Phantom Shadows ig-3

by Dianne Duvall

  “The network soldiers,” Joe spat.

  “No. It was the mercenaries I told you about. The network soldiers are helping us fight them.”

  Cliff spoke up again. “You need to have one of the doctors examine you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’ve been dosed three times tonight. First with the tranquilizer. Next with an experimental stimulant Dr. Lipton thought would kill you. Then again with the sedative. You should go see Linda.”

  Bastien shook his head.

  He didn’t know Linda. He didn’t want to know Linda.

  “She’s awake,” Étienne said.

  “Linda?” Of course she was. Bastien could hear her weeping.

  “No, Isaac Newton. Dr. Lipton. And she’s all right. There’s no brain damage.”

  Bastien’s heart began to pound. “How do you know?”

  “Because she’s thinking of you.”

  Chapter 8

  Melanie opened her eyes.

  The bland walls of the OR swam into focus. Machines she had used to monitor numerous patients in the past hummed and beeped.

  Where was Bastien?

  She glanced around.

  Linda sat beside her, her nose and cheeks blotchy pink, her eyes red-rimmed. She turned away and pulled a tissue from a box on the bedside tray.

  Melanie looked beyond her. Dr. Whetsman stood across the room, his back to her, writing something in a patient file. Two more members of the medical staff bustled about, cleaning up the mess tending . . . her . . . had left behind?

  Where was Bastien? Hadn’t they been at UNC together?

  Yes. Richart had been there, too. They had taken out a handful of vampires and then . . .

  Someone had shot her in the chest.

  The little line on one of the machines began to jump up and down faster.

  Had mercenaries gotten him? Neither Bastien nor Richart had been aware of the soldiers’ presence prior to them shooting her. Had the soldiers shot the immortals, too? Tranqed them? With none of the antidote on hand to combat the drug’s effects . . .

  “Where’s Bastien?”

  Linda let out a surprised gasp and spun around. “Lanie?”

  “Where is he?”

  So much fear darkened her friend’s gaze. “Do you know what day it is?”

  “Yes. It’s Friday night. Or Saturday morning, depending on the time.”

  “Saturday morning. And the date?”

  “It’s the . . .” Hell, what was the date? “The fifteenth.”

  “Do you know how old you are?”

  “Old enough not to want to voice it.”

  Linda burst into watery laughter, then lunged forward and hugged her. “Thank goodness. We were afraid . . .”

  “What?”

  “You crashed. Your heart stopped and we couldn’t get it going again . . . We bagged you and kept up chest compressions until Roland got here, but we didn’t know what or how much damage may have been done before he arrived and healed you.”

  Crap. They had feared she had suffered brain damage? “I’m fine, honey.” She patted Linda’s back. What had happened to—

  Shouting erupted in the hallway. Then gunshots. More shouting.

  The doors to the OR flew open, one of them knocking the crap out of Dr. Whetsman, who dropped unconscious to the floor.

  Linda bolted upright and spun around.

  Melanie leaned to one side and looked past her.

  Bastien stood just inside the doors, blood spilling from one-two-three-four gunshot wounds in his torso, the gaze he pinned on her frantic.

  Richart materialized beside him. “You crazy bastard! I would have teleported you here if you had just given me a chance!”

  Bastien didn’t appear to hear him. He crossed to Melanie’s side. His long hair was sticky with congealing blood. His face looked like he had wiped it clean, then dragged his hands through his crimson hair and touched his face, staining it again. His neck was red. His clothes clung to him damply. Everywhere. He looked as if someone had dunked him in a vat of blood.

  Linda rose and backed away slowly. She had expressed to Melanie several times concern over Bastien’s trustworthiness.

  “Are you . . . all right?” he asked, hands clenching as if he wanted to reach out and touch her but held himself back.

  “I’m fine.” Her gaze dropped to his wounds. “Are you?”

  He nodded, the tense muscles in his face relaxing into almost a smile. “I’m good.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “I heard gunshots.”

  “The damned guards posted outside Cliff’s apartment didn’t want to let me pass.”

  Étienne appeared in the doorway. “You stupid bastard! Why didn’t you just let Richart teleport you?”

