Bereft: Demise

56 | Of a Hunt's Finale

The skies over San Barkett were as gray as smeared ash when the winter squall began its march through the coastal town. The clouds' swollen bellies dragged upon the rooftops and lingered at the crest of the mountains. It wasn't raining. Not yet—but the Sin of Wrath could smell the oncoming storm like the blood of a wounded animal about to die.

He savored it. 

Sethan sniffed again at the dirty, torn sleeve tied about his wrist. It had once been a vivid blue but was now as drab as the sky. The faint scent of orchids filled his nose, then vanished, but he could sense the twin of that scent nearby.

Oh, it had been a long hunt. Balthazar had given him the shirt months ago, and Wrath had spent those months sniffing and traipsing through the years of Sara Gaspard's life. He followed every crumb of information backward through time, pulling himself along that rope an inch at a time until he had returned to her beginning. It had been a long hunt, but Sethan was at its end.

The Sin paced the suburban street, his long coat brushing the side of his legs as the first drops of rain splattered upon his shoulders. The two vampires stumbled in his wake, both hungry and mindless under the sway of his compulsion. The one was an older vampire, a man who had spent too many years scrounging in the shadows under the boot of the otherworlders to mind being Sethan's servant. The other, a young woman freshly turned, kept fighting him but was far too weak.

Sethan let his nose lead him along the street as he listened to the quiet hush of suburbia and the tap-tap of droplets landing in puddles. His eye was drawn to a new-traditional house with white columns and a lot bordered by juniper bushes. A large dogwood tree dominated the yard, dormant for the winter.

He stopped at the mailbox and stuck his hand inside, withdrawing a water-spotted flyer addressed to Luc Gaspard.

A smile curled at the corners of the Sin's lips. Crumpling the flyer, he exerted his will over the two creatures shivering in his shadow. He wordlessly sent the male to scout the lot and the yards, and the woman went to block the rear door. Sethan started up the brick walkway.

It was late in the afternoon, but not quite late enough for the mortals to be asleep. Sethan could sense their movements as if he were a shark and they were fish thrashing in the water. Every ripple stirred his hunger and threatened to break the tenuous serenity of his mind. He dared not move too quickly, lest it awaken him again.

The lock didn't hold against his touch. It shattered, and the door swung open on silent hinges. The interior of the home was dimly lit but spotless, the furniture and wood floors swept and polished to a lasting shine. Voices murmured within, accompanied by the low strains of a television.

Sethan silently shut the door and continued inside. The shadows veiled his ominous presence.

A woman was speaking. Seeing as no one was replying to her, Sethan guessed she was speaking into one of those little telephones the mortals were so fond of. He followed the sound into a spacious living area positioned off the main foyer. A middle-aged woman with umber hair and unblemished skin was speaking into the phone as she paced behind a sofa. A man—tall and slender with sable hair and scarred ears—sat on the couch, watching the television.

"You listen to me, Saryt Gaspard," the woman all but snarled into the phone's receiver. "I am your mother, and you will answer my calls. Don't think for an instant I don't know you're sending me straight to voicemail. Return my call immediately!"

She lowered the phone and softly swore as she dragged a hand through the fine hairs escaped the clip restraining the rest. The bluster she had shown seconds before was leached from her.