The Last Vampire 1 by R. A. Steffan & Jaelynn Woolf

Author:R. A. Steffan & Jaelynn Woolf [Steffan, R. A. & Woolf, Jaelynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-11-29T16:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

MY HEART RACED AT about a million miles an hour as I maintained my death grip on Rans’ waist. He wove the motorcycle expertly along the darkened streets of downtown St. Louis, not allowing the Merc to gain ground. I was hopelessly disoriented, but I had the vague idea that we were circling back, approaching the Civic Center again. Rans braked sharply and swerved into an alley with cars parked along one side.

There was no way the big Mercedes could follow us, even if Werther was willing to mow down smaller cars and crash through them like bowling pins. We emerged on a different road and Rans continued his unpredictable path through the city, speeding down one-way streets, barely clearing stopped cars as we wove between them at stoplights, repeatedly slipping past cars coming at right angles to us on cross-streets, with mere inches to spare. Horns blared in our wake, but it was inconceivable that Werther could track us this way in his massive, ungainly vehicle.

Rans slowed down for an almost sedate left turn, then twisted the throttle and rocketed onto a freeway onramp, making my body slide back sharply before I caught myself. He merged with traffic and accelerated, speeding along, passing cars right and left—even moving all the way over to the center shoulder to swerve around a few.

The city flew by in a blur as we screamed along the expressway.

Rans zipped through a gap and sped down an off-ramp, exiting the freeway after what had probably been only two or three miles. I was clutching him so tightly that I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull my fingers loose once we eventually stopped. My joints felt frozen in place. Petrified.

But… it appeared we had lost our tail.

Rans drove the bike through a narrow alley somewhere behind Enterprise Center. The bike jumped as we left the pavement and drove along the verge running beside the train tracks, gravel spitting from beneath the flying tires. I fretted silently about possible dead-ends or unexpected drop-offs, but there was method to Rans’ madness. The next thing I knew, he’d followed a concrete culvert up a gentle slope and hopped onto the I-44, heading west.

My chest hurt. My head hurt. Everything hurt, but for that moment, I closed my eyes and rested my forehead on Rans’ uninjured shoulder, just breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out as the wind whipped past us.

After a few minutes, I chanced raising my head and recognized where we were. This was the Central West End, site of many of the city’s tourist attractions. Rans exited the interstate and drove sedately through traffic, heading toward a fashionable apartment building across from Forest Park, near the Zoo and Art Museum.

Rans turned into the driveway and headed down a ramp leading to a secure basement parking garage. He stopped to punch in a code at the gate, and the barrier lifted.

“Almost there, Zorah. Stay with me for a bit longer.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that.

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