forest. Deer grazing. Frogs growling or peeping or twanging like plucked guitar strings.
Though the air here wasn’t as crisp and clean and sweet as that which had bathed him as a boy, it was better than the air found in larger cities that, too often, were blanketed in a haze of pollution.
Slowly, he cruised down the long, winding gravel driveway, keeping a careful eye out for the little brown rabbits that had lately made a habit of chewing the grasses and weeds that sprang up between the pebbles. Sure enough, four eyes—low to the ground—glinted in the headlight as two furry bodies hastened into the heavy undergrowth on his left.
Smiling, feeling the tension begin to melt away, Marcus swung onto a narrow two-laned highway, then shot forward. Pure pleasure engulfed him as he went from zero to seventy in three seconds. Wind yanked back the long raven hair that fell several inches below his helmet. His long coat fluttered behind him like wings as he steadily accelerated.
Traveling this road at these speeds would be insane for a human. But, damn, what a rush for an immortal with preternaturally sharp reflexes. Up and down, swinging one way then the next, leaning into the curves until his knees nearly scraped the pavement. Streetlights were few and far between here, but his enhanced night vision eliminated any need for them. Marcus could see the deer grazing by the road long before the headlight struck them and had no problem evading those that ventured too close or darted across in front of him.
The bike left the pavement and went airborne momentarily at the top of a short, steep hill. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he tore into another curve. He felt so alive and free at times like these. What he wouldn’t give to get his hands on David’s Tomahawk, a true work of art with two closely spaced front wheels, the same in back, and a top speed of roughly four hundred miles per hour.
That precious baby wasn’t even street legal. Not that that had stopped David.
As he entered a rare straight stretch, Marcus glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye and glanced to his right, expecting to see a deer bounding along or perhaps one of those huge raven-winged vultures swooping past.
His blood turned to ice as his gaze instead fell upon a man. He was perhaps in his late thirties with skin the color of milk chocolate and a haggard face. His shirt was untucked, ragged, the neckline frayed and bloodstained.
He couldn’t have been more than five feet away. And, though Marcus by far exceeded the fifty-five mile per hour speed limit, the man’s weary stroll somehow managed to keep pace.
As if sensing Marcus’s stare, the man turned his head and met his gaze with dark, unfathomable eyes.
Marcus swallowed hard, unable to repress a shiver.
One would think he might be accustomed to this by now: seeing ghosts or spirits or whatever one chose to call them. He had been seeing them ever since he was too young to understand that no one else around him could. Yet it never failed to catch him off guard.
As Étienne often said, the shit was creepy.
Tearing his gaze away, Marcus looked back at the road, then swore when another figure materialized directly in his path. The front of the heavy Hayabusa squirmed as he broke hard and swerved to avoid the second man, who threw out his arm as Marcus drew even with him, plucked him from the back of the bike, spun around, and slammed him back first to the pavement.
Pain crashed through Marcus, beginning in his chest, then radiating outward, so severe it temporarily deafened him ... which some might view as a good thing because right about now his Busa was probably smashing into a tree.
Marcus struggled to breathe, each short, choppy gasp like a knife jamming into his flesh. The momentum with which he had slammed into his attacker’s outstretched arm had broken most of his ribs.
His opponent, on the other hand, showed no sign of pain as he ripped the helmet from Marcus’s head and,
Though the air here wasn’t as crisp and clean and sweet as that which had bathed him as a boy, it was better than the air found in larger cities that, too often, were blanketed in a haze of pollution.
Slowly, he cruised down the long, winding gravel driveway, keeping a careful eye out for the little brown rabbits that had lately made a habit of chewing the grasses and weeds that sprang up between the pebbles. Sure enough, four eyes—low to the ground—glinted in the headlight as two furry bodies hastened into the heavy undergrowth on his left.
Smiling, feeling the tension begin to melt away, Marcus swung onto a narrow two-laned highway, then shot forward. Pure pleasure engulfed him as he went from zero to seventy in three seconds. Wind yanked back the long raven hair that fell several inches below his helmet. His long coat fluttered behind him like wings as he steadily accelerated.
Traveling this road at these speeds would be insane for a human. But, damn, what a rush for an immortal with preternaturally sharp reflexes. Up and down, swinging one way then the next, leaning into the curves until his knees nearly scraped the pavement. Streetlights were few and far between here, but his enhanced night vision eliminated any need for them. Marcus could see the deer grazing by the road long before the headlight struck them and had no problem evading those that ventured too close or darted across in front of him.
The bike left the pavement and went airborne momentarily at the top of a short, steep hill. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he tore into another curve. He felt so alive and free at times like these. What he wouldn’t give to get his hands on David’s Tomahawk, a true work of art with two closely spaced front wheels, the same in back, and a top speed of roughly four hundred miles per hour.
That precious baby wasn’t even street legal. Not that that had stopped David.
As he entered a rare straight stretch, Marcus glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye and glanced to his right, expecting to see a deer bounding along or perhaps one of those huge raven-winged vultures swooping past.
His blood turned to ice as his gaze instead fell upon a man. He was perhaps in his late thirties with skin the color of milk chocolate and a haggard face. His shirt was untucked, ragged, the neckline frayed and bloodstained.
He couldn’t have been more than five feet away. And, though Marcus by far exceeded the fifty-five mile per hour speed limit, the man’s weary stroll somehow managed to keep pace.
As if sensing Marcus’s stare, the man turned his head and met his gaze with dark, unfathomable eyes.
Marcus swallowed hard, unable to repress a shiver.
One would think he might be accustomed to this by now: seeing ghosts or spirits or whatever one chose to call them. He had been seeing them ever since he was too young to understand that no one else around him could. Yet it never failed to catch him off guard.
As Étienne often said, the shit was creepy.
Tearing his gaze away, Marcus looked back at the road, then swore when another figure materialized directly in his path. The front of the heavy Hayabusa squirmed as he broke hard and swerved to avoid the second man, who threw out his arm as Marcus drew even with him, plucked him from the back of the bike, spun around, and slammed him back first to the pavement.
Pain crashed through Marcus, beginning in his chest, then radiating outward, so severe it temporarily deafened him ... which some might view as a good thing because right about now his Busa was probably smashing into a tree.
Marcus struggled to breathe, each short, choppy gasp like a knife jamming into his flesh. The momentum with which he had slammed into his attacker’s outstretched arm had broken most of his ribs.
His opponent, on the other hand, showed no sign of pain as he ripped the helmet from Marcus’s head and,
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