“If you...don’t let me go,” Carter grunted, “Alexia will die.”
That was the ugly dilemma, and Damon knew he’d underestimated Carter’s will to resist.
“How can I be sure you’ll return with the patch?” he asked.
Carter’s lips twisted in a grotesque grin. “You can’t.”
A pulsing shadow fell over Damon’s vision. Alexia had said it was hatred, and he knew she was right. He could feel it trying to seize his mind with claws of iron.
Protect Alexia. That was everything. For the first time in his years of field work—here in the Zone, where he was free—he didn’t know what choice to make. If he dared leave Alexia alone, he could go with Carter all the way to the Border and make sure the agent did what he said he would.
But if he left her, and she died...
His fingers loosened on Carter’s neck. The dhampir jerked up his arms, striking Damon’s with the stiffened edges of his hands. Ordinarily it wouldn’t have been enough, but Damon had been off guard for a fraction of a second, and in that infinitesimal span of time Carter broke free and was sprinting in the direction of the Border, leaving pack and weapons behind.
He didn’t go far. Half a dozen running strides away he faltered, came to a sudden halt and spun around. Damon nearly ran into him.
Carter scrambled just out of reach. “What is it?” he asked, his voice rising. “What’s coming?”
Expecting some kind of trick, Damon tensed his muscles to attack. But then he smelled the thick, acrid odor and heard the tread of something neither animal, human nor Opir.
Lamia.
Chapter 7
The monster wasn’t even trying to disguise its approach, and that was Damon’s only advantage. He unslung his rifle and backed away, facing the unseen enemy. Carter dove for his own weapons.
The Lamia pushed out from behind a dense screen of scrub oak and lunged toward Damon. He got off four rounds, each one hitting its mark, before the thing reached him, swinging its distorted hands with their razor-sharp nails in wide arcs. Damon jumped back and swung the rifle like a club, striking the monster across its shoulder and the side of its grotesque, vaguely humanoid head.
It slowed, its red, almost pupil-less eyes glaring with hatred. Blood flowed over its leathery skin, but already the bullet wounds were beginning to heal. Its lips moved as if it were trying to speak.
Damon stepped back, leveling his gun to shoot again, but the Lamia came to a stop, nostrils flaring, and swung its long, almost skeletal face toward Carter.
The dhampir stood well out of the way, his rifle at his shoulder. “Orlok,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve never seen one this close.”
Orlok. That was the human name for the monsters who roamed the Zone, killing animal and human, dhampir and Daysider with equal relish. But the Opiri called them Lamiae after legends of child-eating demons, driven mad with hatred and grief.
Damon continued to retreat until he stood level with Carter. “The last report said they had moved out of this region,” he said.
“I guess your report was wrong.”
Perhaps fatally so, Damon thought. “Where there is one,” he said, “there are usually many.”
Breathing raggedly, Carter looked wildly in every direction. “Your bullets hardly had any effect,” he whispered.
“They heal even more quickly than we do,” Damon said. He watched the creature’s face, seeking some indication of what it would do next. But its mouth continued to work, bringing forth low grunts and growls that almost sounded like words.
“It’s trying to talk.” Carter’s face blanched. “What in hell—” Damon fired again, but he was not fast enough. The Lamia charged past him, straight at Carter. The dhampir went down in a flurry of striking limbs and blood.
Aiming with swift precision, Damon peppered the Lamia’s back with a dozen bullets in rapid succession. The creature barely seemed to notice. It bent over Carter, its serrated teeth at the dhampir’s throat.
Damon threw his rifle aside and drew his knife. He flung himself at the Lamia, stabbing down between the creature’s shoulders. It shook him off without even turning around. Damon tried again, grabbing hold like a tick on a dog’s back and bringing the knife around to the Lamia’s throat.
The blade bit into tough flesh, and the Lamia hissed in pain. For a moment it forgot about the dhampir sprawled beneath it and twisted around to claw at Damon’s head and shoulders.
Holding fast, Damon adjusted his grip and pulled the blade across the Lamia’s throat a second time. With a gurgling roar, the creature fell away from Carter and rolled onto its back, nearly crushing Damon beneath it. In a matter of seconds the Lamia would turn and tear him apart.
But Damon had something it didn’t have: the ability to reason. He let himself go limp, waited until the Lamia had lifted itself to its haunches, and lunged up to drive his knife into the creature’s chest. He felt the blade skitter against bone and drive deeper, reaching the heart at last.
With a hiss like air escaping a valve, the creature fell hard, flailing in its death throes.
Only when Damon was sure it was truly dying did he crouch beside Carter, quickly checking the extent of injuries.
Carter was still alive, but barely. His throat had been slashed, and though his body worked to mitigate the damage, it could do little against the severing of veins and arteries except slow the loss of blood. Bright and dark, it pumped slowly out of his wound, and Carter stared at the sky without seeing.
Still with half an eye on the dying Lamia, Damon went after Carter’s pack, tore it open and found the agent’s field dressing. He knew it would only slow the dhampir’s death, but there were things he still needed to know. Perhaps now Carter would tell him.
