Anxiety flooded her as she waved to one of the security officers who guarded the doors to the vampires’ apartments across the hall. “Get Mr. Reordon down here,” she whispered. “Now!”
The man reached for a walkie-talkie on his shoulder and began to mutter into it.
Melanie started toward the elevator at the end of the hallway. “Are you injured? Bastien?”
“Feels like it.”
“How badly?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are you?”
“On the ground.” Bastien’s words slurred.
“No, I mean . . . Look around you. What do you see?”
There was a pause. “Bodies.”
Oh crap. “What else?”
A large desk rested in front of the elevator doors. A dozen men garbed in black fatigues and sporting automatic weapons stood around it. Two more, seated behind it, rose at her approach.
“Is something wrong, Doc?” Todd asked.
She nodded. “If Mr. Reordon isn’t already on his way, get him down here now,” she murmured. Then, louder into the phone, she said, “What else do you see?”
“Trees,” Bastien muttered.
Trees? Yeah. That narrowed it down. He could be anywhere in the freaking state.
The numbers above the elevator doors lit up.
“Is anyone there with you? Another immortal perhaps?” She had heard that he had been forbidden to go anywhere without an immortal escort.
“Um . . . I can’t tell if those are vampires or immortals shriveling up over there. I think they’re vampires. I killed a couple of vampires, didn’t I?”
A slew of faint French erupted over the phone.
The elevator pinged. When the doors slid open, Chris Reordon—head of the East Coast division of the network of humans that aided Immortal Guardians—emerged.
“What’s up?” he asked with a frown.
Melanie felt only partially relieved. Chris could send Bastien aid, but the question was: Would he? A lot of animosity existed between those two. Animosity that had exploded into full-blown hatred when Bastien had breached these very network headquarters only a few weeks earlier, forcing his way inside and injuring dozens of guards after . . .
Well, after Melanie had called him to let him know one of his former vampire followers had had a psychotic break. She would never forget the look in Bastien’s eyes the night he had ended the young vampire’s life.
Hoping personal bias wouldn’t interfere in the execution of Chris’s duties . . . again . . . Melanie drew in a deep breath. “Something has happened to Sebastien Newcombe.”
Chris’s scowl deepened. “What?”
She drew his attention to her phone. “He’s been injured and . . . his words are slurred. His thoughts don’t seem to be coherent. He’s down and says there are bodies all around him and two of them are either vampires or immortals.”
Swearing, Chris held out his hand for the phone. “Bastien? Where are you?” A growl of pure frustration followed. “On the ground where?”
Melanie bit her lip.
Chris’s demeanor suddenly changed. “It’s Chris. Is this Étienne or Richart?” He drew a pencil and small notepad from his pocket and dropped the notepad on the desk. “What? How many?” He scribbled something down. “What side of the campus are you on? . . . Which building? . . . Okay. Take out the lights. I’ll send a cleaning crew over there ASAP. Bring Bastien here. I want to talk to him.”
Melanie frowned. Talk to him? He was injured and barely coherent.
“The holding room.”
That didn’t bode well.
Chris ended the call and handed her the phone.
“Why is he being put in the holding room?” she dared to ask.
Chris retrieved his own phone and began to bark orders into it.
“Mr. Reordon?” she persisted. “Why is Bastien being put in the holding room?”
Irritation swept his visage. “Because over a dozen dead humans litter the ground around him.”
The guards began to grumble. They held no love or admiration for Bastien either, some of them having been injured by him personally.
“Immortals are supposed to protect humans, not kill them,” Chris muttered as he ended the call. “Half of you come with me,” he told the guards. “Todd, get two dozen more down here with full firepower. I want both the elevator and the door to the stairwell heavily guarded. Tell the men to be prepared for anything.”
“Yes, sir.” Todd motioned to several men, indicating they should follow Chris, then reached for the walkie-talkie on his shoulder.
Chris started down the long hallway toward the holding room. Melanie hurried to keep up with him as the guards, fingers on the triggers of their weapons, fell in behind them, tense and alert.
“But . . . you don’t know what the circumstances were,” she broached. They wouldn’t hurt Bastien, would they? Or deny him medical care? Because it sounded like Chris intended to chain him up and interrogate him. Again. “He’s injured. What if—”
“Immortals aren’t supposed to harm humans unless the humans pose a serious threat.”
“Maybe these did.”
He snorted. “He’s immortal, Dr. Lipton. Humans can’t harm him. Not seriously enough to warrant a death sentence.”
She lowered her voice. “They can if they possess a certain very unique tranquilizer.”
He looked at her sharply. “The odds of that are—”
“He sounded drugged.”
“Not to me, he didn’t.”
“When you asked him where he was, he said he was on the ground!”
“That’s just Bastien being Bastien. He’s an ass. It’s what he does.”
Pounding erupted on the door to the holding room. The guards already stationed in front of it jumped and turned their weapons on it.
Chris picked up his pace.
Melanie had to jog to keep up with him.
Chris stopped before the door and swiped his key card. “New arrival,” he told the guards as he punched in the security code. “Stay sharp.”
A clunk sounded, then the door—as thick as that of a bank vault—swung open.
