“Jack,” he said, his voice stronger than she might have expected. “Jack James.”
Dylan tilted her head slightly; the name was familiar. She couldn’t quite remember…and then another memory passed from Stiles to her.
“I want you to know, I never meant for things to go down this way.”
“What do you mean?”
A flash of red caught Jack’s attention. He turned, pulling a gun out of the back of his waistband as one of the redcoats rounded the shelves at the end of the row they were standing in. His first shot went wild, but the other hit its mark. The angel touched his chest, a bewildered look in his eye as his fingers came away sticky with blood.
“Don’t fight them,” Stiles said. “It will only make things worse.”
Jack’s eyes were wild when he turned, as Stiles’ words struck home.
“You did this?”
Stiles felt his eyes fill with tears. He rubbed them with the back of his arm as he stepped forward. “You wanted to end this war. This is your chance.”
“I wanted to survive. I don’t care about the damn war.”
“There is a child, a girl, who will be born from your DNA,” Stiles said, touching Jack’s arm even as he raised the gun and pressed it to Stiles’ chest. “She is the savior, the one who will end it all. She will make this world a better place for humans.”
Jack shook his head. “You betrayed me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Jack pulled the trigger, the gun pressed so tightly against Stiles’ chest that bone and tissue burst outward, smearing his face with gore. Stiles stumbled back a foot or two, but the wound began to heal before it had even been fully created. Jack’s eyes widened as he watched the edges of the wound knit together with only the blood staining the open hole of Stiles’ shirt left to tell the story.
“What the hell are you?” Jack hissed.
“You are doing a good thing,” Stiles said. “It’s for the best.”
Jack shook his head violently even as the redcoats came up behind him, restraining him for the ride to Genero.
“You stay away from my daughter,” Jack demanded. “If she found out what you are—”
“She already knows.”
The truth silenced him. Jack stared at Stiles, at the tears streaming down his face. “Bastard,” he whispered, giving voice to the defeat that now caused his shoulders to sag and his spirit to give in to what was happening to him. “She was all I had.”
“I will care for her for as long as I can.” Stiles shook his head as the redcoats lifted Jack and began to carry him out of the warehouse. “I promise you.”
Jack didn’t respond.
Stiles hadn’t expected him to.
Dylan let go of Stiles and stepped away. Pain so physical that she couldn’t catch her breath rushed through her body, through her chest and her stomach. She wanted to vomit, but when she heaved nothing but saliva came out. Wyatt was immediately behind, pulling her back against his chest.
“What did you do?” Wyatt demanded.
If Stiles answered, Dylan didn’t hear him. Her head was spinning. If Wyatt hadn’t been there, she might have fallen flat on her face.
It was too much. She didn’t want to know anymore.
The truth…it was too much.
Chapter 17
Rachel smiled when they appeared in her little office, not the least bit surprised to have them appear out of thin air in front of her.
“Nephew!”
She laughed as she moved into Wyatt’s arms, kissing him on each cheek before allowing him to swallow her up in his embrace.
“And Dylan. You look as beautiful as ever.”
“So do you.”
Dylan kissed her cheek lightly, a soft smile touching her lips only briefly. As soon as the greetings were finished, she moved away, wrapping her arms around herself as she moved to stand in a back corner of the room, still clearly upset about what Stiles had shown her.
He watched her, wondering if she would ever speak to him again.
“Stiles,” Rachel said, sliding up in front of him.
“Hey, Rachel,” he said, trying out his best cocky smile. “How’ve you been?”
She shrugged. “Good. Missing my family. I was actually thinking about making a trip up your way.”
“Now’s not a good time,” Wyatt said.
Rachel inclined her head slightly. “So I’ve heard. Is that why you’re here? You want to look through the medical books, too?”
“No,” Stiles began, planning on explaining the whole thing to her, but Wyatt moved up and took her hands, drawing her away.
“We think we know what the disease is,” he told her, directing her into a chair that was waiting in front of her desk.
“That’s good. That means you can find a cure.”
Dylan made a noise as Wyatt shook his head. “We think that someone found notes about the angel disease, or the elixir the angels had made during the war, and modified it somehow. We need to find that person.”
“And you want to know if someone came here looking for something like that.”
“Exactly.”
Rachel sat back and ran her fingers through her dark hair. Even at forty, she still resembled that beautiful little girl Dylan had pulled out of the past. But, as Stiles watched her, he sensed something not right about her. There were dark circles under her eyes and grayness at the corners of her mouth. And each time she spoke, she made a little clearing-of-the-throat sound, as if she had a tickle in her throat.
Shit.
Dylan looked up and then her eyes turned to Rachel, too.
“There was a man, a couple of weeks ago, who came looking for scientific notes. I gave him this notebook someone had brought in years ago. It was handwritten, filled with scientific equations that I didn’t understand.” She got up and looked through a ledger she kept on her desk. “He took it out a month ago. He should have brought it back by now.”
“What was his name?” Wyatt asked.
“Freddie. He lives in a ruin down by the river.”
