Heat from the hot ceramic cup seeped into my hands. Sipping tenderly at tea, I decided it was a good thing I hadn't gotten around to coffee.
“Dear, who is Juan?” Zelda said.
I coughed and spewed tea over my chin. She whomped me on the back a few times.
“Where did you hear that name?”
“Last night, you apologized a dozen times to someone named Juan. It seemed important.”
I shouldn't drink without a muzzle because secrets leak out of drunk people. Could I possibly make a bigger mess out of things? With Zelda, I felt I should be honest. Almost.
“Juan was my sponsor. Until recently, I had been going to AA meetings.”
Zelda frowned. My heart felt sickened by the idea that I disappointed her.
“Aren't those meetings awful religious for you, dear?”
“Yes.”
“Sweetie.” She pressed her warm, arthritic-when-it-rains hand over mine. “I suspect that you aren't an alcoholic, Kaidlyn.”
“Oh, really?”
She presumed to know me so well? Immediately, I became ornery. I set the cup down, removing her hand from mine. What would she think if she knew I killed Juan after he talked about God?
“You're not an alcoholic, but you use alcohol as an excuse for emotional release. Alcohol gives you permission to vent the feelings you have stuffed in a tight little box. If you found another way to manage the chaos in your heart, you wouldn't turn to alcohol. What you have isn't an addiction but a defunct coping mechanism.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It isn't.” She sipped her tea. “Do you visit with a counselor at work?”
“Only long enough to bribe him with jelly beans.”
“I suspected as much.” She looked rather smug for a non-credentialed psychotherapist.
“What's the solution then? Cinnamon rolls?”
“Ah, that's only the beginning. You and me, darling, we're creating our own recovery program.”
“And what abhorrent behavior will you eliminate?” Sarcasm leaked into my tone as my hands tightened around the cup.
“I will stop pretending that everything will be okay if I leave it alone. Perhaps you’ve noticed, but I avoid discussing violence. I neglect uncomfortable conversations even if there's an urgent need for them. Over the years, I've developed a live-and-let-life philosophy which is so hands-off it creates a very lukewarm aura around my spirit.”
“I have a bad feeling about where this is going.”
“I will no longer change the subject when you talk about guns and murder, and you will indulge my occasional, situation-appropriate questions with as much honesty as you can muster.”
“Look, I'm not going to be cured by answering a few questions and I don't need a shrink.”
“Wouldn't it be nice to have a friend you can talk to?”
“Zelda, you are my friend.”
“Not a good one on my part. For my sake, and for the health of my spirit, indulge me. You wouldn't want my aura to wither and die, would you?”
“Oooooh, tricky old lady.”
“Easy with the 'old' business.” She smiled, knowing she'd won. “I have another theory as well. In the olden days, soldiers cycled off the battlefield. Even a little time away from the constant conflict and stress of war could prevent them from going straight crazy. Soldiers suffering through endless battle inevitably lose their minds. They’re only human, you know, and eventually horror will overwhelm the human capacity to survive it. You and your fellow warriors, however, never leave the battlefield. The war came to our doorstep ten years ago and never left.”
“You’re saying I need a vacation?”
“Probably. Also, you might need to address some of the more traumatic issues—stress, I should say—of what you do. We can start by answering a simple question.”
“Okay, shoot,” I said, feeling like I was indeed in the line of fire.
“Tell me something you have never told anyone. Could be about the job, your life, your family, anything. And none of this 'I like peas' cheap cop-out. Something good. Go for broke. I dare you.”
“Evil lady,” I said, “and old too.”
She ignored that. I sipped chamomile to fortify me for the confession. Go for broke, huh? I wasn’t that brave, but her dare required me to say something. The older the story, the safer the telling.
“When I was young, my brother became L-positive. The strain was extremely aggressive, and the disease took hold before we noticed something was wrong. He had a tantrum...that famous Durant temper. Tried to eat us. I killed him instead, and everyone called me a hero. They paraded me in the press like I was an avenging angel. Everyone told me, over and over, how brave I'd been. As if I was the hand of God or something. When they came for my mother...”
