“What the hell’s wrong with you?” the old driver shouted. Then his expression changed from aggravation to amazement when Lazarus trundled around to his door. “My friend needs a hospital. How long will it take you to get us to one?”
“Not long,” the driver said, “as long as you’ve got money.”
Wordlessly, Lazarus opened the back door and placed Malcolm inside. The tenderness with which he performed this action touched Jillian. She couldn’t believe a creature with such lethal power could possess such a gentle touch. Again, that thrill she’d experienced when they’d kissed coursed through her. Shuddering a little, she opened the door and got in beside Gia. She reached out to close her door, but Lazarus was already there, shutting it for her. He moved up to the passenger door and tried it. It was locked.
“Gotta sit in back, my friend,” the driver said.
Lazarus leaned down into the window and glowered at the driver. Jillian felt the hackles stand up on the back of her neck.
Like they had back in the vampire theatre, Lazarus’s eyes had taken on a lurid red color.
The driver gaped at him a moment. Then his trance broke, and he hastily leaned over and fumbled for the door lock.
Lazarus got in and said, “Drive.”
The cabbie obeyed.
They’d been at Mount Sinai Hospital for a little more than an hour when Neville Alcott arrived. He was attended by two beefy men Lazarus recognized as Neville’s sometimes bodyguards.
Based on recent events, Lazarus assumed the times those bodyguards guarded Neville’s body would now become more frequent.
Lazarus and Jillian were seated together beside Malcolm’s bed. Malcolm had been awake briefly but had been so distraught and in so much pain from the beating he’d taken from the female vampires that the doctors had opted to sedate him. Now he was sleeping with his mouth open, his bruises and grizzled cheeks making him look much older than he normally did.
When Jillian saw her father come through the door in his wheelchair she rose a bit unsteadily and put a hand over her mouth.
“Come here, my girl,” Neville said.
Neville guided his wheelchair forward, and Jillian met him at the foot of Malcolm’s bed. Jillian leaned down and embraced her father, her skirt rising high on the backs of her legs. Lazarus made himself look away despite his ungentlemanly urges. When they pulled away from each other, Jillian had tears on her cheeks. Behind Neville’s spectacles, the old man’s eyes were red-rimmed and misted in a way that Lazarus had never seen them.
Neville held out a palsied hand. Despite his age, the scientist’s hands were ordinarily steady. But now …
“I can never tell you how much—”
“It’s fine,” Lazarus said. He gave Neville’s hand a squeeze. “I’m just happy Jillian’s safe.”
“She wouldn’t be if it weren’t for you. Neither of us would be.”
Lazarus smiled briefly, then sobered. “This changes things, you know.”
“More than you might realize,” Neville said. “With Carboni’s men gunning for you—and now us—we’ll need tighter security, new measures taken to ensure the secrecy of our projects.”
Lazarus frowned. “Neville, there’s something else. When we went belowground to get Jillian—”
“The vampires,” Neville said, “I know. There have been rumors of them for ages, but this is the first real confirmation we’ve gotten. We know many members of the cabal originated from Ireland, but the oldest members seem to hail from Eastern Europe.”
Lazarus’s mind raced. “But how did you know about them?”
Neville smiled. “I didn’t. We ran into Gia Carboni on the way in. She was planning on going home tonight, but I prevailed on her to stay in a hotel instead.”
“She won’t be safe there either. If they find out—”
“Two of my men are with her,” Neville said, a placating hand in the air. “She’ll be well-guarded.”
Lazarus said nothing more, but he was troubled by the thought of Gia alone in a hotel. Even if Neville had assigned guards to her, they’d have no idea what was coming for them, whether it was Carboni’s men or the Master’s.
Especially if it was the Master’s.
That led him to another even more unpleasant thought. “Where will you and Jillian stay?”
