My sight faded completely. The beating of my heart filled my ears like a tolling of a great bell. I couldn’t feel my body, as if it no longer existed. Blind and deaf, I remained in the middle of nothing, swaying, while above me the undead brought the ceiling down. They dug through the plaster and cement to the framework of steel support beams, holding the five stories of concrete above us. Thin arms grasped the beams and pulled with supernatural strength.
God. I haven’t been very good.
The metal whined in protest.
I could have tried harder. I could’ve been a better person. I stand before you now as I am. I make no excuses.
The beams gave, bending.
Please, have mercy on me, Lord.
In my mind’s eye I saw the enormous beams breaking. I saw tons of plaster, cement, and steel falling down, onto vampires, onto me, burying us beneath the rubble, sealing a tomb from which not even a vampire could get out.
I felt their hate-filled hungry minds vanishing one by one. Finally I could let go. I released the awful burden and the awareness left me.
CHAPTER 7
SLAYER LAY IN ITS SHEATH ACROSS A NIGHT TABLE, next to a man reading an ancient paperback. On the cover of the book a man in a brown suit and fedora held an unconscious blonde in a white dress. I tried to focus on the title but the white letters blurred.
The man reading the book wore blue scrubs. He had cut the pantlegs midway down his thighs, and faded blue jeans showed below the blue fabric. I crooked my neck so I could see his feet. Big heavy work boots caught the jeans.
I leaned back onto the pillow. My father had been right: there was Heaven and it was in the South.
The man lowered the book and glanced at me. Of average height and stocky, he had dark skin, glossy with an ebony sheen, and graying black hair, cut military style. The eyes peering at me through the thin-framed glasses were at once intelligent and brimming with humor as if someone had just told him an off-color joke and he was trying his best not to laugh.
“Lovely morning, isn’t it?” he said, the unmistakable harmonies of coastal Georgia vibrating in his voice.
“Shouldn’t it be ‘aint it’?” I said. My voice sounded weak.
“Only if you are an uneducated fool,” the man said. “Or if you wish to appear country. And I’m too old to appear anything that I’m not.”
He moved by my side and took my wrist in his hands. His lips stirred, counting the heartbeats, then his fingers lightly touched my stomach. Pain lanced through me. I flinched and drew a sharp breath.
“On a scale from one to ten, how much does it hurt?” he asked, his fingers probing my shoulder.
I grimaced. “About five.”
He rolled his eyes. “Lord, help me. I have another hard case on my hands.”
He jutted something on a yellow legal pad. We were in a small room, with cream colored walls and a paneled ceiling. Two large windows spilled sunlight onto the floor and light blue sheets covered my legs.
The man put down his pen. “Now, whoever told you, little lady, that you can slap on an r-kit and charge right down the mountain into the battle, needs a good wallop. Anything magic hits it and the damn thing will go screwy on you every time.”
“Screwy,” I said. “Is that a medical term?”
“Of course. Follow the finger with your eyes, please. No turning the head now.”
He moved his left index finger around and I followed it with my eyes.
“Very good,” he said. “Count backward from twenty five.”
I did and he nodded, satisfied.
“It appears, mind you, only appears, that you’ve avoided a concussion.”
“Who are you?”
“You may call me Dr. Doolittle,” he said. “I’ve sailed through the night and day, in and out of weeks, to where the wild things are and now I’m their private physician.”
“That was Max.” The pain twisted my hip and I groaned. “Not Dr. Doolittle.”
“Ah,” he said, “what a pleasure to meet an educated mind.”
I stared at him for a moment, but he just laughed at me with his eyes.
“Where are we?”
“In the Pack keep.”
“How did I get here?”
“You were carried.”
I felt an urge to rub my forehead and found an IV dangling from my arm.
“Who carried me here?”
“That’s an easy one. His Majesty carried you out of the building, then you were slung over Mahon’s back and brought to my doorway.”
“How did Curran get a hold of me in the first place?”
