“I saw a thing on the news once,” the woman said, her voice taut with tension, “about these kids who had an illness like yours. And once a week they gathered at a park after it closed so they could socialize and play on the equipment in the dark.”
Roland struggled to pay attention while he steadily forced the spike out of the ground. He hadn’t felt this weak since … well, since before he had been transformed over nine centuries ago.
“In the car on the way there,” she continued, “the children had to wear protective suits and helmets because even the headlights of passing cars would hurt them. Is your skin that sensitive?”
“Yes,” he growled as the spike came loose.
Panting, he lay still for a moment, trying to shut out the pain. The knife she wielded slipped and sank into his flesh.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
He shook his head. It wasn’t her fault. The rope was so tight he doubted even he could cut it off without giving himself a few nicks.
The pressure on his ankles loosened, then fell away. The woman dropped the knife and began to tug on the spike, raising it enough for him to slip his feet free.
Sitting up set the stab wounds in Roland’s abdomen ablaze.
While he caught his breath, the woman moved to his side. Every few seconds she cast the horizon an apprehensive glance.
Seizing the bar lodged against one palm, he started to pull.
She grabbed his wrist. “Don’t. If you remove it now, you’ll drag dirt, bacteria, bugs, and who knows what else into the wound. And the spike might be curbing the flow of blood. Let the paramedics do it later.”
Leaning forward, she pressed her face to his chest and slid her arms around him.
Roland was so shocked it took him a minute to realize she was trying to haul him to his feet.
She couldn’t, of course. He weighed twice what she did. But he appreciated the effort.
His ankles (and most of the rest of him) screamed in protest as he dragged himself upright. As soon as he stood, the woman shifted to his side and carefully drew one of his arms across her narrow shoulders. The top of her cap barely reached his chin.
“Can you walk?”
He nodded wearily and let her steer him toward the trees.
The cool shade there provided welcome relief from the burning that already lashed his skin. Despite their hurry, his petite rescuer took great pains to protect him, holding back branches that would have otherwise brushed his wounds or jostled the spikes in his hands. She even warned him of sharp twigs and other hazards on the ground that might harm his bare feet.
When they reached the edge of the trees and he saw the bright, empty meadow ahead of them, Roland swore.
The woman bit her lower lip and cast him an apologetic look. “I live on the other side of those trees. Should we take the long way around and stay in the shade or can you make it across the clearing?”
Damn it. He needed to get to shelter before he fell flat on his face. “Cross the clearing.”
She didn’t hesitate or second-guess him. She merely propelled him forward, righting him when he stumbled and hastening him until they were practically jogging.
“Is it me or are you already turning pink?” she asked.
“It isn’t you.” A few more seconds and blisters would begin to form.
They made it to the trees, where she again warded off combatant branches. On the other side of the cluster of foliage, Roland saw a small frame house preceded by a deck and a densely shaded backyard.
He would be shielded from the sun all the way to the back door.
“Just a little farther,” she said breathlessly, the arm she had looped around his waist giving him a faint squeeze of encouragement he found oddly endearing.
Across the grass. Up the steps. A brief pause on the deck while she retrieved her keys from her shirt pocket and unlocked the door. Then the two of them squeezed inside a very narrow laundry room and secured the door behind them.
Both Roland and the woman at his side emitted simultaneous sighs of relief.
“What’s your name?” he heard himself ask.
“Sarah Bingham. Yours?”
“Roland Warbrook. Thank you for saving my life, Sarah.”
Chapter 2
Still tucked under his arm, Sarah ushered him into a small, spotless kitchen. “Who were those guys? Why did they do this to you?”
His sore feet soothed by the cold wood floor, Roland opted not to answer and instead took in the adjoining living room.
Of average size, it was divided into two areas. One half housed exercise equipment: an inclined sit-up bench, a treadmill, a spincycle, and a Total Gym. The other boasted a black futon with solid red and white throw pillows, a glass coffee table with a matching entertainment center, and tall black bookshelves full of DVDs, VHS tapes, and books. Black curtains covered the windows and blocked out the morning light. Several modern paintings that immediately appealed to him adorned the white walls. Strategically placed about the room in black wrought-iron stands, a dozen or so large houseplants formed splashes of color and lent the room a warm, cozy feel.
Sarah moved past him and ducked through a doorway into a miniscule bathroom. When she emerged, she carried a stack of towels in her arms.
All but one she tossed on the futon. The last—a large white one—she shook out as she approached him. Her gaze met his, then flickered away as a blush once more climbed her cheeks. Stepping close to him, she wrapped the towel around his lower body and tucked the ends in at his waist, sarong-style.
“Thank you.”
“Sure.” Staring up at him with concern, she gently grasped his elbow. “Come sit down.”
Roland let her lead him to the futon and sank down onto the surprisingly comfortable cushion. His head began to throb unmercifully.
“I’ll call 911,” she said, moving away, “then see what I can do to—”
Roland grabbed her wrist, hissing when his mutilated hand protested.
Her head snapped around. “What is it?”
“You can’t.”
