Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,42

of the sun.

The lands beyond called to him—he could practically hear them screaming his name, beckoning him home. The gray hairs would come, the wrinkles would stretch… To die is gain…

The elixir would prepare his body…

He could feel the craving arising in his chest. He turned, still stark naked, grabbed the cooler, and strode purposefully back toward the house. He punched in the security code, slid open the glass door, and moved into the basement, down the final set of stairs, into the studio.

He passed under a sputtering yellow bulb and frowned up at it. He would have to change the light soon enough—darkness was only for the deserving.

He came to a halt in front of the small wooden table set into the display case of wine bottles. His eyes scanned the display, searching. The woman had been forty-three according to the information he’d received. His eyes flicked from the white labels with sharpie numbers. Where was it… the right vintage…the right year—

There. Perfect.

He snatched the bottle from the case and uncorked it with his bare hand. Then he grabbed his mixing goblet, poured a respectable amount of wine, and swished it around. He retrieved the small cooler, confronted by the odor of bittersweet liquid on the air. He grabbed a one-liter bag, and, without bothering to take care, he ripped the top with his teeth.

He tasted iron and a coppery tint. He winced against the sudden bolt of hunger. His soul was weary—it needed to revitalize. He needed this.

Gabriel poured, with trembling fingers, the contents of the blood bag into the wine.

He whispered softly, a prayer, offering it to anyone who might be listening. Then, once the mixture was blended together, he tipped the glass and began to drink, slowly.

The trembling in his hand only grew worse. He gritted his teeth, growling against the liquid sloshing them.

“Preserve me,” he muttered and grabbed a second bag from the cooler. As he did, his elbow knocked into the wine bottle on the table. It crashed to the stone floor, shattering, sending purple liquid spewing over the floor.

“Damn it!” he shouted. His hands still trembled. His soul was still weak. He could feel it, lurking in his stomach. The flesh could only be destroyed by the spirit! But his spirit was too weak—too weak to even fight!

He grabbed one of the blood bags, ignoring the wine now, and ripped it with his teeth, shoveling the elixir into his mouth, allowing it to run down his cheeks, splash against his nose. He swallowed, gargling, and then gasping.

The warm liquid spewed into his mouth but a second later, he hiccupped and… hesitating, feeling a wave of pressure rise to his throat, his eyes widened in fear.

His spirit rejected the elixir.

He threw up, doubling over and gasping at the ground, strings of blood and saliva and puke dangling from his lips toward the floor.

“Damn it!” he screamed at the floor. “Damn you—damn you!”

Slow…. he had to take it slow. Careful… The process of eternity couldn’t be rushed… He knew this. Why was he acting like a fool? His spirit remained weak in him—his flesh was still strong. Too strong. It was forbidden to weaken himself naturally. Once, as a child, he’d tried to take his own life—pills and poison.

Swill. It would have killed his spirit as well. Luckily, he’d been fortunate. His spirit had survived. Now—his flesh was trying to control him once more. But he wouldn’t allow it.

He dropped to his knees, retrieved the third and final bag, and then he retrieved a shard of glass from the base of the wine bottle. A few precious droplets of the wine remained. The mixture was important. Slow—careful. Strength came to the patient.

He exhaled, puffing his cheeks, still naked, leaning in a puddle of puke and blood and wine. It would all be over soon—it had to be. One way or another, this had to end.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Adele and John moved across the parking lot back toward Agent Carter’s unmarked vehicle. The air of dejection hung heavy as they left the wine-making shop behind them. The security footage had revealed barely a thing. They were grasping at straws.

Adele glanced sidelong at her tall partner. “How are you?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “Fine. You?”

“Worried,” she said. “The case… Robert’s email—he’s still not answering the phone…”

It was credit to how much John knew she cared for Agent Henry that he didn’t say anything. Instead, he just looked at her, waiting.

The two of them reached the car and leaned