There's Always Tomorrow (Immortal Series) Page 2

  Everything seemed to vanish as he drifted somewhere between life and death. As the cold wind howled, Anthony Bowles, second son, closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Nadia wiped the tears from her face and looked down at her swollen and bloodied ankle. She had been very fortunate, unlike the handsome men that had come to her aid. With great difficulty, she managed to walk over to the man with the dark hair. He had freed her foot and she needed to know if he survived.

  “Sir?” she whispered. He did not respond. Blood had soaked his jacket and pooled upon the soft earth beneath his head. She thought he breathed, but it was unclear.

  “Grandfather,” she muttered.

  Nadia knew that this man, and perhaps his friend, needed the kind of help that only her grandfather could provide. Looking around the clearing, she picked up the man’s large stick and used it to brace her body. “I’ll return for you,” she promised the man, as she fled back through the woods.

  * * *

  Rollo looked at the two gadjos lying on the ground, and sadly shook his head. They were still with the living, but just barely. The wounds they had suffered were indeed mortal, and he had a decision to make.

  His lovely granddaughter, Nadia, had pleaded with him to save the two strangers. This he could not do, but he would take them back to his camp and make them as comfortable as possible.

  “Help me, Nadia. We’ll load them into our wagon and take them back to camp. They will die in peace, there.”

  “No, Grandfather. You must save them. They saved me. They fought bravely and it isn’t fair that you should allow them to die.”

  “They are not like us, Nadia. They are not gypsy. I will attend to their pain and see that they die well. I’ll say no more on the subject. Now, help me.”

  As Rollo and Nadia rolled into camp, curious men and women approached their wagon.

  “What do you have there, Rollo?”

  “Is Nadia badly hurt? I see the blood on her foot,” one older woman declared.

  Guiding his colorful wagon to its proper location, Rollo ignored the curious onlookers. After unhitching the horse, Nadia’s grandfather went in search of Dante to help him with the injured men. Dante was his brother and could be trusted not to speak out of turn.

  Upon closer inspection of the bloody wounds, Dante looked at his older brother with fear in his black eyes. He crossed himself. “It is a wolf that has done this?” he whispered cautiously.

  Rollo nodded. “The gadjos fought more than one, to protect our Nadia. I must care for them, but they will not survive night, I’m afraid. We’ll clean them up, and in the morning I’ll need help digging their graves.”

  The two gypsies worked for the next several hours, attending to the men’s fatal injuries. After doing all that could be done, Rollo turned down the light and stepped out into the cool, night air. He felt very old and needed his sleep.

  Nadia had waited patiently for her grandfather to finish with the injured men. As soon as she saw her grandfather exit the wagon, she rushed to his side and asked, “Are they going to survive? Did you save them?”

  “No, Nadia. In this, they will not survive.”

  “But you can do it. I know you can. Please, Grandfather, they were so brave. They saved me and I must not let them die. Have you tried everything?”

  The tired, old man put his wrinkled hands on his granddaughter’s slight shoulders. “Listen to me, child. I cannot save them. It is kinder to let them die peacefully, as it is written. They are not gypsy, and they do not understand our ways. Believe me, Nadia, it is best if we honor them with a decent burial.”

  “I’ve seen the medicine you keep in the blue box. I know you can save them,” she accused.

  “No!” he shouted harshly, and stomped away from the child.

  Rollo was snoring loudly, asleep under the wagon, when Nadia climbed the ladder and stealthily entered through the rear door. Her bare feet made little noise as she crossed over to the wooden chest her grandfather stored under her bunk. Inside, locked safely away, were his most treasured possessions, including the two powders sealed separately in the blue urn. It was wrong to steal from her grandfather, but the young girl refused to allow the handsome men to die without trying everything she could to save them.

  Nadia had seen her grandfather heal men and animals, alike, with the powdered mixture. He’d stir in some water, making a thick paste, and rub it into their wounds, or he would have them drink it in a strong tea. They never died.