He glanced at Jillian and saw a look of disappointment flit across her face. Or had he really seen it? Was it possible that Jillian thought she and Lazarus would be staying together, or was that merely wishful thinking on his part? Was she interested in him, or had that kiss been the result of her gratitude? And if she was interested in him on a more than professional level … if the kiss had meant as much to her as it had him … was it fair for him to pursue her? Or even to reciprocate? A part of him told him it wasn’t; he needed to leave her alone and allow her to find a normal relationship with a guy who had regular blood pumping through his veins. A life with Lazarus would never be normal or even safe. It seemed selfish to consign her to that type of existence.
With a start he realized Neville had been talking while Lazarus had been brooding about Jillian. “… and the estate is fortified against any threat with which we might be faced. Jillian’s quarters are on the third floor in a remote part of the mansion. The chances of anything harming her there are virtually nonexistent.”
Lazarus thought of Mina Murray floating up to Malcolm’s office window on the twenty-first floor, but again said nothing. What would be the point? Neville might understand how amoral Carboni’s crime syndicate could be, but how could he possibly fathom the malevolence of the vampires without actually experiencing their wrath?
Neville’s expression grew grave. “There are other matters we need to discuss now, Michael. I apologize, but these are circumstances we cannot ignore.”
Lazarus folded his arms and glanced at Jillian. He considered asking her to leave the room—not because she was incapable of dealing with whatever Neville was about to say but rather due to the fact that she’d already been through so much stress. Didn’t everyone need a respite from feeling terrified?
But he decided she’d find out whatever it was sooner or later and returned his attention to the old scientist.
Neville said, “The authorities are willing to not press charges against you as long as you don’t go public with your version of what happened.”
Lazarus grunted. “The cops didn’t like being shown up, huh?”
“On the contrary, the NYPD has been surprisingly cooperative. Oh, their captain is embarrassed about the P.R. hit they’re taking due to the murdered officers and the fact that you performed all the heavy lifting for them, but the men who were there—particularly Officer Martin Perez—are squarely in your corner.”
“Perez,” Lazarus said thoughtfully. “He was the guy who had the gun on me up on the fifth floor?”
“He was the leader of that group, yes. He says you prevented further loss of life and should receive a commendation.”
“I don’t need their commendations.”
“Nevertheless, it is good to know you have allies, is it not?”
Lazarus didn’t know if it was or wasn’t, but he nodded so they could move forward. “You said there were other circumstances.”
“I’m getting to that,” Neville said, “but I needed you to know where you stood before I shared the bad news.”
Lazarus waited, thinking again of Jillian. She looked like she was taking it all in stride, but who knew how she felt inside? Man, she was one tough girl.
“There was a shooter in the lobby,” Neville said. “He had an Uzi.”
“Care to narrow it down a little? There were more shooters than art fans in that museum.”
“Curly hair, high-pitched laugh?”
Lazarus remembered the one well. Of course he did. How could he forget that cackling, maniacal laughter?
“What about him?” he asked.
“He got away.”
Lazarus’s mind clicked back to yesterday afternoo
n and the quintet of Uzi-toting thugs. The laughing one had been one of the last to die, just before he’d killed the one who’d crapped himself. In his mind he watched the cackling gunman’s body jolt twice with the .38 rounds Lazarus put in his chest.
“Was he wearing Kevlar?” Lazarus asked.
“We don’t know. We only know what the witnesses said, which was that a big man with curly brown hair and wearing a dark suit was seen leaving the scene of the crime.”
“What does that prove? It could’ve been—”
“He had bloodstains on his chest and was carrying an Uzi.”
That stopped him. But Lazarus remembered nailing the guy right in the middle of the chest and then in the ribcage on the left side of his body. If he hadn’t hit the heart, he’d certainly punctured the guy’s lungs. It was impossible he’d simply gotten up and walked away.
Lazarus rubbed one stubbly cheek. “Why did he run? Why didn’t he come back at me when he had the chance?”
“He didn’t want to be arrested, apparently. He must’ve snuck away while you were …” Neville’s face reddened. “… when you were on the fifth floor saving me.”