Inside the steel and titanium room, an immortal Melanie had never seen before waited for them, Sebastien draped over his shoulder. Around six feet tall, he boasted the raven hair and brown eyes (which still held a hint of amber glow) characteristic of all immortals save Sarah. The black clothing and long, dark coat he wore glistened in places with what she suspected was blood.
This must be Richart. As far as Melanie knew, Richart was the only immortal currently residing in the United States who could teleport.
Aside from Seth.
“He’s been drugged,” Richart announced as soon as he saw them, his words softened by a French accent.
Melanie gave Chris an I-told-you-so look.
Lips tightening, Chris motioned to Bastien. “Put him on the cot and chain him up.”
The holding room was usually reserved for vampires. Thick steel walls reinforced with several feet of concrete held in captives. Titanium chains as thick as her biceps dangled from links in the walls above a single cot. By the door, out of reach of those manacles, resided a desk.
When the immortal hesitated, Melanie spoke. “Shouldn’t he be taken to the infirmary?”
“Not after killing humans.” Chris denied. “Protocol states—”
“Fuck protocol,” the immortal interrupted. “These were not ordinary humans. They resembled Special Ops soldiers, were heavily armed, and carried with them several tranquilizer pistols issuing the only drug that has ever proven to be effective against us. We have a serious problem on our hands.” He looked to Melanie. “Where is the infirmary?”
“This way,” she said. Without looking at Chris, she turned and led the way down the hallway to the sizable infirmary.
Since immortals usually moved silently, the boots clomping down the hallway behind her told her Chris and all of the guards followed as well.
>
At her direction, the immortal laid Bastien on an empty bed.
“Richart d’Alençon,” he introduced himself with a nod.
She smiled. “Melanie Lipton.” Pulling on a pair of vinyl gloves, she began to unbutton Bastien’s blood-spattered shirt. “Do you know how many darts he was hit with?”
He reached into his pocket. “I found two on the ground beside him.” He showed her, then set them aside and helped her remove Bastien’s clothing.
She frowned. “Two shouldn’t have rendered him unconscious. Didn’t it take more than that for you when you were hit?”
He nodded as he dropped Bastien’s long coat to the floor. “I believe I was tranqed four times or more before I lost consciousness. Either blood loss is compounding it or he removed some darts before I arrived.”
Chris stood at the foot of the bed, brow creased, arms crossed over his chest. “Why weren’t any of the men left alive for questioning?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
“I thought you were supposed to be watching him.”
Richart’s eyes flared bright amber as his jaw tightened. “There were four vampires. Two remained at UNC and two headed for Duke. Bastien took the latter. I took the former. Should I have left the two at Chapel Hill to freely troll for victims in order to watch Bastien dispatch the vampires he followed?”
Still frowning, Chris said nothing.
“I caught up with Bastien just before the human soldiers arrived. The women the vamps had snatched needed to be taken to safety. I could not stay without risking their lives.”
“I don’t like it. The men were human. He should have been able to disarm them without killing them.”
The incandescence in Richart’s eyes faded a bit. “In Bastien’s defense, I can tell you that in battle it is almost always kill or be killed. Considering these men were armed with the tranquilizer and filling him with bullets, leaving one alive may not have been an option for him.”
Melanie silently applauded the immortal.
While the Frenchman stripped Bastien’s shirt from him, Melanie retrieved several bags of blood from storage in the next room and set up an IV pole beside the bed.
Bastien’s smooth, muscled chest and eight-pack abs were riddled with ragged holes, some of which still contained bullets.
Melanie eyed Richart as she found Bastien’s vein with a needle and attached the canula. “I know they can’t do anything about the drug coursing through him, but wouldn’t it be better for a healer to be brought in to take care of his wounds? There are so many.” She would have to remove the bullets herself if they didn’t.
“David is in Egypt,” he replied.
David was the second oldest immortal in existence and was a very powerful healer . . . among other things.
“Seth is somewhere in Asia, but mentioned stopping by David’s place tomorrow. The only other healer in our area is Roland Warbrook. And he would rather watch Bastien die a slow, agonizing death than raise a finger to help him.”
Well, Melanie had to admit, she could understand Roland’s animosity. Bastien had, after all, nearly killed Roland’s wife. And had tried on several occasions to kill Roland himself. After raising a vampire army to conquer the Immortal Guardians.
Bastien’s past was a complicated one. And she suspected she didn’t know the half of it.
“Shouldn’t Dr. Whetsman be doing this?” Chris queried.
Yes, but . . . “Dr. Whetsman avoids face-to-face contact with vampires.”
Richart frowned. “Bastien isn’t a vampire.”
“It doesn’t matter. Dr. Whetsman wouldn’t make that distinction, because Bastien lived amongst vampires for so long and led them in the first uprising.”
“How long has this been going on?” Chris asked. He may not like Bastien, but he didn’t want any of his people shirking their duties.
“Since Vince.”
