I ... need to collect my thoughts.”
“What?” she whispered, wrapping thin arms around her legs.
He’d do anything to remove the stark fear on her lovely face.
Anything?
The answer whispered, like a gossamer thought floating just out of reach.
What did his instincts tell him? His traitorous sixth sense had gone to sleep.
No help there.
A new kind of panic, different from what he’d felt since finding Jane, grabbed hold of him and didn’t let go. He couldn’t breathe.
“I’m sorry. I, um, need a little space.”
The downturn of her lips hurt more than anything he’d felt in four centuries. But he had to get his head screwed on straight.
“You need space?” Her flat voice drifted in a hopeless, gray tone.
He reached out, then dropped his hand. “It’s not like that.”
“It never is, Barnaby.” Her lips pressed into a sad, straight line.
“No, Jane, it’s not what you think.”
“You presume to know how I think?” She didn’t meet his eyes but stared somewhere over his shoulder. “Go. Get your space.”
“Jane—”
“Go.”
He walked to the table, looked straight at her, deliberately placed his car keys on the table, and strode out of the cabin.