Part 4 (2/2)

But that wasn't right, was it? There had been dreams, just not the usual wildly erotic ones that left him exhausted. He'd dreamed of Cuyler. She'd been leaning over the bed, touching his face, stroking his hair and whispering softly to him. Her touch had been soothing, her voice like a salve on his oldest wounds. He hadn't wanted her to leave.

He stopped walking and closed his eyes as a shaft of pain bisected his chest. There'd been a blanket over him when he woke. He didn't remember putting it there. Had Cuyler really come to stand over him, touched him that way, whispered so lovingly, so gently, as he'd slept?

She'd kissed him. Her soft, moist mouth had touched his for the barest instant, and he'd wanted to pull her into his arms, into his bed. He'd wanted to feel her smiling lips caress every inch of him, and then he'd wanted to do the same to her. The h.e.l.l with the danger that she might go too far. The h.e.l.l with the fact that they were sworn enemies. He wanted her with a pa.s.sion above and beyond all of that. Above and beyond everything.

He opened his eyes and drew a deep breath, steadying himself. He had to get away from her. She was bewitching him, using her mental powers to make him forget his life's work, driving him so with desire he'd gladly exchange his every principle for a night in her arms. He was in danger with her, and he had to get out or lose his mind.

But now that he had, he almost wished he hadn't. He'd trudged a couple of miles, he figured, and the scenery hadn't changed in the least. Nothing but white. No trees. No vegetation of any kind. Hardly any hills. He was pretty sure what he was looking at could be described as tundra. He hoped to G.o.d he found some form of aid soon. He wasn't exactly dressed for long periods of exposure. Only thin rubbers separated his shoes from the hard-packed snow. His ski jacket was hardly sufficient, and he didn't even have a hat with him. The wind whipped hard out here with nothing to break its progress.

He walked a little farther, then frowned and tilted his head. What was that sound? A motor of some sort growled in the distance. He turned slowly, trying to gauge the source, then realization dawned. A snowmobile. No, more than one. And the sound came from the direction of the house, though he couldn't see it anymore. His first thought was that Cuyler was coming after him, using a machine she'd had hidden somewhere.

But that thought was quickly banished. It was still daylight. She wouldn't even be awake yet.

He blinked slowly as that thought sunk in. She wouldn't be awake. She'd be lying in her bed, behind unlocked doors, thinking she was completely safe up here in the middle of nowhere.

The motors died abruptly. They didn't fade away, but simply cut out. The snowmobiles had stopped, and as near as he could guess, they'd stopped near the house. Someone was there, and with a churning in his gut, Ramsey thought he could guess who.

It made no sense to think DPI had somehow tracked them here. But it made less sense to think some harmless folks had just decided to take a snowmobile ride north of the Arctic circle and happened upon her house. Cuyler was there, alone and completely helpless. Her stories of torture and murder were utter fabrications. He knew that. But they were echoing through his soul all the same as Ramsey started walking back the way he'd come. Then he started running.

He followed his own tracks for several yards, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the biting wind. But the tracks got harder and harder to see as he went. He frowned hard, and whispered a little prayer they wouldn't disappear entirely before the house came into view. d.a.m.n, he'd been an idiot not to take windblown snow into account. It had been filling his tracks behind him all the way out here.

And then he couldn't see them at all. Not even the tiny depressions he'd been following this far. Dammit to h.e.l.l, he couldn't see the house. Everything looked the same in every direction. The wind was blowing harder, its bite sharper with every gust. It would be dark soon, and colder than ever. He tried not to think about what might be happening in the house right now, but images danced through his thoughts anyway. Cuyler's warnings about DPI's tactics rang in his ears, no matter how he tried to tune them out. He hadn't believed her. He'd told himself she was just trying to convince him not to take her in. But he now found himself wondering if there was even the slightest chance of truth in her horror stories. He didn't want to believe that, wouldn't let himself believe it. But the idea that anyone might deliberately hurt her...

Why the h.e.l.l did it drive him to the brink of madness to consider it? Why?

The motor sounds came to life again. He was closer. He tried to run faster, but the frigid air burned his lungs and throat. They were moving, fast, in the opposite direction.

”Ah, G.o.d, no...” He tried for more speed, but he was out of breath. His muscles screamed in protest. His legs gave out just as the house came into view, and he dropped to his knees in the snow, scanning the horizon where the sun hovered, about to set.

And then he spotted them. Three snowmobiles zipping over the tundra in the distance. One pulled something behind it. Something long and narrow that looked like a box. He groaned in anguish as they moved out of sight.

He wasn't sure how long he knelt there. Emotions raced through him, so potent and confusing that he felt dizzy. Hadn't he been determined to take Cuyler in himself? Hadn't he vowed that he'd never stop hating her and everyone like her for what they'd done to his mother?

Why, for G.o.d's sake, was he racked with guilt that he hadn't been there to protect her? The frustration was as bad as what had consumed him as a result of not having been there to protect his mother. Why? Why was he kneeling in the snow, burning inside with the urge to go after them, to somehow get her away from them? He cursed softly at the thought of riding in like some knight on a charger to rescue his damsel from villains. It wasn't like that. She was the villain of this piece.