Vincent was one of the vampires who had followed Bastien a couple of years ago. Though he, Cliff, and Joe (two other vampires) had surrendered, hoping the network could help them, Melanie and her colleagues had found no way to stop the mental deterioration the virus caused in humans. In time, Vincent had broken, flying into a rage and injuring Dr. Whetsman and several others before Chris’s men had stopped him.
“He doesn’t have any contact with them?” Chris pressed.
“No. Only Linda and I do.”
When Chris opened his mouth to say more, Melanie held up a hand. “They respond better to us.”
“Because you’re women,” Richart offered shrewdly.
She nodded. “They’re more careful around us. Protective even. The men tend to aggravate the vampires more.”
“Dr. Whetsman aggravates me and I’m human,” Chris muttered. “If he wasn’t so damned brilliant, I would have fired his ass a long time ago. Hold up for a minute,” he added when Melanie rolled her tray of instruments close to the bed and prepared to begin extracting bullets. “Let me go ahead and call Roland. I don’t want Seth to chew me out later for not giving it a try.”
Melanie looked at Richart, who shrugged, his face indicating his belief that such was a useless endeavor.
While Chris dialed, Melanie replaced the blood bag that had already emptied itself into Bastien with a full one.
“Roland. Chris Reordon. We have a man down who could use your healing skills . . . Immortal . . . Multiple bullet wounds . . . I know blood will heal those, but he’s also been tranqed, so the process has been slowed significantly. The virus is too busy trying to counteract the drug to—” He looked at Richart. “Bastien.” Wincing, he held the phone away from his ear.
Melanie could only make out a word here and there, but those she did were of the four letter variety.
Richart pursed his lips and whistled, eyebrows raising. His preternaturally enhanced hearing no doubt allowed him to hear everything the reclusive, antisocial immortal growled.
Chris ended the call.
Melanie raised one eyebrow. “I’m guessing that was a no.”
“You guessed right,” Chris said and motioned to the unconscious immortal. “Dig in.”
Grimacing at his choice of words, Melanie reached for the forceps.
A trebly version of Skillet’s “Monster” broke the silence.
Richart retrieved a phone from his back pocket, glanced at the caller ID, then answered. “Oui?”
Melanie didn’t understand anything he said after that. Her knowledge of French was pretty much restricted to yes, no, and cheese. And she wasn’t sure why she knew the last one.
Richart ended the call and returned the phone to his pants. “I teleported Lisette to the scene to frighten away any curious humans before I brought Bastien here. She said your cleaning crew has arrived.”
“Excellent.”
“I asked her to linger until they were finished and to let me know if any soldiers should come looking for their fallen comrades.”
As the two men discussed the possibility of such happening, Melanie searched for and retrieved the first bullet.
Chapter 2
“Stop beating yourself up,” a male voice said.
It sounded familiar to Bastien, but he couldn’t quite place it, muffled as it was. It felt as though someone had stuffed cotton in his ears.
“I can’t help it,” a woman responded. “I’m failing . . . everyone.”
That voice was one he would always be able to identify. Dr. Melanie Lipton’s warm tones wrapped around him like a soothing blanket and eased the pounding in his head. They also tempted him into cracking open his eyelids.
Bright light pierced his eyes, driving him to squeeze his lids closed again.
What the hell?
“You aren’t failing anyone,” the male insisted. “Look how much you’ve helped me and Joe.”
Dr. Lipton answered with a sad laugh. “Yeah, I’ve really helped you.”
Bastien didn’t like the defeat that colored her voice. Melanie was the strongest, bravest human i
n the network. The only human gutsy enough to work with the vampires on a daily basis.
“You have,” the male insisted. Cliff. One of the young vampires who had followed him when Bastien had led the uprising against Roland and the other immortals. “I haven’t had a single episode since you started administering the drug.”
“You said it makes you feel sluggish.”
“Hey, sluggish is better than murderous. I’m not hurting people. That’s exactly what I hoped for when I came here.”
“I didn’t even create the drug,” Melanie despaired. “I just watered down the one our enemies developed.”
“And you’re the only one around here who thought to try it.”
“I’m sure someone else would have eventually.”
Cliff snorted. “I’m not.”
“Joe doesn’t like it. I had to give him enough to make him sleep before we brought Bastien in here.”
“I heard.”
“The virus seems to be progressing more rapidly in him. He was turned eight months after you were and you aren’t exhibiting nearly as much hostility as he is.”
Cliff swore.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, it’s . . . Knowing I’m not as bad off as he is, that I may not lose it as quickly as he is or as quickly as Vince did . . . It’s a relief, you know? But I feel guilty as hell saying it.”
“You shouldn’t. It’s completely understandable and Joe wouldn’t hold it against you. I’m sure he would feel the same way.”
Silence fell, heavy with despair.
Melanie sighed. “How are the—”
“Shh.”
“What—?”
“Shhhh.”
Bastien strained to hear whatever Cliff heard, but his ears still felt funny.
“Reordon’s leaving. He went ahead and scheduled the meeting.”
“When is it?”
“In an hour. Bastien’s going to be pissed.”
“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. I tried to talk Mr. Reordon into delaying it and—”
“You could try the antidote.”
“No. I can’t. Not without knowing all of the possible repercussions. And it may not even be an antidote.”
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