  Melanie raised one eyebrow and gave Bastien a slight smile. “Still acting, then thinking?”

  He grinned. “What would Reordon’s guards do if I didn’t liven things up around here periodically and keep them on their toes?”

  Linda bent and checked on Dr. Whetsman.

  “How is he?” Melanie asked.

  “He’s fine,” she said and left him on the floor. Neither of them cared much for the man. He was a brilliant physician, but knew it and made damned sure everyone else knew it, too.

  When Melanie started to sit up, Bastien slipped an arm around her back to help her.

  She would have told him she didn’t require the aid, but she liked it. She positively tingled whenever he touched her. It didn’t even have to be flesh against flesh to start her heart racing.

  His eyes began to glow, reminding her he could feel her emotions.

  “That really isn’t fair, you know,” she protested, removing the pulse monitor so the spike in her heartbeat wouldn’t be noticed by any of the humans present. Not that many remained. Those who did sidled out of the room as soon as they could manage it.

  He shrugged. “True, but since the advantage is mine, you won’t hear me complaining about it.”

  She had to laugh as she took stock of her body. Other than suffering a bit of weakness, she felt surprisingly normal. “This is amazing. I can’t believe I was shot in the chest and—what—a couple of hours later feel almost normal.”

  “Thrice,” Bastien said, face darkening.

  “What?”

  “You were shot thrice in the chest.”

  Three times? Hell. She only remembered the first one. “How did—”

  “Richart brought Roland to you.”

  She frowned. “That’s what Linda said, but . . . You mean, the Roland?”

  “Yes.”

  “Roland Warbrook?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he just . . . touched me with his hands—”

  Bastien’s eyes flared brightly. Was he jealous?

  “—and now I’m fine?” she finished.

  “We had to give you blood,” Linda threw in.

  Bastien nodded. “Roland can heal your wounds, but he can’t replace the blood you lost.”

  “Well, technically, he can,” Richart corrected. “He could have transfused you with his own blood, but you lost so much that—had he done so—the virus would have inundated your system and you would have been transformed.”

  Knowing she had come so close to dying was frightening.

  Her gaze strayed to Bastien’s chest. “Did the soldiers shoot you, too, or are all of those from the guards here?”

  “I took a few from the soldiers.”

  Étienne drew her attention. “And he was tranqed again.”

  She looked at Bastien. “How many times?”

  “Three or four. I think.”

  He had been unconscious for hours the last time he had been tranqed. Without the antidote . . .

  “How long have I been out?” she asked. She shouldn’t have lost a lot of time if Roland healed her swiftly. No wonder Linda had feared she’d suffered brain damage.

  “Not long,” Bastien said, increasing her confusion. “I didn’t lose consciousness this time
. I was tired afterward. A little woozy, perhaps—”

  “Insane, perhaps,” Étienne muttered.

  “But I think the antidote you’ve concocted may do more than we thought. It didn’t just alleviate the weakness after I had been tranqed. It seemed to have a preventative effect as well and acted as a buffer when I was tranqed again later, keeping me from feeling the full effects.”

  “That’s . . .”

  “Fantastic,” he said, his praise warming her.

  “Yes. But it’s also worrisome. I didn’t expect it to do that, so I have to wonder what else it might do that I didn’t anticipate.”

  He shrugged off her concern. “It worked perfectly. I feel a bit tired, but otherwise am myself.”

  Étienne raised his eyebrows. “What you did at UNC is normal for you?”

  Uh-oh. “What did you do?” Melanie asked.

  Bastien shot the Frenchman a warning glare. “Only what needed to be done.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  “No.”

  When no more was forthcoming, Melanie shook her head. “I’m going to hear about it eventually.” She pushed the covers back, revealing a standard hospital gown that covered her to her knees. “If not from the network rumor mill than from Cliff or Joe. Those guys hear everything around here. If Mr. Reordon bitches about it—and I’m guessing from the looks you’re getting from the d’Alençons that he will—then Cliff and Joe will hear it.”

  Bastien shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glanced at the French immortals, and looked for all the world like a little boy not wanting to cop to hitting a baseball through the window. “I . . . brought your shooter to justice.”

