Vampire Mine - Kerrelyn Sparks [7]
His extra-sensitive, glowing eyes stung with the biting wind. What a fool he was. Did he have no more control over his rage than he’d had centuries ago? What if Casimir had fifty minions with him? A hundred? Was he so damned bloodthirsty that he would walk into a trap?
He slipped into the woods, leaned back against a tree trunk, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths. Control yerself. His heartbeat slowed. The rage dimmed.
He opened his eyes, and his sight was back to normal. He retrieved his cell phone from his sporran. No signal. Bugger. He didn’t want to leave the area unguarded while he teleported to Romatech. He headed back toward the lodge. Still no signal. He couldn’t risk sending Angus a telepathic message since any Malcontents nearby would be able to hear it.
His gaze fell on the gleaming granite heads in the distance. Mount Rushmore. He could probably get a signal there. And he’d have a bird’s-eye view of the entire area. If anyone ventured from the caves, he’d spot them.
The world went black for a second, then he was there, his feet making contact with solid rock. Before he could gain his bearings, a hard wind slammed into his back and shoved him forward. Damn. He’d landed too close to the edge of Washington’s forehead. He skidded to a stop as a few loose rocks skittered over the precipice.
With his feet more firmly planted, he gazed down the mountain. Pinging noises echoed in the wind as the rocks bounced their way to the bottom. He’d come close to plummeting, but it probably wouldn’t have killed him. He would have simply teleported to a safe place before hitting the ground.
On the hill in front of him, rows of aluminum benches climbed the slope like a giant staircase, forming an outdoor theater. The hill was topped with a visitor center and parking lots. All empty. A good thing since he didn’t want an audience to witness him teleporting about. Or see his cold arse every time the wind tossed his kilt up.
With an annoyed growl, he shoved his kilt down again, then focused on the nearby hills. His superior vision zeroed in on the campground. No movement there. He spotted the rocky outcropping nearby that housed the caves. Quiet for now.
He punched in Angus’s number, and the call went through.
“The devil take it,” Angus growled. “I told you no’ to go alone. Do ye have a bloody death wish?”
“I have a report if ye care to hear it.”
“I care about following orders,” Angus shouted. “Maybe ye doona value yer own sorry hide, but—”
“Seven dead in the main lodge,” Connor interrupted. That should put a stop to the annoying lecture. He was awarded by a moment of silence.
“Seven?” Angus asked quietly.
“Aye. Casimir’s usual MO. The victims were drained dry, throats cut.” His jaw clenched. “Three children.”
Angus cursed in Gaelic. “That bloody bastard. Any sign of him? Nay, forget that! Doona do a damned thing until we get there.”
A strong gust of wind pummeled Connor, and he raised his voice. “The murders occurred earlier this evening. Casimir could be long gone.”
“Or he could be holed up in those bloody caves,” Angus said. “I’ll gather some men. Stay out of sight until we get there. Do ye hear me? Doona investigate on yer own. That’s an order.”
Connor’s gaze flickered south, distracted by a bolt of lightning. “Bugger.” There he was, standing on top of a mountain with a sword in his hand during a lightning storm.
“What?” Angus demanded. “Did ye see something?”
A vision of himself fried to a crisp. Connor tossed his sword into the forest behind the carved heads. The sky flickered again, and he whirled around to catch the end of another lightning flash. Strange. The lightning had hit in the same place twice.
“Connor!” Angus yelled. “What’s going on?”
“Something . . . wrong.” He narrowed his eyes. “A few miles south of the campground.”
Another flash lit up the dark sky.
His breath caught. It wasn’t coming from the sky. “I’ll call ye back.”
“Connor, doona—”
He hung up and dropped the phone into his sporran. He debated fetching his sword,