  Her small hands shook as she carefully picked at the simple lock. Her mother had taught her how to use a pin and trip the catch. A soft click told her she was successful. Carefully, she lifted the urn from the chest, and sat it on the table. Removing the lid, she opened the packages wrapped in oilcloth, and spooned a bit into a bowl. She mixed equal parts of powder with water, making a smooth, thick paste.

  The man with the yellow hair seemed to be very close to death, as Nadia removed the bandage from his chest. The angry redness of the gash across his white flesh almost made her gag. Taking a large amount of the paste, Nadia gently applied it to the worst of his injuries. He made no response as she rubbed it in, praying it would work.

  After rewrapping the bandage, she turned her attention to the Englishman with the dark hair. He looked kind, and had fought so bravely. Her heart lurched in her small chest as she touched his cool forehead and straightened the stubborn curl that had fallen over one eye. Even with all the cuts and bruises, he was remarkably handsome, she thought.

  Saying a silent prayer, she unwrapped the linen cloth, covering his throat, and gasped at what she saw. The flesh was completely torn away, exposing his muscles and the tendons beneath. He’d lost an enormous amount of blood. For the first time, she feared he might die, even with the help of her grandfather’s medicines.

  The wounds were treated and dressed, when Nadia decided they should also drink the powders. It certainly couldn’t hurt them and it might increase their odds of survival. Mixed with water, not tea, the young girl forced some of the putrid liquid over their lips, trying to get some of it into their stomachs. Neither swallowed, but she was confident the liquid had drained past their throats.

  “I pray I have done enough,” she sighed. “God will watch over you and so will I.”

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Rollo and Dante were surprised to see the two gadjos were still among the living. By the third morning, Rollo noticed their wounds were healing nicely and rapidly, too—too rapidly. They should not have survived the first night.

  “What have you done, Granddaughter?” Rollo shouted, from the back of the wagon.

  The young girl had been busily preparing his dinner over the fire, and was surprised to hear the anger in her grandfather’s voice. Never had he yelled at her like that.

  His face was dark with rage. “You disobeyed me and gave the medicine to the gadjos.” He walked up to the girl and slapped her once, very hard, across her innocent face. “They will live, now,” he grumbled, and walked away, shaking his head in dismay.

  Standing alone, tears began to flow down Nadia’s reddened cheeks. She truly did not understand. Quietly, she asked, “These two good men will now be able to have their lives back, and go home to their loved ones. What is so bad about that?”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Present Day

  Tony sat watching the big-breasted blonde lounging at the end of the bar. Every man in the club had seen her come in and had tried to get her attention. Unfortunately for them, she seemed to only have eyes for Tony.

  Perhaps it was his sultry, green gaze peering through incredibly long lashes; or it was his raven-black hair, worn longer than fashion dictated, that caught her interest. His skin was smooth and tan, and with the exception of the large scar on the side of his neck, he appeared flawless. He looked slightly dangerous in his black shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and his black designer jeans, worn low on slim hips. His well-polished, black boots were hand tooled and obviously custom designed.
Upon his index finger, she noticed he wore a very large and unusual looking emerald ring—an heirloom, and no doubt priceless. The man exuded class, power, and old money. It was a lethal combination.

  More than likely, her interest in Tony stemmed from the fact that he was the only man in the place that didn’t pay her the least bit of attention, and she was unused to that. Taking a deep breath and allowing her breasts to overflow her delicate silk blouse, she noticed the reaction she got from every man within view—every man with the exception of Mr. Gorgeous. This would be an enjoyable challenge, and one she intended to win.

  She smiled seductively, and ran her pink tongue over her luscious, swollen lips. Holding her martini glass high, she motioned to the dark and brooding stranger at the opposite end of the bar. His smoldering good looks had fired her imagination, among other things, and she was determined to go home with him tonight. “Dear God, don’t let him be gay,” she prayed, silently.

