Blood Pact - By Tanya Huff Page 0,40

her. A quick glance at the monitors showed number eight remained in its isolation box, refrigeration units humming at full capacity in an attempt to prevent further decomposition. The chairs where they'd left numbers nine and ten were empty. The other two boxes were empty. He checked under the tables, in the closet, in the storeroom, around and below every bit of machinery in the lab.

If no one had found them, and logic pointed to that conclusion, then they had to have left on their own.

"It's impossible." Donald sagged against the doorframe. "They don't have abstract thought processes."

"They saw us leave." Catherine grabbed his arm and dragged him back out into the hall. "It was imitation if nothing more." She shoved him to the left. "You go that way!"

"Go where that way?"

"We have to search the building."

"Then call out the Mounties," he snapped, rubbing at his forehead with trembling fingers, "because it'll take you and me alone years to search this place."

"But we have to find them!"

He couldn't argue with that.

Voices.

Number nine moved toward the sound, drawn by almost familiar cadences.

Was it her?

"Cathy!" Donald pounded the length of the hall and rocked to a panting stop beside the other grad student. "Thank God I found you. We've got bigger trouble than we thought. I went over to talk to the guys at the security desk in the new building, just to see if they might have heard something. Well, they did. They heard the fire alarm. Someone went out the fire door at the back."

"Outside?" Pale skin blanched paler. "Unsupervised?"

"At least one of them. Where's your van?"

"In the lot behind the building." She turned and raced toward the exit. "We've got to find them before someone else does!"

Hand pressed tight against the stitch in his side Donald followed. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," he gasped.

The voices were closer. He stopped at the border between soft ground and hard, head turning from side to side.

"I'm telling you, Jenny, sweetheart, no one ever comes back here. It's perfectly safe."

"Why can't we park by the tower, like everyone else?"

"Because everyone else parks there and I have a moral objection to cops shining flashlights in my face at delicate moments."

"At least let's close the windows."

"It's a beautiful night, let's celebrate spring. Besides, steamy windows are a sure sign that something naughty is going down if anyone happens to pass. And speaking of going down... "

"Pat! Wait, I'll put the seat back. Be careful... oh... "

His soles scuffed as he lurched forward, aiming for the deeper shadows where two buildings joined. He didn't understand the new noises, but he followed them to a metal bulk he recognized as car.

He didn't know what car meant. Was it hurting her?

Bending carefully, he peered inside.

Pale hair.

Her face but not her face.

Her voice but not her voice.

Confused, he reached out and touched the curve of her cheek.

Her eyes snapped open, widened, then she screamed.

It hurt.

He began to back away.

Another face rose out of the darkness.

Hands grabbed for him.

His wrist caught, he clutched at air. He only wanted to get away. Then his fingers closed on something soft and kept closing until the screaming stopped. The second face lolled limp above his grip. Her face, not her face, gazed up at him. Then she screamed again.

He turned and ran.

He remembered running.

Run until it stopped hurting.

Soft ground under his feet.

He slammed hard against a solid darkness and pulled himself along it until he reached a way through. There were lights up ahead. She, the real she, the kind one, was where there were lights.

"There! Coming around that building!"

"Are you sure?"

"For chrissakes, Cathy, how many dead people are walking around this city tonight? Get over there!"

The van hadn't quite stopped when Donald threw himself out onto the road. He stumbled, picked himself up, and raced toward the shambling figure just emerging from the shadows.

He ignored the sound of screaming rising from behind the building. Catching sight of number nine's face under the streetlights, he figured he could pretty much guess what had caused it. Some of the sutures holding the scalp in place had torn and a grayish-yellow curve of skull was exposed above a flapping triangle of skin.

Dr. Burke's going to have my balls on a plate! He skidded to a stop, took a deep, steadying breath, and, as calmly as he was able, said, "Follow."

Follow.

He knew that word.

"Donald, I can hear screaming. And a car horn."

"Look, don't worry about it. Number nine's in, so just drive."

"Well, we should check to see if