Rachel gestured behind her, as though there was a window and they could see the river that wound through the city. But there was no window.
“Thank you, Rachel,” Wyatt said, turning as though he was ready to rush out of the room. But Stiles was still watching Rachel. She reached for something in one of the many drawers in her desk, but she lost her balance and fell forward a little, knocking her hip on the sharp edge of the desktop. Stiles was immediately at her side. He slid his arm around her waist and that touch, as simple as it was, told him everything he was hoping not to see.
She was sick.
He looked over at Dylan. Tears filled her eyes. She reached for Wyatt and Stiles could almost see the silent communication moving between them. In the few seconds it took Stiles to help Rachel into her chair, the decision had been made to take her.
“I’ve got allergies,” Rachel explained to Stiles. “It’s messing up my balance. That’s the second time I’ve done that today.”
“Aunt Rachel,” Wyatt said, his tone soft—almost too soft. “Why don’t you let us take you to see Dad?”
She looked up and smiled. “I’d like that. But I’ve got all this work to do.”
“The work can wait.” Wyatt gestured to Stiles. “We’ll just pop in for a few hours. Maybe let Harry take a look at you while we’re there.”
Stiles could hear Rachel’s thoughts. She knew, but she was trying really hard not to admit the truth to herself. But when Wyatt mentioned Harry’s name, she couldn’t deny it anymore. As the shock and fear took root, Stiles took her home.
***
“Blood.”
Harry glanced at Dylan. “You’re joking, right?”
“I was told once that the angels used blood from the hybrids to slow the disease’s progress.”
Stiles shook his head. “That was just Joanna trying to win your trust.”
“But what if it wasn’t a lie?”
“Dylan�
�“
“What if you could make some sort of medicine out of our blood?” she asked Harry. “What if there’s something in our blood that can slow this down?”
“Our?”
“Mine and Stiles.”
“If we can’t heal them with our powers, what makes you think our blood could do any good?” Stiles asked.
“Something kept Lily alive all those years.”
Stiles turned away, moving to the doorway of the nurse’s break room. There was chaos just a few feet away as hospital personnel rushed this way and that, trying to keep on top of the dozens of patients that were arriving at their doors every day. There were so many critical now that they were lined up in every available space, from the hallways to the cafeteria to the waiting areas. This room seemed to be the only place where there weren’t patient beds lined up and filled with moaning, suffering patients.
“Lily had the added benefit of her soul mate.”
“But he couldn’t heal her.”
“He could slow it down.”
“I don’t believe that. Too many of my sisters disappeared when they were taken away for them not to have had some success in treating Lily’s illness.”
Stiles turned and looked at her. “You said yourself that they’d lied about everything they did in those labs. Why would you believe that they did anything more than kill those poor kids?”
“Because…” She pushed away from the wall where she’d been standing, anger and frustration rolling off of her in waves. “I have to believe that they didn’t die for nothing.”
“But they did, Dylan. No matter what Lily and Luc used them for, they died for nothing.”
“Then what do we do, Stiles? Do we just give up? Stop trying?”
He stared at her for a second, and then his eyes flicked to Harry. There was a familiar anger in his eyes, an anger that said he wasn’t surprised that Stiles would give up. He always gives up. It was that, more than Dylan’s anger, that swayed Stiles.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll try it.”
“Don’t put yourself out, Stiles,” Dylan said as she brushed past him. “I’ll be in Rachel’s room when you’re ready.”
Harry hesitated now that he was alone with Stiles. Stiles didn’t do anything to help him. He was too busy making himself an enemy of all those he loved. There was no point in trying to make amends. But Harry was, above all else, a professional. He stepped out of the room only to return moments later with a needle and several empty vials.
Stiles obediently took a seat at the table and laid his arm out, giving his son clear access to his human form’s veins. Harry wrapped the tourniquet a little too tightly around Stiles’ upper arm, snapping the elastic against his skin.
“Do you feel pain?”
Stiles shrugged. “Would it bother you if I did?”
Harry looked up at him. “I’m a doctor. I don’t want to see anyone in pain.”
Stiles just shrugged again.
Harry prepared the needle, but he hesitated when it was time to actually push it into Stiles’ flesh.
“I’ve had worse punctures in this flesh.”
“I know,” Harry said as he finally shoved the needle into his skin, finding the vein almost immediately.
“You know?”
“Mother used to tell me stories about you when I was little. She told me about the scars on your back, about the battles you fought. She told me that when you left us you had a wound that you couldn’t heal, but you rescued Uncle Philip and the others anyway.”
Stiles watched his blood fill Harry’s many vials, reminded of the wound that had festered in his side after his fight with Mammon. Binah did the best she could to fix it, but it continued to bleed and the pain was distracting.
“Wounds made by angel swords do not heal as others do.”
“That’s what mother said.” Harry kept his eyes on the needle and the vials as they swiftly filled. “I suppose that means you could die.”
“I could; if an angel inflicted a deep enough wound.”
“Have you killed angels?”
Stiles nodded slowly. “Yes.”