  Tony curled his lips in distaste. Sure, she was sexy as hell, but there was nothing genuine about her. Most women were beautiful, nowadays, it seemed. It was the availability of cheap cosmetic surgery that made it all possible. With enough money, even the plainest Jane could wake up from the anesthesia and discover she was a cover girl. Plump up the lips to twice their natural size, trim the nose to a dainty point, shape the chin and thighs, add a few hair extensions, three-inch acrylic nails, and glue on some white veneers…and there you have it! Voila! No boobs? Don’t sweat it. You can buy them in any size you want.

  No. The women, of today, were not for Tony. He liked his women real—that is, if he had a woman. He’d given up on women decades ago.

  He’d seen enough for one evening. Tony slapped some bills down on the counter and turned to leave, when...

  “Ugh,” he grunted. A tiny little redhead ran smack into his chest, forcing him back down onto the stool he had just vacated. He had to admit she was adorable, with freckles liberally sprinkled across her pert little nose, and large, expressive, periwinkle eyes. She was also frightened out of her wits.

  “Watch it, honey,” he said, softly. “Are you okay?”

  The petite woman looked up at him, even though he was seated, pleading with her beautiful eyes.

  Tony could identify a damsel in distress. He grasped her by her small shoulders and guided her to a secluded table in the corner of the bar.

  “Can I do anything for you, Miss?” Tony didn’t really want to get involved, but he couldn’t just walk away without knowing the kind of danger she was in. She probably had a bastard of a boyfriend that needed some lessons in manners.

  She swallowed. “I think I’m being followed,” she whispered. “I’m afraid to leave here alone. The police have discovered another body, just two blocks from my apartment. Now, I feel ... I think someone is following me.” The young woman tried to catch her breath. Her eyes darted over the faces in the bar. “Perhaps it’s just my imagination, but...”

  “Perhaps not,” Tony warned. “May I offer my assistance? I could escort you home?” Tony liked the feel of her silky flesh under his fingers. It had been a long time. Her lovely red-hair smelled clean and fresh. Her pouty lips were moist, and the mere thought of them made his mouth water.

  “Thank you,” she said, softly. Her voice quivered slightly as she tried to disguise her fear. This stranger was enormous, and he made her aware of her own vulnerability. However, he seemed to honestly care about her welfare. “I think I’d like that. My name is Marci Goodwin, by the way. What’s yours?” she asked, innocently.

  “Anthony Barton, but my friends call me Tony. Let’s get out of here, Marci.”

  It had been raining earlier in the evening, but the clouds were starting to break apart, revealing a bright full moon. The couple had no problem seeing the refuse strewn over the sidewalk and the bums passed out in the doorways of the various businesses. The neighborhood had definitely seen better days, Tony lamented, as they passed very few people, on the way to her apartment. Only the clicking of their shoes, on the pavement, disturbed the silence.

  As they rounded the corner, Tony slowed his steps. “You live in Tribeca?”

  She nodded.

  “Nice part of town, if you can afford it. You live here alone?” She must have a good income, he thought, or perhaps she was a trust fund baby.

  “What is it with all the questions?” Marci stopped, and looked up into Tony’s chiseled features. What was it she saw there? Yes, he was extremely handsome, but there was something else hidden there, beneath his seductive smile. He exuded a masculine power that tended to overwhelm those around him, especially tiny redheads. There was an element of danger surrounding him, too. Suddenly, Marci no longer felt safe in his presence. He was too tall, too muscular, and too attractive.

  “I ... I live right up there,” she stammered, as she pointed to a dark building. “Thanks for seeing me home. You can go now, Tony.” She pulled away too quickly, not to cause some suspicion, and practically fell over her own feet. Clearly, something had spooked her.

  “Marci,” Tony called out, after her. “I’d like to see you to your door. It’s not safe for you to walk alone. Where are you going?” Tony knew she didn’t live in the building she had pointed to, and he thought it was too bad that she didn’t want his company. After avoiding the blonde all night, Marci had been natural and refreshing, and he thought spending time with her would have been enjoyable. Besides, there was evil in the night air. He could smell it. That old, familiar feeling of danger had been lurking around since the sun went down. As Tony turned away, he hoped the kid got home in one piece. It was a bad night to be out.