Jillian put a hand on Lazarus’s arm. He glanced at her, saw the gratitude there, and suddenly felt very foolish. He covered her hand but returned his attention to Neville. The hope in Jillian’s pretty green eyes had been too much to handle.
Lazarus said, “So one of Carboni’s freaks—and he was a freak if I’ve ever seen one—got away. He’s just another member of a gang we already knew we’d have to contend with. He doesn’t change anything.”
Neville nodded, but he didn’t appear convinced. Lazarus considered pressing him on the matter, but Neville spoke again, perhaps eager to change the subject. “There is one more issue. It’s a request really, and I’m afraid it’s one to which you might object.”
“Go on.”
“I need to take a sample of your blood.”
Lazarus tried but failed to keep the mistrustful edge off his voice. “Why would you want that?”
Neville dropped his gaze, regarded his hands, which he’d folded in his lap. “I know how that must sound to you, Michael, but I can give you my word the sample will not be reproduced. Of course, I’d be lying if I told you I haven’t wondered what else the nanites could do. With proper research they might be used to cure diseases, to eliminate birth defects …” He smiled wistfully. “… even to allow a man like me to walk again. But my intent has nothing to do with anything of that nature.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
Jillian sat forward. “Michael, were you … bitten in the theatre?”
He grunted mirthlessly. “Of course I was. I was bitten, scratched, and beaten so viciously I thought my body might give out. What’s your point?”
“The point,” Neville said, eyeing his daughter, “is that you might have been infected.”
Lazarus stared at the scientist. “That’s impossible.”
“Not necessarily, Michael. The fact is, when it comes to your unique blood type, we don’t know what’s possible. It could have a deleterious effect on your health. It could prove fatal. It’s also possible the reaction could change your body’s chemistry. You could become part or all vampire.”
“Or it could have no effect at all.”
Neville bowed. “That’s true as well. Just the same, I’d like to be sure.”
“You’d like to be sure, huh?”
Neville blinked up at him. “Why, yes.”
Lazarus glanced at Jillian. “And what about you?”
She bit her lip. To Lazarus she looked very young at that moment, very vulnerable. Then she pushed a lock of scarlet hair out of her eyes and shrugged. “I’d like to know you were safe.”
Lazarus regarded her candid stare for a long moment. He nodded softly. “Okay. I’ll let you draw a sample. But only a little.”
“Agreed,” Neville said.
After
Lazarus moved through the automatic double doors and into the early dawn. The moon was still a ghostly sliver overhead, and in the east the sky had lightened to a soothing azure.
Lazarus enjoyed it briefly but soon turned his face back to the street, his expression troubled. Neville would beef up security as a result of yesterday’s attack, but how much security was enough? Bodyguards didn’t care about Neville and Jillian the way Lazarus did; how far would bodyguards go to protect their charges?
He wondered how much good they’d do Gia Carboni, as well. Gia could be an ally to Lazarus, but she might already be a target for Lazarus’s enemies. It all depended on whether or not Benito Carboni and the others believed she’d remained faithful to Lou Carboni. If they didn’t know about Gia and Ed Danks. Lazarus thought she’d be okay, but he wasn’t convinced of it. He wasn’t convinced of anything anymore.
He’d thought Benito Carboni would honor their truce. After Lazarus had killed Benito’s confederate Gino Canelli—uncle of the infamous and deservedly deceased Frankie Canelli—Lazarus and Benito had resolved to put a stop to the violence before it escalated further. But yesterday revealed that ceasefire for the joke it was. Far from swearing off violence toward Lazarus, Benito had simply opted to bide his time. And when the Master had threatened Benito and the other members of his syndicate, Benito had been all too eager to offer up Lazarus as a peace offering. Now that Lazarus had escaped and Neville and Jillian were safe, Benito’s wrath would only grow. The crime lord was not the type of man to lose face and forgive those who’d humiliated him. Carboni would be gunning for Lazarus soon, and he’d be coming with every man and gun he could muster.
