FIFTEEN

From the sound of the witch’s pulse, I know she has procured a car and is driving south at high speed. There’s a Porsche Carrera—a favorite of mine—parked down the street from the hotel, and I break the lock and hot-wire the engine and am soon in pursuit.

I have two points of focus as I drive. One, I pay close attention to the road. With my supernatural reflexes, I’m a better driver than those who compete at a professional level. But even I cannot exceed the limits of the vehicle and the terrain I happen to be on. Fortunately the roads are fairly deserted, and I’m able to keep my speed above a hundred miles an hour.

The pulse of the witch’s heart is my homing signal. Listening closely, it tells me a few things about her. Her wound is worse than I thought. My shot must have torn an artery. She’s still losing blood. It also tells me that these creatures, although strong, don’t possess my regenerative powers. Claudious killed himself so fast, I was never sure of this fact until now.

My elbow heals as I drive.

The witch is three miles ahead of me when she stops at what I assume is the train station. Over the span of thirty seconds, I follow her with my ears as she boards a train and leaves the station. The train’s departure is too much of a coincidence. They must have studied its schedule ahead of time, in case they had to flee, or in case they had me in their grip and wanted to get me out of the city before I could summon help. They might be operating under the erroneous belief that I have allies, I don’t know.

The layout of the roads doesn’t help me. I lose several minutes finding a freeway that’s heading the right way. I suspect the witch’s heading for the southern tip of England, which means she’s probably trying to get out of the country. There are two ways she can escape—by driving under the English Channel or else taking a ferry across. I doubt the hovercraft operates at this time of night, but I’m not sure.

I push the Porsche up to a hundred and fifty miles an hour, its maximum speed. It doesn’t take long before I have a policeman on my tail, but he can’t catch me, not the way I’m weaving in and out of traffic. Still, the highway isn’t busy, and for the most part I’m able to keep the accelerator to the floor.

The witch’s train comes to a halt, and I listen as she departs and runs in the direction of what sounds like the harbor. The train station is adjacent to where the ships leave for France, and it’s looking more and more like that’s her destination.

I have to assume she knows the schedule of the ferries. It worries me. If she gets on a boat and it leaves the dock before I can arrive, I could be forced to follow by driving beneath the Channel. I doubt even my ears can track her with that much earth and water overhead. This is probably a part of her plan: to slip outside my radar, then make an unexpected move and vanish.

The watch I have taken from Edward continues to glow a dull green. It’s an interesting device, and I would like to study it at leisure, but I don’t trust it. They could be using it to track me. I throw it out the window.

I take time to examine the handcuffs and their matching keys. I don’t recognize the alloy but know they brought them for me. For most of my life, I’ve had the strength of at least ten men, a factor that slowly increased as I aged. Fifteen years ago, when Yaksha and Kalika both died in my arms, they gave me their blood, and my powers increased another tenfold. However, despite my strength, I can’t break these cuffs. It’s a sobering thought. If they do manage to get them on me, I will be their captive.

The alloy is a product of a technology mankind doesn’t possess.

Just like the acid that vaporized Claudious.

Damn it! The ferry leaves the instant the witch boards it.

I’m five minutes behind. I park at the harbor and rush to the water’s edge and watch as the ship recedes over the black water. There’s a good chance that driving under the Channel I can beat the boat to the other side and be in position to welcome her in France. Yet the prospect of losing track of her continues to haunt me. If she thinks I can no longer hear her, she’ll do something drastic. For example, she could jump in a lifeboat and paddle back to Britain.

The cop who was chasing me pulls into the harbor parking lot. He has brought backup. I ran from the car so fast—he doesn’t know it was I who was in the vehicle—but he’s taken the Porsche into custody. A pity, the owner kept it in good shape and I enjoyed its speed. However, it makes my next decision easier.

Standing on the edge of the dock, I remove my coat and boots. I keep only one of Edward’s guns—I assume it’s waterproof—and the two sets of handcuffs. Already, the ferry’s a fading silhouette in the night. I estimate its speed at twenty miles an hour. I can swim faster than that, for a short time, but even I will eventually tire. Plus each second I delay just makes the chase that much more difficult.

I dive off the dock and into the water.

Vampires dislike the cold. I suspect it has something to do with the fact we’re related to yakshinis, mystical serpents. In the same way lizards or snakes are slowed by cold, it weakens me. But two factors come to my aid. August is the hottest month in Britain, and the island’s climate is moderated by what’s called the North Atlantic Drift—a remnant of America’s Gulf Stream, which flows up the East Coast before turning out over the Atlantic. For these reasons, the water is surprisingly warm, and I’m able to swim faster than usual.