  Marci never turned to look back at the large, dark figure standing alone, watching her from the sidewalk. She practically ran around the corner, fleeing from the only real protection she had.

  “Take care, Marci,” he had yelled to her, as she disappeared around the building.

  * * *

  “Two in one night!” the chubby waitress exclaimed. “Can you believe it? It’s not safe for a woman to show her face at night anymore. The paper says the second body was attacked right outside her own door. No one saw or heard a thing. When I get off work, I’m goin’ home, lock the doors, and stay there ‘til tomorrow.”

  Tony looked at the front page of the morning paper. Just below the headline were two pictures. Victim number one appeared to be a middle-aged woman, a bit on the heavy side. The second victim had red hair, freckles, and a pert little nose. Tony bet she had periwinkle eyes and lived in Tribeca. “Damn,” he muttered to himself. “She was a lovely little morsel.”

  He growled quietly, as he continued reading the article. There was a killer on the loose in New York City, and he seemed to enjoy slashing and mutilating women. The cops didn’t have a clue as to who they were looking for. The perp was obviously psychotic and quite strong, to be able to inflict the kinds of wounds they were seeing. Tony was amazed that no one had mentioned the obvious. The women were attacked on the full moon. Duh! “Give them time,” he muttered to himself. “They’ll figure it out,” he smirked.

  It wasn’t long before hysteria started to settle in over the city. It was hard to breathe, as everyone was viewed beneath a heavy blanket of suspicion. There were reports of mutilated pets, and rumors of zoo animals succumbing to the evil, stalking the streets. Now, a small child was missing. It was reported that a trail of blood led from a playground, into the nearby woods, and then simply disappeared. The child had been snatched just before dusk, and within yards of his own mother. So far, his body had not been found. The mother was being held for questioning.

  “Enough of this nonsense,” growled Tony. If the inept NYPD couldn’t find this maniac and stop him, Tony would. He’d done it before, and he recognized all the signs. Sadly, it was his calling to rein in one of his own kind, when they went mad or gave in to their more depraved instincts. He’d call his friend, Grant, and see what news he had on the crimes. Grant was the best P.I. in New York, even if his contacts were somewhat outs
ide the boundaries of the law. Grant figured when it came to scumbag criminals, and the like, it wasn’t too important not to cross some lines.

  Pulling his cell from his pocket, Tony made the call.

  “Hello, Tony. I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” the deep voice of Grant Paulsen resonated through the phone.

  “Yeah, I’ve been trying to stay out of it. I was hoping the police could take care of things, but they’re hopeless—as usual. If we do this together, it will take less time. Who knows? We might save some poor soul from an early demise. I’ve already met one of his victims, and she deserved better than to be murdered that way. She was just a scared kid. Pretty little thing, too. Are you available?”

  “Sure. Deal me in, Tony. Why don’t you meet me here for lunch? We’ll put our heads together and see what we come up with. The way I see it, this one isn’t too smart, just vicious.”

  Tony looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eleven. “Okay. Lunch sounds good. Order me something rare,” he laughed, and hung up.

  Grant’s office was all the way across town, requiring Tony to leave immediately. Rather than drive his black Porsche, he decided to take a cab. It would allow him to close his eyes and think about things, maybe give him a chance to remember everything he’d chosen to forget.

  As Tony took his place in the uncomfortable rear seat of the taxi, he closed his eyes and let his mind wander back over the years, back to an earlier era. It was a time of great violence and much heartbreak. It was 1863, and America was embroiled in a horrendous battle for its very existence. The civil war was raging across the lush valleys and fertile fields, leaving a scorched earth behind, stained with the blood of its own sons. Tony could still smell the acrid smoke from the rifles and cannon fire. Even after more than one hundred and forty years, he could see the evidence of battle, hanging thickly in the morning air. The pungent fragrance of blood filled his nostrils, making his stomach queasy. He’d never been able to entirely clean that stench from his memory. It was there, in the midst of turmoil, that he first met Grant Paulsen; only then, he called himself, Paul Grant.