Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3) by C.J. Aaron (books like beach read .TXT) 📕

one station after another until she came to a man on a talk show declaring loudly that there was obviously no chance of that other candidate, the wrong one, being elected in November. Voters would have to be crazy to pick that villain, declared the hectoring, annoying voice. Because of course if that scoundrel should happen to get in, America was doomed, and the children and grandchildren of everyone out there in the radio audience faced a future bleak beyond belief. They’d all spend the rest of their lives jobless but paying enormous taxes. Not only would they be buried in debt, national and personal, but half of them would be held hostage by domestic criminals or foreign terrorists.

      “Turn off the noise,” the man holding Philip immobile commanded harshly. (He had no wish to be mistaken for a hostage-taker, and might have allowed the radio to stay on if that word had not surfaced amid the babble. On the other hand, he might not.)

      The girl in the front seat did not turn her head, and Philip thought she hesitated briefly, on the brink of arguing. But within a couple of seconds she obediently punched the radio off again.

Chapter Two

      June, writhing and straining, suddenly made her own effort to break free. But her first try fared no better than Philip’s, though her struggle lasted somewhat longer. Phil on observing what his wife was doing gamely made another try himself, but their captor had no trouble at all managing them both at the same time, one arm to each. The dark-haired intruder sat through this interlude with a thoughtful expression on his lean face, and seemed to be waiting, like an experienced parent, for the kids to get the nonsense out of their systems.

      June, gasping and tired, at last gave up, and breathed out a prolonged whine of frustration.

      “Phil, do something!”

      He grunted and strained again and muttered a few obscenities and oaths. But this time his heart wasn’t really in it. He understood, as he sat waiting for his lungs and heart to slow to normal, that he might as well have saved his energy.

      Glaring at their captor, June said: “I don’t see how you think you can just come into the car and—and…”

      “But I can.” His voice was calm, infuriatingly parental. “Depend upon it. Nevertheless, you have nothing to fear from me.”

       So, it seemed that they were well and truly kidnapped. Philip in the back of his mind was already running through a mental list of people who might be expecting to hear soon from either one of them. The list was short, and offered no comfort. The Radcliffes could be out of communication with the world for a long time before anyone else became alarmed.

* * *

      After a few seconds of silence, the girlish-looking vampire in the front seat turned her head long enough to call back cheerily: “Call me Connie. And you’re Phil and June. But you already know that.” And she giggled.

      “You may call me Mr. Graves,” said the somber man who sat, apparently relaxed but watchful as a statue, between his captives in the rear.

      “You’re hurting me,” June told him, in a tone of voice that suggested it was mainly her sensibilities which had been injured.

      “My apologies,” said Mr. Graves, sounding in fact not all that sorry. His voice suggested that of some Middle European diplomat with faultless yet not native English, and his dark suit did nothing to dispel this impression. He turned his face toward June. “I shall release you. But only on the condition that you must, for a while, accept my presence, and my guidance.”

      Evidently she gave some sign of her acceptance. Radcliffe, feeling like a fool in his helplessness, looked across and saw that his wife was now indeed free. She was rubbing her slender arms and shoulders, inspecting her wrists and hands, with a puzzled look, as if she were sure there must be someplace where she was really hurt.

      Phil let out a breath of partial relief. “Put on your seat belt,” he reminded his wife mechanically.

      She pulled the strap into place, and snapped the buckle, in a kind of reflex action.

      Graves had now turned his dark, compelling gaze to his left. “Mr. Radcliffe, will you also ride peacefully beside me?”

      “Doesn’t seem like I have much choice,” Phil gritted through his teeth.

      “An intelligent observation,” his seatmate observed.

      The numbing grip relaxed. It was Philip’s turn to rub his arms and shoulders, and to feel puzzled at the lack of damage. All that strength should have left something bruised or strained; but he felt only a faint tingling, like the aftermath of a good massage.

      No one man, especially one so thin, could be that strong. It had to have been some trick…

      “Please put on your seatbelt,” the trickster urged him solicitously.

      Radcliffe clicked the halves of the buckle into place. Then, summoning up his not inconsiderable courage, he demanded of his kidnapper: “And who the hell are you?”

      “You may call me Graves,” the dark-suited man repeated patiently. “Mr. Graves, if you are in a mood for formality. When we have reached our destination, we are going to discuss my identity more fully. It has a certain bearing on our business.” For the first time he smiled faintly, showing a glimpse of white teeth.

       Connie in the front seat turned her head briefly, glancing at Phil. Then she remarked: “He does look like him, doesn’t he, Vla… doesn’t he, Mr. Graves?”

      “A definite resemblance,” Graves agreed.

      “Who do I look like?” Radcliffe demanded.

      “You look a whole lot like a certain ancestor of yours,” Connie remarked; over her shoulder. “One who lived about two hundred years ago.”

      Philip, his mind still numb, mental faculties staggering off-balance and scrambling through trivia to try and find a foothold, decided that Connie appeared to be about a decade younger than Mr. Graves, who had to be at least thirty. And she sounded like a native English-speaker, which the male intruder did not.

* * * * * *