He pressed the bandage against Carter’s throat. The dhampir tried to move his head, and his lips parted.
“Can you speak?” Damon asked.
Carter tried to grin. “What...do you want now?” he rasped.
“Who are you working for?”
“No time,” Carter said. “Alexia...”
Red froth bubbled up from the agent’s mouth. Damon bent his head close to Carter’s face. “What about her?” he asked urgently.
“You can help her.” Carter choked and tried to swallow. “The patch... Drugs were derived from Daysider blood. If you let her...” His breath rattled. “Let her drink, and she...may survive.”
Damon pushed aside his shock. “Who has the patch?” he demanded.
But Carter’s eyes were already glazing over. “If you care...about her,” he said, “save her.”
Then he closed his eyes, shuddered once and died.
Damon rocked back, remembered the Lamia and reached for the rifle.
The creature was gone. It had left multiple trails of blood, but somehow it had managed to skulk away on two feet, surviving its terrible injuries as Carter had not.
It would not be returning anytime soon. Unless it brought back others of its kind.
Damon looked down at Carter’s body. He almost felt pity for the man. He had died an ugly death, and yet Damon’s conviction that the dhampir had been partly culpable for the stealing of Alexia’s patch hadn’t diminished in the slightest.
Nor had his astonishment at Carter’s claim about the nature of the drugs in it. The implications were staggering. The only way such a thing would be possible was if Aegis and the Enclave had had access to a Darketan after the War. It suggested that there could be some connection between dhampir and Daysider no one had ever suspected.
And it made perfect sense that someone from Erebus—Colonists, Council or Expansionists—would want to get their hands on the patch, since it could be used not only to increase Opir knowledge of dhampir weaknesses but as a foundation for sanctions against Aegis, setting off a potential wave of political consequences Damon couldn’t begin to imagine.
But for the moment, for Damon, this knowledge meant that he wouldn’t have to leave Alexia and go to the Enclave in Carter’s place. He
r partner’s death didn’t mean she would die, too.
Damon could save her himself. And he couldn’t waste any more precious minutes brooding over what Carter had told him, certainly none to see to his body according to either human or Opir custom. If the Lamia returned to finish him off, so be it.
Retrieving Carter’s pack, weapons and his own bloody knife, Damon focused on clearing his mind. He had to decide quickly how much to tell Alexia. The knowledge of Carter’s death might further weaken her, but eventually she would learn the truth. She would wonder why he’d kept it from her, and any trust she might have begun to feel would—
“Michael!”
Gasping for air, Alexia stumbled toward Carter’s body and fell to her knees, her hands hovering over her partner’s face.
“Michael,” she said, her voice breaking.
Damon started toward her. “Alexia! What are you doing here? I told you—”
“You told me?” She looked slowly up at Damon, the grief in her eyes turning to accusation. “You killed him.”
Damon was utterly unprepared for her arrival and had no ready answer. He dropped the knife and began to move in her direction again, but she pulled the gun he had given her from her jacket and pointed it at his head.
“I didn’t kill him, Alexia,” he said. “And you should not have left camp.”
“That’s funny,” she said. “I thought Michael would try to kill you, but I didn’t really believe—” She swallowed and glanced at Carter’s face. “I didn’t think you’d go through with it.”
“I didn’t.” Damon crouched some distance away, trying to catch her eye. “We were both attacked by one of the creatures you call Orloks.”
She met his gaze again, her body trembling with shock and anger. “Orlok? Are you telling me some monster did this?” She balled her other fist and punched at the ground.
“Where is it?”
“It got away,” Damon said. He indicated the area around him, where the creature had torn up the earth in its struggles and left trails of its blood. “It attacked me first, and then it went for Carter. I tried to stop it.” He sighed, very much aware of the racking grief Alexia was trying so hard not to let him see. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” she asked. “Do you still deny that you hated him?”
“His death was unnecessary, and it has caused you pain. That is enough to make me regret it.”
“What about the Orlok?” She stared at him as if he were something far worse than Carter’s supposed murderer. “We know they come from Erebus. Some believe they have been created and bred to hunt down and kill any human or dhampir they find in the Zone. Is that true?”
He shook his head vehemently. “They are monsters even to the Opiri. They cannot be controlled.”
Damon felt her absorbing his words, taking him in, noting the fresh, blood-rimmed slashes that had reduced what was left of his shirt and jacket to tatters. It was not something Carter could have done, even with a knife.
“You have blood on your face,” she said.
He lifted a hand to rub at his jaw. Dried blood flaked off in patches and fell to the ground like scarlet rain.
No wonder Alexia had assumed he had killed Carter. He could have ripped the dhampir’s throat out almost as easily as the Lamia if the hunger was on him.
But it wasn’t. And he still hadn’t convinced her of his innocence.
“There was a great deal of blood,” he said. “His jugular...” He hesitated, unwilling to burden Alexia with the ugly details.
Alexia leaned over Michael again, the muzzle of her gun beginning to drop, and she touched the bandage at Carter’s throat with her other hand. “You did this?” she asked, her green eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Yes.”