And what of the vampires? Lazarus had only killed a fraction of the abhorrent creatures, and now he’d inflicted serious damage on their leader. He had no doubt the Master was still alive; creatures that could live for millennia were no doubt adept at survival. He wouldn’t believe the vampire king dead until he had him in his hands. With a stake through his sinister heart.
Lazarus assumed Jillian would continue living at her father’s mansion, but even there she would never be completely safe. Her independence and her fiery nature were part of why Lazarus was so attracted to her, but now those traits terrified him. She’d never agree to remain under the watchful eye of Neville’s guards. There’d be opportunities for the Master’s servants to strike at her every night. Or even by day. The limo driver and delivery truck hitman had proven that at no time were Jillian and Lazarus’s other friends safe from the vampires. The bloodsuckers could get at Malcolm, at Neville …
No, Lazarus reminded himself. It was Jillian they’d go after. Because the Master knew Jillian was the one Lazarus truly cared about. If there’d been doubt about that before, that doubt had been erased by the past fourteen hours. The only way the Master could hurt Lazarus—short of actually killing him—was to hurt Jillian. That was bad. So bad Lazarus didn’t want to think about it any longer.
He turned left, moving gradually northeast. He wished he’d asked Jillian to go home with him, but that would have been sort of difficult under her father’s watchful gaze. Briefly, he wondered what Neville knew or suspected of their feelings for one another. Would he approve of Lazarus dating Jillian?
He shook his head, looking sourly down at his blood-spattered boots. Dating. Was it even possible for a man like him to date? Life was all missions and tension and inevitably, violence. Wouldn’t the prudent course be to remove Jillian from all that? To remove himself from Jillian?
Yes, he decided. It would be prudent.
Yet he didn’t know if he could.
He crammed his hands in his pockets, but the moment he did he felt a white-hot bolt of pain sizzle through his middle finger. Hissing, he brought the finger up to his eyes and saw the needle poking out of it. Lazarus plucked the needle out, flirted with the notion of tossing it aside, then pocketed it again. Someone had to carry it, he figured. It might as well be him.
He massaged his healing middle finger with his thumb. Pain was a funny thing, he reflected.
When he’d used the tweezers yesterday to force the needle into his flesh, the pain had been manageable. But when the needle had jabbed him unexpectedly it was much worse.
And that mirrored his existence. Nowhere was safe. Belowground in that hellish kingdom of shadows there had been dangers lurking everywhere. But was it any different up here? A gunman could be waiting around every corner, in his apartment, anywhere. There were shadows in this kingdom too, which meant he could never truly live in peace. Unexpected pain was an everpresent reality.
He wanted to go to a café and grab breakfast, but he knew he needed to go home first. He hailed a cab. Surprisingly, it stopped for him. He told the cabbie his address and opened the back door. When he slouched down in the backseat in order for his head to fit under the roof, he saw the cabbie watching him in the overhead mirror. The man wore a turban and had dark, oily skin. The eyes below the turban were kind and perhaps a bit overcurious. Certainly not fearful, which was what Lazarus would have anticipated, given his bedraggled appearance and prodigious size.
“Can I help you with something?” Lazarus asked.
“You look worried about some situation.”
Lazarus smiled wanly out the side window. “I am. My situation keeps getting more complex.”
The man’s eyes lowered to Lazarus’s clothing. “They shoot at you?”
“How do you know that?”
“All the blood,” the man said. “And the bullet holes.”
“I had a busy day yesterday.”
“You are in the paper,” the cabbie said. The man held up a copy of the Post for Lazarus to inspect. A big picture of the Guggenheim adorned the front cover, along with smaller pictures of the artist Elizabeth Austin and the two cops who’d been slain by Carboni’s gunmen.
“Your picture is on page five,” the cabbie said and handed the paper back to Lazarus.
Lazarus shook the newspaper out and opened to page five. There, spanning two columns in the center of the page, was a grainy picture of Lazarus grasping a kid under each arm and vaulting over one of Elizabeth Austin’s runaway orbs.
Bloodshot: Kingdom of Shadows (Kindle Worlds) Page 18