leaves the campground near Mount Rushmore,” Connor said quietly. The accursed place where Casimir and his minions had slaughtered innocent people twice before. The same place where Robby MacKay had been held captive and tortured. If Connor had to lay a bet, he would wager this was Casimir‟s favorite location in America.
Angus sighed. “I dinna want to send Robby back there.”
“I understand.” Connor knew what it was like to be burdened with bad memories. “I‟ll leave right away.”
Angus reached out to stop him. “Ye shouldna go alone. Drop by Romatech and take one of the shifters with you. Carlos or Howard.”
“I‟ll be fine.”
“That wasna a suggestion, Connor. It was an or—”
He teleported away before Angus could finish.
Chapter Two
A strong wind whistled through the forest, rustling the trees and welcoming Connor with an unmistakable odor—the scent of death. Connor swore silently as he weaved among the trees.
How many mortals would have to die at this campground before the place was permanently closed? Sean Whelan of the CIA had covered up the last massacre by telling the media that a flu virus was to blame. No doubt the owners had cleaned the place up and invited more happy campers. More victims for Casimir and his minions to terrorize and kill.
Connor stood in the shadow of a large tree while he scanned the surroundings. Casimir could be long gone, or he might be hiding in the nearby caves.
A storm was brewing, building pressure and moisture in the air. Thick gray clouds swept across the three-quarter-full moon and blotted out the stars. A banging noise echoed through the campground, an unlatched door or shutter abused by the wind.
A sudden gust flipped his kilt up in the back, and he winced at the chilly air on his bare arse. He twisted at the waist to push his kilt down, and the wind ripped another lock of hair free from the leather tie at the nape of his neck. He hooked it behind his ear and continued his silent surveillance. Far off in the distance, he could spot the carved presidential heads of Mount Rushmore, the granite gleaming white among the dark hills. No doubt Casimir enjoyed the irony of mentally enslaving and murdering Americans so close to a monument of their strength and freedom.
In the clearing, the wooden cabins were dark. Connor couldn‟t hear any sound coming from them, no moans from dying mortals, no heartbeats. He would check them later, but for now, he assumed they were empty.
The banging noise and odor seemed to emanate from the main lodge, a rustic building made of stone and varnished logs. He sprinted toward the lodge, positioned himself next to a window, then peered inside. A large leather couch, several wooden rocking chairs, a table with a half-played game of checkers. Glowing coals in the hearth of a large stone fireplace. A homey, friendly-looking place if you didn‟t count the lifeless bodies on the braided rug.
Anger and disgust roiled in his gut. There was nothing he could do. Casimir and his minions were probably gone. The bloody bastards had already done their worst.
Still, he didn‟t want to be caught unprepared, so he drew his sword before teleporting inside. He checked the entire building. Empty. He latched the banging door, then returned to pay his respect to the bodies left in a neat row on the braided rug. Seven bodies. Throats slit to conceal bite marks, but not a drop of blood to stain the rug. They‟d all been drained dry. Rigor mortis had not set in, so they‟d died this evening, probably soon after sunset.
His anger grew, threatening to erupt. His grip tightened knuckle-white on the hilt of his sword. The Malcontents would have used vampire mind control on the campers to force them to submit. Two families, he assumed, since there were two sets of parents. Two lovely mothers.
Three beautiful, innocent, young children. The controlled fathers would have watched helplessly while the Malcontents murdered their wives and
Angus sighed. “I dinna want to send Robby back there.”
“I understand.” Connor knew what it was like to be burdened with bad memories. “I‟ll leave right away.”
Angus reached out to stop him. “Ye shouldna go alone. Drop by Romatech and take one of the shifters with you. Carlos or Howard.”
“I‟ll be fine.”
“That wasna a suggestion, Connor. It was an or—”
He teleported away before Angus could finish.
Chapter Two
A strong wind whistled through the forest, rustling the trees and welcoming Connor with an unmistakable odor—the scent of death. Connor swore silently as he weaved among the trees.
How many mortals would have to die at this campground before the place was permanently closed? Sean Whelan of the CIA had covered up the last massacre by telling the media that a flu virus was to blame. No doubt the owners had cleaned the place up and invited more happy campers. More victims for Casimir and his minions to terrorize and kill.
Connor stood in the shadow of a large tree while he scanned the surroundings. Casimir could be long gone, or he might be hiding in the nearby caves.
A storm was brewing, building pressure and moisture in the air. Thick gray clouds swept across the three-quarter-full moon and blotted out the stars. A banging noise echoed through the campground, an unlatched door or shutter abused by the wind.
A sudden gust flipped his kilt up in the back, and he winced at the chilly air on his bare arse. He twisted at the waist to push his kilt down, and the wind ripped another lock of hair free from the leather tie at the nape of his neck. He hooked it behind his ear and continued his silent surveillance. Far off in the distance, he could spot the carved presidential heads of Mount Rushmore, the granite gleaming white among the dark hills. No doubt Casimir enjoyed the irony of mentally enslaving and murdering Americans so close to a monument of their strength and freedom.
In the clearing, the wooden cabins were dark. Connor couldn‟t hear any sound coming from them, no moans from dying mortals, no heartbeats. He would check them later, but for now, he assumed they were empty.
The banging noise and odor seemed to emanate from the main lodge, a rustic building made of stone and varnished logs. He sprinted toward the lodge, positioned himself next to a window, then peered inside. A large leather couch, several wooden rocking chairs, a table with a half-played game of checkers. Glowing coals in the hearth of a large stone fireplace. A homey, friendly-looking place if you didn‟t count the lifeless bodies on the braided rug.
Anger and disgust roiled in his gut. There was nothing he could do. Casimir and his minions were probably gone. The bloody bastards had already done their worst.
Still, he didn‟t want to be caught unprepared, so he drew his sword before teleporting inside. He checked the entire building. Empty. He latched the banging door, then returned to pay his respect to the bodies left in a neat row on the braided rug. Seven bodies. Throats slit to conceal bite marks, but not a drop of blood to stain the rug. They‟d all been drained dry. Rigor mortis had not set in, so they‟d died this evening, probably soon after sunset.
His anger grew, threatening to erupt. His grip tightened knuckle-white on the hilt of his sword. The Malcontents would have used vampire mind control on the campers to force them to submit. Two families, he assumed, since there were two sets of parents. Two lovely mothers.
Three beautiful, innocent, young children. The controlled fathers would have watched helplessly while the Malcontents murdered their wives and
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