Her forehead crinkled beneath the bill of her cap. “Can’t what?”
“Call 911.”
Her gaze turning wary, she twisted her arm to free her wrist and backed away. “Why? Are you wanted by the police?”
“No.”
Hell. What was he supposed to say? It had been so long since he had spoken to any human who wasn’t a cashier in a grocery store that he didn’t have an explanation readily available.
He couldn’t tell her the truth: that he was an immortal who had been led into an ambush by the vampire he had been hunting. She would think him insane.
Yet he had to tell her something.
What was that bullshit line Marcus fed his human friends?
“I’m with the CIA.” That was it. “If you call 911, you’ll blow four years of undercover work.”
“CIA?” she parroted doubtfully.
He didn’t blame her. It sounded ridiculous. How the hell did Marcus make that crap fly? “Yes.”
“Why would calling 911 blow your cover?”
“The men who tried to kill me think I’m an illegal arms dealer wanted by the FBI. If—”
“How do I know you aren’t an illegal arms dealer wanted by the FBI?”
Roland wanted to moan with frustration. Hunger and the need for blood twisted his insides into knots and the pain of his injuries constantly clawed at him, making it hard to think straight.
“If you’re asking if I have ID that proves I’m CIA, carrying that sort of thing around when I’m undercover isn’t exactly feasible.”
She nibbled her full lower lip. “I suppose that’s true.”
“If it will ease your mind, I’ll call my handler and he can confirm who I am.” Hopefully Seth, the leader of the Immortal Guardians, would catch on fast and play along. Or maybe come up with something better. Roland just wasn’t up to the task himself. “He’s going to have to send someone in to extract me any
way.” And would no doubt use this as an excuse to lecture him again about his refusal to have a Second.
Seconds (a rather outdated term, he supposed) were humans who protected immortals like himself during the day and generally came to their aid whenever they needed it. They and the rest of the human network Seth had fostered also helped hide the existence of immortals, vampires, and gifted ones from the general public by presenting facades of normalcy and providing a number of other services.
Seth required every Immortal Guardian to have a Second. Roland, however, steadfastly refused. It was the only issue over which he had ever butted heads with Seth, whom no one sane would ever want to piss off. The eldest amongst them, the immortal leader was so powerful he could walk in daylight without suffering any adverse effects at all. He possessed abilities the rest of them lacked that could make even Roland’s hair stand on end. And had. On more than one occasion.
When it came to this, however, Roland absolutely would not capitulate. Anything else Seth asked of him he would do. He owed the man a great deal and would not hesitate to die for him if need be. But welcome a Second into his home and give him his trust?
No way.
The dozen or more poor sods who had been sent to him over the years as his Second had all left … eagerly … of their own free will within twenty-four hours and damned near wet their pants in fear if they ran into Roland again later, so Seth had long ago stopped sending them.
The issue remained a contentious one, though.
Roland watched as Sarah crossed to the entertainment center and retrieved a black telephone. The cord trailing after her, she returned and set it beside him on the futon.
“No cell phone?” he asked curiously. It seemed as though everyone and their grandmother had one these days.
She smiled wryly. “No, I like my brain the way it is—tumor free—and plan to keep it that way, thank you.”
“The phone companies claim they’re safe.”
She snorted. “And cigarette companies claimed cigarettes were safe. I think I’ll listen to the neurologists who don’t profit from the product sales and stick to landlines.”
Fortunately, as an immortal, he didn’t have to worry about that sort of thing.
When he would have picked up the phone’s receiver, Sarah stopped him. “Use the speakerphone. I’ve seen too many news reports about criminals who posed as law enforcement officials to gain their victim’s trust and would like to hear for myself that you are who you say you are.”
That would make this a bit trickier.
Roland pressed the speakerphone button and dialed Seth’s cell number.
As he watched, Sarah knelt on the floor beside him, pulled off her baseball cap, and ran a careless hand through her hair. A lovely dark chocolate brown that contrasted vividly with her alabaster skin, it fell in shining, subtle waves down to her waist.
“You have beautiful hair,” he told her as she picked up one of the discarded towels and pressed it to the stab wounds in his abdomen.
A masculine throat cleared. “Roland?”
That could not possibly be a blush he felt climbing his cheeks at the sound of the immortal leader’s deep, accented voice. He hadn’t blushed since his days as a squire. “Yes.”
“What—are you high? You just told me my hair is beautiful.”
From the corner of his eye, Roland saw Sarah unsuccessfully attempt to stifle a smile. “I wasn’t talking to you,” he grumbled.
“Uh-huh. So, what’s wrong?”
Sarah leaned forward to whisper, “How does he know something is wrong?”
Seth answered for him. “Because he only calls me when he’s desperate. Who is that you have with you, Roland?”
“Sarah,” she answered for him.
“That explains the caller ID.”
“Who might you be?” she asked.
“Seth.”
“And what is the nature of your relationship with Roland?”
There was just no way this was going to go well.
“I suppose you might call me his boss,” Seth said slowly. “Why?”