“From what I understand, he leaped through some sort of a fire, grabbed you, and leaped back out. Which accounts for his third degree burns. Curiously, there are no burns on you. A mangled hip, some severe injuries to the stomach, massive blood loss, but no burns. Now why is that?”
“I’m special,” I told him.
Curran had gone through the bloodward fire. Twice. To get me. Idiot.
“You won’t tell me.”
“No.”
“That’s gratitude for you,” he sighed with mock sadness. “After you were brought here, I spent roughly four hours repairing your body, most of which”—he glared—“were spent on fixing your stomach.”
“Third degree burns,” I said.
“Yes. You haven’t heard a word I said.”
“I heard everything: four hours, stomach, hip, blood loss. You didn’t do a blood transfusion, did you?” There was no telling what the magic in my blood would do to foreign plasma.
“Heaven forbid. I do believe you think me to be an amateur.”
He ended “amateur” with a “tuar.”
“What about bandages?”
He shook his head. “I’ve sworn a medmage oath, my lady, and I have yet to breach it. Your bloody bandages, clothes, and all such were incinerated personally by me.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“A third degree burn means that all the layers of skin are burned,” I said.
“That’s right.” Dr. Doolittle nodded. “It looks bad but it feels much worse.”
“On a scale of one to ten?”
“About eleven.”
I closed my eyes.
“Our lord developed a lovely golden crust,” Doolittle’s soft voice said. “I do believe he could have gotten a part in an old-fashioned horror picture. He’s quite comfortable now, floating, I imagine.”
“Floating?”
“I prescribed the tank. It’s an oversized aquarium, filled with a certain solution yours truly developed in his youth. If His Majesty were an ordinary person, the only way to restore his epithelium would be through grafting. Since he’s not an ordinary person, he will float in the tank for a few days and then come out with new skin. His shoulder will take longer. Which reminds me.” He rose, walked to the door and stuck his head out. “Tell the Bear our guest is awake.”
He returned and rummaged through the vials on the table.
“Shoulder?” I asked.
“I gather a small piece of a ceiling had the misfortune to land on him. Crushed his left shoulder blade.”
He turned, a syringe in his hand.
“No,” I said firmly.
“The tech hit twenty minutes after I was done with you,” he said. “You’re in pain and I’m goin’ to give you an old-fashioned pain killer.”
“No, you won’t.”
“This is Demerol. It’s quite mild.”
“No. I don’t like Demerol. It makes me light-headed.” It’s not enough I was weak and in the middle of the Pack compound, now he wanted to mess with my head, too.
“Nonsense. Be a good girl and take your medicine.” He stepped forward.
“You come near me with that needle,” I said, putting as much malice into my voice as I could muster, “and I’ll shove it up your ass.”
He laughed. “Precisely the thing Jennifer said when I tried to put stitches on the cut across her b
uttock. Luckily for me, I don’t have to stick you with this needle.”
He showed me the empty syringe. I blinked and felt a rush of soothing cool. He must have squirted the bloody Demerol into my IV. Asshole.
I closed my eyes. I felt light-headed and tired. And I still hurt.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the room. I had a visitor and there was only one shapechanger that didn’t bother to move like an assassin.
I opened my eyes and saw Mahon nod to the good doctor and say in his deep, quiet voice, “Well done.”
Mahon approached, pulled up a chair, and sat next to me, his massive forearms leaning on his legs. His huge back stretched the black fabric of an oversized T-shirt, but despite barely fitting him in the shoulders, the shirt was a foot too long. The shapechangers had a fondness for sweats, and Mahon was wearing gray sweatpants and no socks. His hairy feet rested on the sun-warmed floor.
His brown eyes met my gaze. “The Pack appreciates your sacrifice.”
“There was no sacrifice. I’m alive.” And Curran is burned to charcoaly crispness.