Wasn't she?

He got to his feet and made his way back to the house, not even bothering to stomp the snow from his shoes as he ran through it and up to her bedroom, already knowing he wouldn't find her there.

The empty bed was rumpled, the drawers and closet gaping wide, clothes strewn everywhere. When he went back downstairs, he found more of the same. The place had been searched, hurriedly and recklessly, before they'd taken her away. Her pewter figurines lay strewn everywhere. Her crystals had tumbled helter-skelter to the floor. The bookshelves had been emptied, her precious fairy-tale stories trampled beneath uncaring feet.

He bent to pick up the first of the vampire books she'd shown him, and bit his lip against the burning in his throat and eyes.

He couldn't hope to hike out of here tonight. He'd die of exposure before he reached help, and then Cuyler would be on her own. He had to wait, though it would d.a.m.n near kill him to do it. At first light, he'd go, with as many provisions as he could carry. He'd get out of here, somehow. And he'd find her.

After that, he didn't have a clue what he'd do.

For now, though, he had to sit tight and await the cold dawn. He sank into a chair, weak from turmoil, and opened the book in his hands.

Chapter Seven.

It took him two hours to read the entire book. And Cuyler had been right. The entirety of one of DPI's most disastrous investigations had been doc.u.mented there, from the viewpoint of its subjects. It was quite a different take on things from the one in the official records. Oh, the facts were the same, but DPI's methods and motivations and the characteristics of the subjects of that investigation, couldn't have differed more. Ramsey had to believe it was all propaganda. Because if it were true...

He groaned in undisguised agony. If it were true, then Cuyler had been right about the torture involved in DPI's research. Even several deaths, all detailed here in these pages.

But it wasn't true. It couldn't be.

He knew, though, that it very well could be. He'd never been involved in the research end of things, never actually witnessed the so-called harmless studies performed on the subjects. He wasn't a scientist. And while he'd been told that the prisoners brought in would be kept for a week or two and then released, unharmed, he'd never actually seen that happen, either.

DPI believed Cuyler and her kind to be no better than animals. Beings without emotions, incapable of caring. Heartless, soulless beasts who preyed on the innocent with no sense of remorse. That much he knew. And it wasn't so farfetched to think that an organization who believed that about a group might want to annihilate that group. Was it? So why hadn't he known about it? And would it have made a difference to him if he had?

Up until a few days ago he'd believed everything DPI said about the undead. And he'd had a personal vendetta, to boot. But not against Cuyler. Everything he'd ever believed had been a lie, at least where she was concerned.

He got up, intending to go to the little kitchen and begin packing supplies for his trek out. He was no longer so certain he could wait for dawn to break. There was a new urgency eating at his soul. He had to get to her, just to prove to himself that she was all right and not being subjected to the torments described in the book. With every second that pa.s.sed, those scenes embedded themselves more deeply in his mind, only the victim wore Cuyler's beautiful face.

He stopped halfway to the kitchen, stiffening at the sc.r.a.ping sounds coming from the front door.

”Cuyler?” Hope surged in his chest as he sprinted and yanked the door open.

A big, furry dog stood there, staring at him. It barked twice when he only stared back in confusion. Where the h.e.l.l had it come from? More barking followed, and he looked up in amazement to see three other dogs, identical to the first, sitting patiently in the snow. Huskies, all of them. Silvery fur and ice blue eyes. Magnificent, wide chests.

Sled dogs?

The one at the door barked again. Ramsey frowned, thinking of the sled and harnesses he'd seen in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Was this how Cuyler had brought him here? Were these dogs hers? But what were they doing here now? Where had they been?

It didn't matter. He saw the means to get out of there, and he knew he had to take it. Leaving the door wide, he ran into the bas.e.m.e.nt and hauled the awkward sled up the stairs. He dragged it outside, and went back for the harnesses, praying he could figure out how to put them on properly, hoping the dogs would allow it.

h.e.l.l, he didn't know what good it would do. He had no idea which way to go, even with transportation.

When he brought the harnesses outside, the dogs surrounded him, barking excitedly, tails wagging. They seemed impatient as he stretched the straps out, trying to see which way they went. But they stood motionless when he draped the things around them, and he knew they were used to this procedure.

Once he got them hooked to the sled, he ran back inside long enough to get his coat. That was all. His thoughts of bringing provisions had fled. All that remained was his urgent need to get to Cuyler, to make sure she was all right.

He stood on the back of the sled and picked up the reins. The dogs were off like a shot the minute his feet touched the narrow platform, nearly jarring him off into the snow. He didn't try to guide them. They seemed to know exactly where they were going. All Ramsey could do was hang on and pray that they really did know.

He wasn't sure his prayers were answered until several hours later when the dogs stopped and stood barking like a raucous group of soldiers celebrating victory. A huge, barnlike structure stood in the middle of the perfectly flat, snowy plain. As Ramsey tried to adjust to the oddness of finding it here, a gruff voice called out to him.

”I expect you'll be wanting to fly out of here, after that other plane.”

Ramsey turned and gave his head a shake. A grizzled old man, his face completely obliterated by a ma.s.sive gray beard, came from the barn and bent to expertly release the dogs from their harnesses.

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