I cleared my throat. Felt like I was fading into anaphylactic shock.
“My mother cried when they took her. Somehow that was worse than when she screamed in terror or wailed over my brother's corpse. I let them take her away, and we knew she wouldn't be coming back. We let them take her away. My father and I never talked about it. Then I was taken, too, leaving my father alone in the house to remove bloodstained wallpaper. And there it is: the Kaidlyn Durant legacy. Brave in the face of the monster, coward in the shadow of the system.”
“Did you see your mother again?”
I shook my head. Zelda nodded, probably conjuring a line of philosophical crap.
“That sucks,” she said.
I blinked. “Yeah, it does.”
She passed a flaky pastry. Creamy frosting dripped onto my thumb, gooey and warm.
“I think I’ll plant bougainvillea along the forefront of my house—and yours if you like—to act as a barrier between onlookers on the street and our private property. What say you?”
“That's it?”
She frowned. “Would you prefer a non-flowering shrub?”
I laughed. Relief swept through the raw mire of my gut. I laughed until my eyes were wet.
“Zelda, you are a wonder.”
“Glad you're feeling better. Did Marigold leave to collect her daughter from the babysitter?”
Marigold? The name fit.
“She left earlier this morning.”
No follow-up comment on the issue. Zelda acknowledged the sexual escapade and that was that. No judgment. Although I didn't figure her for the kind to lecture me on sexual tendencies, I was grateful she didn't nag about my intentions toward a woman I didn't remember having sex with.
“One more thing,” she said. Here we go. “Do you feel that you make a difference in the world?”
“I know I do.”
“But do you feel it in your heart?”
“This is a trick question, right?”
“Any sense of accomplishment, gratification, or fulfillment? A reason to get out of bed in the morning?”
“What I do is important,” I said.
“Absolutely. You haven't answered the question, though. I'm guessing your brain knows the job is necessary, but your heart doesn't feel it. A hobby or a cause might give you the sort of fulfillment the job lacks.”
“I'll consider needlepoint.”
“Consider something, smarty-pants.”
“Thanks, Zelda.” I brush crumbs off my hands. “I should get going.”
“I'll be over to help clean the yard.”
“Don't rush. I have a doctor's appointment and won't be home until much later.”
“Okay, luv. Get some rest.”
I took a cab back to my truck, drove the truck home, and rode another cab to the clinic. After my treatment, I would not be in any shape to walk or drive.
Rejuve shots came from merging studies of the human growth hormone and stem cells. Localized injections accelerated the rate of growth in rehabilitating tissues. Rejuve worked best after the body’s natural healing tapered off, as if the shots could change the body's mind about fixing certain areas. It seemed like magic to me. Not a miracle cure, but definitely
an improvement. Why didn't I take them all the time? Because they caused wicked, incapacitating nausea and diarrhea. Not pretty.
I could tolerate three days of vomiting and no food for improved mobility on my left side. Rejuve could never rid me of the scars altogether, but I endured the brutal treatments to keep my performance at par. My body needed to be job-capable for as long as possible.
Dr. Robles met me in the waiting room. Her shrewd eyes scanned me.
“Are you drunk?” she demanded.
“No, ma'am. Was. Not anymore.”
“Good. Let's begin. We'll scan to see what you've accumulated since your last visit. Now, get naked and hop on the table. You know the drill: no guns permitted inside the exam room.”
I hated the drill but secured my gun in a lockbox. I disrobed and laid down. The exam table was warm like a tanning booth, but the papery surface crinkled at the slightest movement. Dr. Robles lowered the scanning device and it began to whir, buffering me with warm air and bright light. I watched a map of my body appear on the graph screen. Odd, seeing oneself in dehumanized layers. Few places escaped scarring: my left shoulder, the back of my knees, ankles, and feet. She examined my body on screen, paying zero attention to my physical form. She smelled of peppery muscle ointment. A rough surgical scar encircled her forearm. Why wasn't the good doctor using Rejuve herself? Just my luck, the cure might cause cancer.