He shook his head. “The sacrifice was intended and we’re grateful. You have earned the trust and friendship of the Pack. You may visit us when you wish. You may ask us for help in a time of need, and we’ll do our best to aid you. It’s no small thing, Kate.”
I probably should have said something formal and flowery, but Demerol kept tangling my thoughts. I patted his big hand and mumbled, “Thanks.”
Mahon’s eyes were warm. “You’re welcome.”
IT WAS FRIDAY AND I WAS WALKING. DRESSED IN matching gray sweats and sneakers that were too wide, both courtesy of the Pack, I conquered the hallway at a slow but persistent pace. I was dizzy and had to fight off the urge to spin right, which would have rammed my head into the wall.
Doolittle’s wizardry had doused the pain in my stomach, muting it to a dull ache that gnawed on me when I bent the wrong way. He promised minimal scarring on the abdomen and I believed him. My thigh wasn’t so lucky. The vamp had bitten off a chunk of flesh, and despite Doolittle’s efforts, I’d carry a reminder for the rest of my days. I didn’t care. I was grateful I had any days left.
The hallway opened into a wide room the size of a large gym. Assorted devices filled it, positioned with care on the stone floor, some born of technology, others of magic, and a few convoluted hybrids of both.
A wiry, medium-sized woman about my age sat on a padded square cot by the door. The cot resembled an oversized dog bed. The woman munched on saltine crackers. Probably a wererat. They ate constantly.
The woman glanced at me through a cascade of tiny dark braids. A wooden bead secured each braid.
“Yeah?” she said.
Friendly.
“I have an appointment,” I told her.
“So?” she said.
I shrugged and walked past her. She didn’t stop me.
The tank sat near the left wall, half-hidden by a large slab of stone on which someone had written cabalistic symbols in chalk. The symbols looked to be bullshit: a misshapen veve that should have been drawn in red; two Egyptian symbols, one for Nile and the other for Canopus; and something vaguely resembling the Japanese symbol for dragon.
I skirted this waste of space and approached the tank. Eight feet tall, it was cubical in shape. Its glass walls contained an opaque greenish liquid and I could make out dim contours of a human shape hanging motionless in the green water.
I knocked on the glass. The body moved and Curran surfaced with a splash. He took the oxygen mask from his mouth and held on to the edge of the tank for support, which resulted in the rest of him pressing against the glass. Just what I needed. Pasty Beast Lord in all his nude glory against the backdrop of swamp water.
His new skin was very pale. The thick blond hair of his scalp and eyebrows was now barely longer than morning stubble.
“Thank you,” I said, keeping my gaze fixed on his face.
“You’re welcome.”
Feeling awkward, I fought an urge to shift from foot to foot. “I’m leaving.”
“When?”
“After I talk to you.”
“Doolittle’s released you?”
The memory of the aging doctor glaring at me in outrage popped into my head. “He didn’t have much choice.”
“You can stay if you need to.” Curran wiped the moisture dripping from his chin.
“No thanks. I appreciate it and all, but it’s time to go.”
“Places to go, people to meet?”
“Something like that.”
“Sure you don’t want to join me in the tank? The water is fine.”
I blinked, at a loss for words. Curran laughed, clearly enjoying every second.
“Ahh, no,” I managed.
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
Was he coming on to me or just messing with me? Probably the latter. Well, then, two could play that game. I looked pointedly at his midsection. “No thanks,” I said. “I know exactly what I’m missing.”
He grinned.
I said, “I’ve come to talk about Derek.”
Curran managed to shrug while still holding on to the wall. “I’ve released him from his blood oath.”
“I know. He insists on tagging along and I don’t want him to. I tried to explain that I do dangerous work for little money and that being in my vicinity is bad for his health.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Yeah, but will I get chicks? In truckloads?’ ”
Curran laughed, submerging like a dolphin, and surfaced again. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Could you do it sooner rather than later? He thinks he’s going to drive me home.”
“Alright. Tell Mila at the door to send him to me.”