It would be easier if I was naked, but I’m reluctant to give up my gun and the handcuffs. The witch may be wounded, but she’s armed. There’s even a good chance she can hear me coming. It’s hard to hide the splashing sounds I’m making. If she starts shooting as I near the boat, I want to be able to shoot back.

I swim mostly freestyle, but occasionally alternate my strokes to use different muscles. The switching helps conserve energy.

Thirty minutes after leaving the dock, I close in on the boat. For a short while I let myself drift, catching my breath, listening. My foe has moved to the rear of the ship. She definitely knows I’m coming. That means she’ll soon be taking aim at me in the water.

I decide on a bold strategy, and a difficult one. I hyperventilate for three minutes and then dive beneath the surface. I can hold my breath a long time, but it’s harder when I’m running or swimming flat out. Yet the security of having thirty feet of water overhead is hard to resist. The witch can’t shoot through such a barrier. Also, I suspect she won’t be able to hear me coming. For the first time tonight, I’ll fall off of her radar, even though I’ll still know exactly where she is.

A funny thing happens as I near the boat. A herd of dolphins swims by and acts like they would like to play. I love dolphins, and my telepathic gifts have taught me they are far more aware than mankind realizes. But I admit I’ve never been able to decipher their complex language.

I think it’s because they are conscious, but not the same way humans are conscious. It’s almost like they live in a constant dream state. When I tune in to their minds, as I do now, I feel a profound peace. The feeling is one of floating, of drifting on invisible currents in a vast sea humans can’t see with their physical eyes. I suspect we have only glimpsed the tip of the iceberg when it comes to such remarkable animals.

They appear to sense I’m aware of their thoughts and pull up beside me. It takes me a moment to recognize their offer. They know I’m tired and hungry for air, and they offer to tow me toward the ferry. There’s a big one on either side, almost pressing against me. I just have to reach out and hold on. Ah, it’s such a relief to rest. Again, it’s silly, I know, but I feel as if Krishna is trying to help me. It’s impossible not to believe in a benevolent creator while swimming in the company of such loving beings.

The dolphins swim away as I pull alongside the boat. Near midship, I surface and search for something to grab hold of, finding a portal at the waterline. Once again I relax, and catch my breath, yet I breathe softly. The last thing I want to do is alert the witch that I’ve reached the ferry. I go so far as to alter my heartbeat so it more closely resembles a normal person’s rhythm.

Like on most ships, there are ropes hanging down from the deck, and I grab one and haul myself up. With the late hour, most people are inside the ferry. I stop to listen. The witch is waiting at the rear of the ship. She thinks I’m still in the water. I suspect the noise of the ship’s engines have thrown off her hearing. The ferry is due for an overhaul. The turbines make a loud grinding noise as we plow through the water. All these factors work to my advantage.

I’m reluctant to get in another shooting match with the woman. I need her alive. Above all else, I can’t let her commit suicide. I suspect it’s a standard walking order when it comes to them: Under no circumstances are you to let the nasty vampire interrogate you.I don’t know why they hate me so much. What did I ever do to them?

When I spot the woman, she’s in the middle of an operation. Using a steak knife, she’s attempting to dig out the bullet I put in her shoulder. She’s doing a piss-poor job; there’s blood all over the bench where she sits. The stuck bullet may be the reason she hasn’t healed. I have trouble healing around impaled objects. But I suspect these people, for all their gifts, are more vulnerable than me.

A handgun rests in her lap, and her eyes don’t stray from the water. Indeed, she has a pair of binoculars, and that makes me think she drove a prearranged car to the ferry. I wonder if she has other equipment on hand, though she should have packed a medical kit. Her people probably didn’t think I’d put up such a fight.

Listening to her heartbeat, I know she is weak from blood loss. But that doesn’t mean I underestimate her. These people are fierce. Even with her wound, she could kill a dozen humans in the blink of an eye. The fact that I want her alive adds to my difficulties.

She’s alone, which is good, and I doubt her bench can be seen from the captain’s control room. The noise of the engines also gives me cover. But I hesitate to approach her on foot. Her ears are too sensitive for that.

What to do?

I reconsider putting another bullet or two in her. That will slow her down and give me a better chance of rendering her unconscious. At the same time, I don’t want her shooting back.