She tsked.
“Someone’s poor surgery left more seams along your jaw. Shall I work to reduce them?”
“No. They don't affect the job.”
“Your throat is fairly stiff.”
“It cinches when I twist my neck to the left.”
“These are new.” She pointed to the digital map of my hip.
“Sure are.”
“This network on your arm is also recent.”
“Probably.” I'd reached a damage saturation point, making scars increasingly hard to remember.
“At the rate you acquire injuries, you may want to make arrangements.”
“Huh?” I was dying?
“The cluster on your left forearm impedes your finger movement. The clot on your elbow will need to be lifted. Abuse to your neck and hindquarters severely reduces your overall dexterity. I'll definitely have to focus on those areas today. The deeper damage on your abdomen and pelvic girdle is less and less likely to withstand future injuries. You'll be a puff of crepe paper if you keep this up. The repeated fractures along your arms, fingers, clavicle and ribs are begging to be reinjured, and I'm worried about the disks in your neck. What's with the shoulder? Hmmm. Acromioclavicular stress. Looks like occasional dislocation. Durant, human bodies can take a lot of abuse, but not forever. Barring exceptional damage, I'd wager you have a year at your current capacity. You'll want to begin considering your options.”
“Thanks. I will.” I wouldn't. PD and private security didn't seem right, not when I could still do the FBHS beat.
“We're going to pair the injections with old fashioned elbow grease.”
“Surgery?”
“Minor. After I get in there with the laser, you should see a forty percent increase in tissue dexterity. Rejuve may boost results to sixty percent. I'll go down to the bone with some of these injections, especially on the left side. You should take two weeks off.”
“Sure. No prob,” I lied. Being sick made me as pleasant as a colicky boar, but boredom sucked more.
Dr. Robles wheeled her chair over to the bed. “On a scale of one to ten, how much residual discomfort are you prepared to experience?”
“Way to phrase it,” I said, apprehensive. “Eight.”
“You'll need to take time off,” she reiterated. She wasn't an idiot.
“Yeah, got some time, plenty of it.”
She pressed her palms together as if she felt the need to pray over my stupidity. “Still declining anesthesia?”
“You know the story, Doc.”
“Let's begin.”
“Let's.”
I puked three times before leaving the office. My body felt like it had been oiled, left in the sun, and scorched down to the bone. Couldn't sit without searing pain. My elbows, hips, stomach, and ribs burned with fierce agony that contributed to the nausea. I asked the cab driver to pull over on the freeway so I could puke again. At home, I crawled into bed, every inch of me on fire. Pulled the garbage basket close, hugged a bottled sports drink, and slept fitfully.
My phone rang madly from under a pile of abandoned clothing. There were four missed calls, all from Sarakas. I answered.
“Jesus!” he said.
“What!”
“I have no idea what. You didn't answer the phone. Are you okay?”
“Have I missed something? It's my week off.”
“You didn't see the news?”
“No. I've been sick in bed.”
Silence.
“I'm coming over.” He hung up.
Dang it.
I dialed Zelda. “I might need help cleaning the yard after all. The dermatologist left me bedridden and company is on the way. ”
“Sure, sweetie. Shall I bring some cinnamon rolls?”
“Huh.” I hung up and puked. Fell asleep. Woke and heard Zelda bustling around, then I dozed off again. Heard Zelda and Sarakas talking, and then he entered carrying a steaming mug of tea.
“Let me see,” he said. I was wearing a sports bra and panties, but he'd seen the goods before. I tossed the sheet aside. He squeezed my forearm, tested the crease of my elbow, and wriggled my fingers. I winced. He eased off.
“Kaid, how much residual pain?”
“She went deep.”
“Looks good.”
“Thanks,” I said, and tried to think of a reason to change the subject.
“I'll open a window.”
“Great idea.” The room smelled like vomit.
“What did you do last night?” he said.