“Thanks.”
I turned.
“How did you get through the fire?” he asked.
Oh crap. “It wasn’t fully up,” I said. “Dumb luck. Couldn’t get out of it though. I guess she was hell bent on bringing that ceiling down on my head.”
“I see,” Curran said. I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not.
I turned around and made a little mocking bow that made my stomach hurt. “Would there be anything else, Your Majesty?”
He waved me off with a flick of his wrist. “Dismissed.”
Curran was too dangerous to know. Too powerful, too unpredictable, and worst of all, possessing an innate ability to infuriate me, throwing me off balance.
Hopefully our paths would not cross again.
A young wolf whose name I didn’t know drove me to Greg’s apartment. I thanked him and walked up the stairs to find a white stain of a note pinned to my door. It said, “Kate, I tried to call but you didn’t answer. I hope we’re still on for tonight. I’ve made a reservation at Fernando’s for six o’clock. Crest.” I tore the note off the door, crumpling it, and tossed it aside. The wards shimmered shut. The sturdy door separated me from the rest of the world, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Kicking off the Pack’s sneakers, I crawled into the bed, and fell asleep.
WHEN I AWOKE, LATE AFTERNOON WAS SLOWLY burning down to evening. I felt drained and uneasy, unsettled, as if I’d missed an important deadline. Searching my brain for the causes of my rotten mood produced no results and I felt worse.
I lay in bed and looked at the ceiling, considering calling Crest and telling him to forget it. That would be the sensible thing to do. Unfortunately, sensibility was not among my virtues. To miss the date was somehow equivalent to giving up without trying.
I shambled to the bathroom and washed my face with cold water. It didn’t help.
There was only one dress I could wear to Fernando’s, both because it was the only formal dress I owned and because it was the only dress hanging in Greg’s guest closet. I had worn it to a formal function he had dragged me to in November, where I had spent two hours listening to people who loved hearing themselves orate.
I took the dress from the closet and dropped i
t onto the bed, then went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. I had lost a lot of blood. I forced one glass down, refilled it and came back, sipping the water. The dress lay on the sheets, bathed in the last rays of the tired sun. Of a simple cut, it had an unusual color, a nameless shade somewhere on crossroads between peach, khaki, and brass. Anna had picked it out for me. I remembered her going through the dresses hanging on wire hangers, briskly sliding them out of the way one by one, while an impossibly thin saleswoman watched in distress. “You don’t need thinning,” Anna had explained, “or padding. What you need is softening, which is a touch more complicated but can be done with the right dress. Lucky for us, you have the right complexion for the color. It will make you look darker, which in itself isn’t a bad thing.”
I looked at the dress and recalled the unsettling feeling of not recognizing myself when I put it on. I was proportionate, even lean, but not slender. Most women don’t bulk easily, but if I flexed my arm, I could see definition. No matter how hard I tried to lose weight or become thinner, all I managed to do was to wind more muscle on my frame, so I’d quit trying to match the willowy standard of beauty when I was fourteen years old. Survival took precedence over fashion. Sure, I didn’t weigh a hundred and ten pounds, but my narrow waist let me bend and I could break a man’s neck with my kick.
This dress camouflaged the muscle, tricking the eye into seeing soft flesh where there was none. The trouble was, I wasn’t sure I wanted to wear it today for Crest.
I touched the soft fabric and wished Anna would call.
The phone rang.
I picked it up and heard Anna’s voice say, “Hello.”
“How do you do that?”
“What? Calling when you want to talk to me?” She sounded amused.
“Yes.”
“Most clairvoyants are slightly emphatic, Kate. The empathy with the person serves as a bridge for the things we do. I’ve known you for a very long time—I remember when you were learning to walk—and I’ve formed a permanent bond. Think of it as being tuned to a certain radio station that’s off-line most of the time.”
I sipped my water. I knew she wouldn’t mention the vision, unless I asked her about it and I didn’t feel like asking.
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