I must muffle the sound of my gun. I go in search of a restroom and steal a thick roll of paper towels. I check to see if Edward’s gun is still dry, and am not surprised to find the weapon and its ammunition have weathered my long swim without problems.

Back on deck, I climb up to a second level that circles an enclosed snack bar. There are a handful of patrons inside. They pay me no heed. I can no longer see the witch—she’s hidden by the walls of a lower lounge—but I know she’s still on the bench. For a minute I stand still, calculating the wind, our speed through the water, the shifting waves.

Then I spring high into the air, straight up.

On the surface my plan may appear odd, but in reality it’s simplicity itself, and probably the last thing she expects. What goes up must come down. While I’m in the air, the boat moves closer to its goal. However, I’ve timed my jump so that I’ll land on the rear deck before the boat pulls too far away. Actually, I’ve timed my leap so that I’ll land on the bench beside the woman.

Floating through the air, I shift my cocked pistol behind my roll of paper towels. I begin to descend before I see the woman. That’s fine; I’ve timed everything perfectly. When she finally bursts into view, she doesn’t even know I’m above her, and I’m able to take my time as I aim at her right knee.

I fire. The bullet, although silenced by the paper towels, still makes noise. It strikes its target, and the woman gasps in pain as the round shatters her kneecap. She tries to pick up her gun, and I let her. Then I shoot it out of her hand, crippling her right leg and hand in two quick strokes.

Landing beside her, I run into a problem. The bench wood is old and worn. It caves in and I have to struggle to stay upright. In my fight to stay on my feet, my arms shake and my aim falters. The woman has three bullets in her, but she’s not ready to quit. With her left leg, she kicks both my legs out from beneath me and I fall toward the deck.

Only by spinning in midair do I manage to avoid landing in a helpless lump. Yet, as I spin, she pulls another gun from her jacket and aims it at my head. I’m lucky her gun hand is attached to her bad shoulder and her control is poor. Before she can cock the trigger, I put a fourth bullet in her left palm. Again, her gun goes flying.

I hit the deck. The woman stands, even with her bum knee, and kicks me in the face. The blow is impressive; it hurts. My nose breaks, and a jet of warm blood shoots from my nostrils. For a fraction of a second, my world is filled with twirling red stars and black holes, and I see her wind up for another kick. I have no choice. I shoot out her other knee. Finally she goes down, and I manage to get up.

“Don’t move!” I shout as she lies facedown on the deck. This isn’t exactly what I planned. If she has a suicide tooth in her mouth, she can use it now, and I won’t be able to stop her. Yet this woman acts like someone who wants to live. Sort of.

“Shoot me and get it over with,” she mutters.

“What’s the fun in that?” Kneeling beside her, I yank both her arms back and snap the handcuffs in place. She tries to rise, and I grab her by her dark brown hair and smash her face in the deck. I apply the other set of cuffs to her ankles. If I can’t break them, she can’t. Pulling her upright, I set her on the end of the bench that’s still intact. I rip off her weird watch and throw it overboard. Both our noses drip ridiculous amounts of blood.

“Are you in pain?” I ask.

She sneers. “What do you care?”

“Well, I don’t care all that much. But if you’re hurting, and you have medicine aboard, I’ll give you some.”

“We don’t carry medicine to reduce pain.”

“Too bad, you’ve got five bullets in you. It’s going to hurt to dig them out.” I frisk her as I speak and find another gun, a knife, and a stun grenade. These toys I decide to keep. She also has an assortment of canisters that resemble tiny spray cans. They’re different colors, but otherwise they’re unlabeled. “I assume one of these causes instant and agonizing death?” I ask.

“Why are you talking? Shoot me.”

“I have no reason to kill you.”

She glares at me but trembles with her pain and perhaps fear.

“You’ll get nothing out of me,” she swears.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

This is no place to banter. We’ll be spotted soon. I have to get her below. Not all the people who boarded the ferry were on foot. The lower deck is loaded with cars, which approximately half the passengers are taking to France. My best bet is to find a suitable vehicle and stow the woman in the trunk and drive it off the boat. Border control between France and Britain is not a concern. The flow of traffic between the countries is pretty open. If I do get stopped at a checkpoint, I can always smile and bat my eyelashes.

Of course, my secret passenger must remain silent.

Reaching out, I grasp the two main arteries and veins in her neck and squeeze.

She loses consciousness almost immediately.

I get to work.