Harry looked up then and looked in his eyes. “You would kill your own? Isn’t that some sort of sin?”
“I don’t have freewill. If God didn’t feel the kills were justified, he would not have allowed for it to happen.”
“God justifies the killing of angels?” Harry shook his head. “No wonder the world fell apart like it did.”
“It wasn’t just God, Harry. It was a lot of things.”
“Yes, and maybe this disease is simply finishing the job.”
Stiles pulled away, yanking the needle from his arm. “I don’t have time for this crap.”
“What crap? Talking to your son?”
“Talking about the destruction of humanity. I’ve walked that road. I’m not doing it again.”
“And what if you have no choice?”
Stiles smiled softly. “Don’t let Dylan hear you talk that way. It’ll only confirm for her how much like me you really are.”
“She’s angry with you.”
“I seem to have that effect on people.” Stiles pushed away from the table, wiping away a drop of blood that fell from his already-healed wound. “Why would she be any different?”
“Did your plans to steal her away from Wyatt backfire?”
“Regardless of what you think of me, I have no plans to hurt Wyatt. If I did, I would have done it thirty-seven years ago.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe that.”
“I know. But it’s the truth.”
And the truth, it seemed, was only serving to drive everyone away.
***
Stiles wanted to check in on Rachel, but wasn’t up to the hostility of facing her family. So he utilized an old trick—he made himself invisible as the gargoyles had taught him to do. She was sleeping, looking much smaller than she really was in the big hospital bed with a white sheet emphasizing the paleness of her flesh. Jimmy was sitting beside her, holding her hand and Wyatt stood behind him in a picture of family unity that was rare between the pair. Jimmy’s three other children were also in the room, orbiting their mother. Josephine was there, too, her mind busy working even as she offered words of comfort to her step-grandmother. And Dylan. She was leaning against a wall, her mind closed to him as she surveyed the scene.
He turned to go, but Dylan’s gaze suddenly shifted and he knew he’d been caught. He slipped out into the hallway and she followed.
“You’re going?”
He reappeared, his hands on his hips. “Someone needs to track down this Freddie person.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“You’re needed here.”
She held up her arm to show him a bandage placed at the crook of her elbow. “A nurse came and drew my blood a few minutes ago.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She glanced briefly at the door to Rachel’s room—probably the only room in the hospital that held only one patient. “She’s got her family. She won’t miss me for a few hours.”
Stiles knew better than to argue with Dylan. She didn’t even pause to say goodbye to Wyatt.
In moments, they found themselves inside a warehouse that was likely abandoned long before the war ruined this deserted city. The walls were crumbling, and those that weren’t crumbling were covered in moss and other vegetation fed by the moisture of the nearby river. They walked slowly through the open space. Dylan paused from time to time to kick at the debris to look for signs of life. Stiles saw footprints in the dust, but new dust had settled, suggesting they were weeks old. But they only went one direction, as though someone had come in, but they hadn’t left.
“Back here,” he said, gesturing toward a door at the back of the room.
Dylan joined him as he approached the door. It was locked, but locks had never been a deterrent for Stiles. A simple touch and the door swung open. They were immediately overwhelmed with a horrifying stench, one that St
iles recognized. Someone had died in here at least a few weeks ago.
Dylan pushed past him and stormed into the hidden room. Stiles followed and quickly found himself inside a well-equipped lab. Whoever this Freddie was, he knew something about science. He’d picked out equipment that was top of the line back before the war—powerful equipment that was versatile. There were notes. Stiles picked them up and immediately recognized a few of them from the notebook he’d found in Hoboken. They weren’t the same, but similar enough that this Freddie could have done some real damage with them.
“Here,” Dylan said.
Stiles turned a corner and found her kneeling beside a body curled into a fetal position on a mattress on the floor. There was fluid drying near every orifice on his body, staining nearly every inch of his clothing. And the lesions were still obvious on his decaying skin.
“Don’t touch him,” he warned Dylan. “He might still be contagious.”
“That ship’s probably already sailed.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “This thing has clearly become airborne or something…how else did it get from here all the way north?”
Stiles was already aware of that, but it didn’t mean he didn’t think she should be cautious anyway. He pulled her back, tugging her to her feet.
“Just because you’ve likely been exposed already doesn’t mean you should push your luck.”
She didn’t resist him. In fact, she leaned back against him for a moment as though she liked the feel of his arms around her. But then she tugged away.
“What do we do now?”
“Collect his notes and find someone who can figure out what he did.”
“Easier said than done. We don’t have a lot of scientists hanging around these days.”
That thought had already occurred to Stiles, too. He had an idea to fix it, but he was hesitant to tell Dylan.
But she could read his mind.
“Who is he?” she suddenly asked.
He glanced at her as he grabbed the notebook he’d already spotted open on the table and began searching through drawers for any more.
“He?”
“The ‘he’ you think about every time we talk about finding a solution to this problem.”
Stiles shook his head, pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about. He pulled up his mental walls a little tighter, but the damage was already done.
BROKEN ANGELS (Angels and Demons Book 1) Page 9