“Stuff,” I said, thinking of Marigold and a bottle of tequila. Sarakas blinked and I remembered he knew what stuff meant. I groaned.
“Does stuff have anything to do with the morning newsfeed?”
“What?” Images of me in various states of undress flashed into my mind, perhaps captured by some ninja paparazzi or mutant security camera.
Sarakas uploaded a news-bit on his phone and read, “FBHS Princess Spends Private Time with Vampire Icon Sigurd. Very suggestive. You said you were sick in bed. Did you stuff with a vampire?”
I paled and shivered. The world believed I'd bumped uglies with the city's most famous, gorgeous, entirely inhuman vampire. Or worse, let him feed off me.
“Jesus. Buddha. Christ. That's not—It's nothing—Gah!” My cheeks flared red and a case of vertigo whacked me. I turned and puked into the bucket.
“Everyone thinks it's something. Santi is tickled pink. Tad thinks it's the best press that could have come from the event. Pro-vamp groups will be throwing money at the bureau this season. Did the vampire hurt you?”
“No, but I never want to see the bastard again. Tad had something to do with this, didn't he? I'll kill him.”
“I would advise against it. A murdering spree would generate bad press.” He smiled. “Taking some recovery time?”
“Yeah, about three days.”
“Make it seven.”
“Ugh.” I couldn't argue, considering how I felt. “Did you know vampires could be killed?”
“They tried the stake-in-the-heart trick without success.”
“Apparently, both the heart and head have to be obliterated.”
“I'm not going to ask how you know that, but I will remind you that you cannot try to kill the Chosen vampire simply because of an article in the paper.”
“Hmph.”
“Want more tea?”
“No.”
“I'll check on you tomorrow.”
I thought about arguing but it wouldn't do any good.
“Get some rest,” he said, and left.
Chapter 24
; Rainer
Craven's body began to turn. She smelled decisively dead.
Despite being coated in the slick residue of her brutal demise, her unmistakable feminine form drew my eyes time and time again. I couldn't bear it. The lithe body spread across the hospital bed. So beautiful. So ripe and precious.
Decomposition would make the meat softer, juicier.
I couldn't resist anymore. I couldn't bear it.
With a damp cloth, I began cleaning old, rancid blood from Craven's skin. I hated the texture of her flesh. Despised the cool limpness, but I didn’t stop. Scraping the filth from her ruined meat would be the last humane thing I could do for her before Erik's kennel took her home.
Home, ha. She'd never had one.
Craven was a street kid constantly displaced by gangs, dead zones, and state officials. Under the Beautification of America Bill, Homeland Security had the power to expel crazies and vagrants. They usually took undesirables outside the city and left them in the dessert. Luckily Craven had been beautiful, and her favors saved her from extermination.
Not that it mattered anymore. Dead on a slab, that's where life eventually put everyone. Washing crusty blood from her fine black hair, I realized I'd never touched her before. Not a hug, a handshake, or an accidental brush-by. I hadn't allowed myself to get close, hoping that her inevitable death wouldn't hurt much if I kept my distance.
Maybe I had been wrong. I would never know.
The water ran pink, then red. Old blood stained the skin under my nails. The woman's long hair brushed over my skin, twisted between my fingers, and tore at my heart.
I should have saved her. Both Craven and Shohreh.
All this equipment and technical knowledge, and what did I do with myself? Played electronic tricks, shuffled money, aided revolutionaries, hid dissidents, toyed with surveillance, and acted a nuisance: none of which helped in the long run.
Certainly didn't save Craven.
I slumped into a chair, crushed by injustice and self-pity and a pile of unbearable crap.
The buzzer rang and I let in Erik. He strode to the cot, unfolded a black sheet, and shook it over the corpse. The fabric smelled dry and dirty, like an underground lair. Before pulling the death cloth over her face, he kissed her cold forehead. I think that was more for my benefit than his, to put me at ease about what they would do. His white hair, brushed straight, cascaded over her face like a shroud. He probably didn't even notice she was cleaner than before. He didn't say anything when he gathered her in his arms.
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