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It was only when her heartbeat slowed and her breathing grew labored that he lifted his head. The girl lay unmoving in his arms, her face pale.
Muttering an oath, Roshan bit his wrist and held it to the girl's lips. "Drink," he commanded.
She did as she was told. A few drops of his blood brought the color back to her cheeks. She stared up at him, her eyes widening.
"Who are you?" She struggled against him. "Let me go."
"Jean, there's nothing to fear." He spoke quietly, the sound of his voice soothing her. "We're old friends, Jean, remember? You did me a favor yesterday. I need your help again."
"Help you, yes."
"Good. Let's go."
Obediently, she followed him up the hill, ready to do whatever he required of her.
Brenna closed her eyes when she heard the door open again. Loken was still whistling softly. She heard him moving around the room. Curious, she opened her eyelids a crack and saw him roll Myra 's body in plastic. Fear jolted through Brenna. Was that to be her end, as well? Rolled up in plastic and buried where no one would ever find her?
She closed her eyes as Loken stood and turned toward her.
"So," the warlock said, "how are you doing? You might as well answer me," he said impatiently. "I know you're awake."
She yelped as he grabbed her wounded arm.
Swearing prolifically, he untied her wrist and lifted her arm higher so he could examine it more closely. "It's still bleeding!" he shouted. "What happened? What's wrong? Why isn't it healing?" He walked to the other side of the bed, stared in disbelief at the blood trickling down her side.
"I told you… " She gasped for breath. "Told you… it… would not… work."
A sound from downstairs drew Loken's attention. Moving to the window, he stared down at the street.
Roshan stood to one side of the door as Jean tossed a rock through the window Loken had repaired. Magick certainly came in handy for home repairs, Roshan mused as Jean reached through the jagged hole, unlocked the door, and then opened it.
Roshan frowned as the door swung open. Taking a step forward, he peered down the hallway. He sensed supernatural power within the house, but there was nothing guarding the threshold, nothing to repel him.
Curious now, he moved closer to the threshold. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the warlock's house.
Nothing happened. The wizard's threshold no longer had any power over him.
Turning toward the porch, he spoke to the girl.
"Jean, I don't need you anymore. I want you to go home. When you get there, all you'll remember of this night is that you took a walk, nothing more. Just that you took a walk. I want you to get something to drink, and then go to bed."
"Yes, bed."
"Go now." He watched her until she was out of sight, then turned and walked down the hallway. As he did so, his nostrils filled with the scent of death. That explained why he had been able to enter the warlock's house, Roshan mused as he started up the stairs. The house was no longer a home. Murder had been done here, thereby destroying whatever protection the threshold had provided against supernatural powers.
He shook his head ruefully. Had he not been so weak the last time he was here, he would have realized the warlock's wards had vanished. But there was no point in dwelling on that now.
Brenna was here.
He followed the scent of her blood up the stairs, down a narrow hallway, and into a darkened room. She was lying on the bed.
Anthony Loken stood beside her, the gun in his hand aimed at Brenna's head.
"And so," Loken said, "we come to the last act."
Ignoring the warlock, Roshan's gaze moved over his wife. Blood trickled from a wound in her arm, oozed from her side. Her face was as white as the pillow beneath her head, her eyes were dull, her heartbeat slow and erratic.
Rage uncoiled within Roshan like a snake ready to strike. "You have one chance," he said, his eyes fixed on the warlock's face. "Just one. Put the gun down and I might let you live."
"You have no chances," Loken retorted. "Leave my house or she dies right now."
"The fact that she's still alive is the only reason you're still breathing," Roshan said. "Put the gun down."
Loken shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were never uttered. Between one heartbeat and the next, Roshan was standing between Brenna and the warlock. In the next instant, Roshan's hand was locked around Loken's neck.
Eyes bulging, the warlock made a mad grab for the vial on the nightstand.
Roshan beat him to it. He held the tube up to the light. "Is this my blood?"
Unable to speak, Loken glowered at him.
Uncapping the vial, Roshan took a sniff. "Is this the magick elixir that was going to give you immortality?" he asked, his voice deadly quiet. "Well, let's see if it works."
Eyes wild, Loken glanced at Brenna, then shook his head.
A slow smile spread over Roshan's face as he captured the warlock's gaze.
"Drink," he commanded, and poured the contents of the vial down Loken's throat. Tossing the man aside, Roshan turned toward Brenna.
Removing the ropes from her hands and feet, he sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her into his arms. "Brenna? Brenna, can you hear me?"
Her eyelids fluttered open and she stared up at him. "You came." She lifted one hand to stroke his cheek. "One kiss," she whispered. "One kiss before I go to sleep."
"You will not die, Brenna Flanagan," he said fiercely. "I will not permit it."
"You cannot stop it."
He held her tighter, his mind in turmoil, all thought of Loken forgotten until the man screamed. The sound reverberated through the room, a wordless cry of madness and gut-wrenching fear.
Gaining his feet, the warlock staggered drunkenly around the room, his face a mask of agony. Arms clasped around his stomach, he dropped to his knees and rocked back and forth. He stared up at Roshan. "Help me!"
Roshan watched him, unmoved, as he remembered what the warlock had done to Jimmy Dugan and others. They had suffered horrible deaths in the warlock's search for immortality.
"No! No!" Loken's voice rose in terror. "This can't be happening, not to me. Not to me!"
Roshan watched impassively. The warlock's skin seemed to be shrinking, making him look like a living skeleton. His body writhed and convulsed on the floor like a spider on a hot rock. His eyes bulged from their sockets. His skin wrinkled, turning an ugly shade of gray, as his body continued to shrivel up, and all the while a wordless, high-pitched whine rose in his throat until, with a last horrified cry, he toppled over onto his side and lay still.