“Something has come up,” Roland interjected before Sarah could ask any more questions.
“Clearly,” came his dry reply. “Are you injured?”
He glanced down at himself. “Yyyeah. A little bit.”
Sarah’s mouth fell open. “A little bit?” she repeated incredulously. “There are two-foot-long spikes sticking out of your hands!”
“Actually, they’re more like a foot and a half.”
“Roland, are you all right?” Seth asked, concern coloring his voice.
“Yes.”
“No, he isn’t,” Sarah insisted. “He needs medical attention but he doesn’t want me to call 911.”
Seth, Roland thought, if you can hear me, I told her I’m a CIA agent working undercover, posing as an illegal arms dealer, and can’t call 911 because it would blow four years of undercover work.
Several seconds of silence ticked by while he waited and hoped for a response.
That is so weak.
Both relieved and astounded that Seth could truly read his thoughts over long distance (the man was just too freakin’ powerful), Roland responded rather belligerently, Well, it works for Marcus.
Marcus doesn’t tell mortals he’s CIA. He leads them toward drawing the conclusion themselves.
“Have you taken this woman into your confidence, Roland?” Seth spoke aloud.
“I have. She saved my life.”
“Then you have the CIA’s gratitude, ma’am. However, I must ask that you comply with his wishes. If you call for an ambulance, the police will get involved and four years of undercover work will go down the drain.”
Disbelief washed across her pretty features. “Did you not hear me mention that they drove metal spikes through both of his hands?”
“Roland, explain.”
He drew in a deep breath, wincing at the pain in his cracked ribs. “I was tracking a potential buyer”—vamp—“and was basically led into an ambush that included six of his colleagues.” There were seven vampires plus two human minions. I took out four of the vamps and seriously injured two others before they staked me to the ground and left the minions to guard me until the sun rose. Had Sarah not come along when she did and freed me, I’d be toast.
“An ambush,” Seth muttered thoughtfully.
“It was a very well-orchestrated attack.” Have you ever heard of vampires doing such?
No. I’ve seen them travel in pairs, occasionally even threes, but—because of the madness that gradually afflicts them all—most prefer solitude.
“Something isn’t right, Seth. I don’t think this was an isolated incident.” The last vamp standing took a sample of my blood. It seemed to be the entire purpose of their attack. They knew who I was, that I was an immortal, before I ever confronted the bait vampire. How is that possible?
Were it another immortal, I might think you had simply been careless. But I know how paranoid you are and how meticulously you guard your privacy. The fact that so many vampires are living together—let alone investigating, plotting, and planning attacks—is unheard of.
“I would join you and get to the bottom of this, but I can’t,” Seth said, his voice grim. “I have a situation here that requires my full attention.”
Roland was not surprised. The leader of the Immortal Guardians frequently had his hands full. “No problem. I’ll look into it myself.”
“Um, hello?” Sarah called. “Are you people insane? You aren’t going to be able to look into anything at all if you bleed to death on my futon.”
How bad are your wounds?
I’ve stopped the bleeding, but they aren’t healing. I could really use some blood.
Too bad you don’t have a Second who could bring you some.
Roland ground his teeth. “What is David’s number? I’ll call him and see if he’ll let me borrow Darnell for a few hours.”
David was a fellow immortal, Darnell his
Second. And, as luck would have it, they lived only an hour away.
“David can’t help you. He and Darnell are here in Texas with me.”
That gave him pause. Whereas Roland had lived centuries, David had lived millennia. The second-oldest immortal, David enjoyed powers that only Seth’s exceeded.
Sending for David was tantamount to calling in the big guns.
“David is with you?”
“Yes.”
Forcing his fingers to do his bidding, Roland picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear.
Sarah started to protest but quieted when he touched her shoulder in a silent bid for leniency.
“What kind of situation are we talking, Seth? Do you need my help?”
“No, David and I can handle it.”
“Are you sure? I can put this on hold and be there in a few hours.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I would prefer that you remain there and see what you can uncover.”
“All right.”
Sarah pursed her lips, raised one dark eyebrow, and looked pointedly at the phone.
Returning the receiver to its cradle, Roland switched back to speakerphone.
Sarah couldn’t believe the man had just offered to fly to Texas to aid his boss, who clearly was also a good friend, when he sat before her covered in blood and ravaged by wounds that would make anyone with a weaker stomach than hers vomit.
That was loyalty. That was dedication.
Two qualities that seemed regrettably rare nowadays.
She studied Roland curiously. If he had opened the telephone conversation by saying, Hey, Seth, do me a favor and tell this woman I really am a CIA agent, she would have remained skeptical. But Seth had confirmed his status as an undercover agent—as well as the length of time he had been working this case—with no verbal hints from Roland, so she was inclined to believe him.
Besides, foolish though it may be, she wanted to believe him.
The fingers of one of his hands still rested on her shoulder, the spike carefully angled away from her face.
How could he stand it? How could he bear such horrific wounds so casually? So stoically? And what exactly did he plan to do about them if he didn’t intend to call 911?
Darkness Dawns Page 2