“If I’d been here—”
“You could have done nothing,” Damon interrupted. “And now you risk your own life. Carter would never have wanted that.”
As if to prove his point, Alexia’s fingers spasmed in pain. She dropped the gun and made no attempt to pick it up again.
Damon stood. “You must lie down,” he insisted, starting toward her again.
Alexia raised both hands and leaned away as if to fend him off, and he stopped.
“Alexia,” he said, “I did not kill him.”
Tears slid from the corners of her eyes, and her shoulders sagged. “Did he...say anything before he died?” she asked, her voice breaking.
Once again Damon was faced with the dilemma of how much to tell her. There was no good reason to assume that only her partner knew about the origin of the drugs in the patch; she could easily have been concealing that knowledge from him just as Carter had.
But why would she, if she knew he could save her simply by sharing his blood? No, he was certain her behavior toward him would have been different if she’d known the source of the medication that kept her alive.
Still, it now seemed much more significant that Alexia had attempted to seduce him—if it could be called seduction, seemingly subconscious as it had been—and had tasted his blood. True, she’d taken no more than a drop, if that, but something inside her had known that in that blood lay something she must have to stay alive.
Alexia would have to be made to understand how important it was that they act on Michael’s information immediately. But Damon still had no proof that Carter had betrayed her. Or why he would. Even suggesting such a possibility would be the surest way of turning Alexia against him once and for all.
Damon dropped to his haunches. “He told me how to keep you alive.”
She looked up from Carter’s still face. “There was only one way he could have done that,” she said. “I would never have bought my life with his.”
“Getting a new patch isn’t the only way,” Damon said. “He told me more about it.
What makes it work.”
“What does that matter now?”
“Because he said the drugs in the patch are derived from the blood of my kind.”
She froze. Her muscles locked, and even the tears on her cheeks seemed to harden like crystal.
“Your kind?” she said. “Darketans?”
“Yes.”
“My God,” she whispered.
Her shock wasn’t feigned. She was genuinely astonished, and perhaps even more than that—horrified.
“He didn’t say where your Enclave obtained the blood,” Damon added, “but if the patches have been in use for years...”
“Since ten years after the Treaty,” she said, looking away.
She knew as well as Damon what that meant, though being from the Enclave, she might see some of the implications he had missed. Her face remained an expressionless mask.
“I don’t understand how that is supposed to keep me alive,” she said.
“Your partner suggested that taking my blood might save you.”
She stood abruptly and headed back the way she had come, her legs jerking with every step. Damon glanced down at Carter one last time, gathered up packs and weapons, and followed her, watching carefully to ensure she didn’t stumble or fall.
“Do you understand?” he asked, catching up to her. “You have a chance to live.”
Alexia continued to walk without glancing in his direction. It was obvious that she was pushing herself to stay on her feet, and the farther she went the more she slowed down.
Damon had to resist the compulsion to take her in his arms and carry her the rest of the way.
Moving at an extremely slow pace with many stops to allow Alexia to rest, they reached their camp several hours later. By then it had been dark for some time, and Alexia was walking with her arms wrapped around her stomach, her skin almost yellow and her body racked with wave after wave of severe tremors.
Ignoring the risk, Damon took her arm and forced her down onto the blanket. She resisted, but even in full health she was not as strong as he was. As soon as she was on the ground, she jerked her arm away.
Damon remained standing, trying no
t to loom over her. “You can’t go on like this much longer,” he said softly. “We will have to attempt it.”
Her jaw set. “Forget it.”
“Why? Have you no desire to complete your mission, if only for Carter’s sake?”
She picked up a twig and scraped jagged lines through the dirt as if she were inscribing her refusal in some ancient, arcane language.
“The price is too high,” she said.
The price. What price was worth more than her life? “You don’t want to live?” he asked, hearing the anger in his voice.
She jabbed the stick into the ground with such force that it snapped. “We do not drink blood.”
The very fact that she objected so fiercely confirmed Damon’s belief that she had no memory of tasting his blood before. But he was not about to let the matter rest at that.
“Why not?” he asked.
“We don’t drink it,” she repeated, holding herself tightly as if she feared she might shatter into a million pieces.
“Because you refuse to acknowledge that you are half-Opir?” he asked, moving closer.
“Is that what you were taught, to despise that part of yourself?”
“I do despise it,” she burst out, struggling to her feet. “I hate that the man who forcibly impregnated my mother was a vampire. I hate that I was born sharing anything in common with your kind.”
Her vehemence hit Damon with the force of a blow. He was not surprised by it; he had always accepted that the hatred her partner had so clearly expressed must be the prevailing opinion among their kind, even if Carter’s willingness to let it interfere with his work put him on the extreme end of the emotional range.
But that Alexia hated herself so much...that was something he couldn’t accept so easily.
It wasn’t that he didn’t understand. There had been many times in his life, before he had accepted his duty, that he had hated what he was. Hated that he could never fully be part of Opir society, that the true-bloods would always consider him, and all his kind, almost as far below them as humans.
When he had told Alexia he was an outsider, it had been to gain her trust. But what he’d said was the truth.
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