  “Thank you.” She had no problem with his killing the man who would’ve succeeded in killing her had Roland not been available to aid her. That shooter had known nothing of Roland and his healing ability. So when he had shot her, he had meant for her to die. “Was there just the one?”

  Bastien had been attacked by a dozen or more last night. A lone gunman seemed odd. Unless Emrys’s operation was smaller than they had guessed.

  “No. There were others,” Bastien said, seeming to steel himself.

  “How many?”

  “I lost count.”

  She eyed his bloody clothing. What exactly had he done?

  “I killed them,” he stated.

  “All of them?”

  She let that sink in as he stood stoically before her.

  Did he think she would condemn him? This was war. She knew well what this group was capable of, what they would do if they got their hands on any of the immortals or on Ami. Clearly they believed human Seconds, which they must have thought her, were expendable.

  Bastien looked so grim.

  If the others weren’t here, she’d put her arms around him and comfort him. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed the killing.

  “He did tonight,” Étienne said darkly.

  Bastien frowned at him. “Who did what?”

  “Because they hurt me,” she said.

  Bastien’s expression darkened as his gaze ping-ponged between them. “Stop reading her thoughts.”

  You would defend him?

  The unfamiliar voice in her head startled her. Yes. Wouldn’t you?

  I saw the bodies.

  I assume you’ve also seen his thoughts.

  A look of unease passed over the immortal’s attractive face.

  When Bastien took a menacing step toward Étienne, Melanie swung her legs over the side of the bed and leaned forward to snag Bastien’s hand.

  He glanced back.

  She met Étienne’s gaze squarely. You’ve seen his thoughts? she repeated.

  Yes.

  Did he kill for the hell of it? Did he kill for the fun of it? Or did he kill them because they tried to kill me?

  Bastien gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Dr. Lipton?”

  Étienne sighed. “You may as well drop the formality. One, I’ve heard your thoughts and know your concern for her extends beyond that of a work colleague. And two, I’ve seen your thoughts and keep coming across her naked.”

  Richart tried without success to choke back a laugh. “Nothing to say?”

  A muscle in Bastien’s cheek jumped. “I’m debating over whether or not I should kick Étienne’s ass for seeing Melanie naked.”

  Richart burst into laughter.

  “It wasn’t real! It was fantasy!” his brother protested.

  “I don’t care. She was naked.”

  Melanie felt heat bloom in her cheeks and didn’t know why the hell she should feel embarrassed. It wasn’t as if she really were naked. As Étienne had said, they were talking about fantasies he had seen in Bastien’s head.

  How hot was it that Bastien was picturing her naked?

  I was naked in his thoughts? she asked, unsure if Étienne was still tuning in.

  A lot.

  And we were doing . . . ?

  Things that would make you blush even more than you are now.

  I don’t suppose you could show me, could you?

  It doesn’t work that way.

  Damn.

  His lips twitched.

  Bastien tugged her hand. “I can’t hear what he’s saying to you. Should I kick his ass?”

  “As if you could,” Étienne murmured.

  “No.” Melanie said, “It’s fine.”

  All three immortals suddenly looked at the ceiling.

  “What is it?”

  “Reordon,” Bastien grunted.

  “And he’s pissed,” Richart said needlessly.

  If Bastien had once more plowed through Chris’s guards, she was surprised it had taken Chris this long to join them.

  She looked to the twins. “He’ll chain Bastien up.”

  Étienne frowned. Easing farther into the room, he closed the door behind him. “For being shot by the guards?”

  Surprised, Melanie stood and stared up at Bastien. “You didn’t hurt any of them?”

  He shrugged and watched her carefully. “I was in a hurry. Perhaps next time.”

  She smiled and shook her head.

  Richart turned to his brother. “It’s true. Chris will order the guards to restrain him and chain him up.”

  “But he didn’t hurt anyone.”

  “He didn’t hurt anyone the night he was drugged either. Not here, anyway. He was unconscious when I brought him in, but Chris wanted to restrain him in the holding room.”

  Étienne’s brow creased as he swore and glared at Bastien. “I can’t believe you’ve put me in a position where I’ll actually have to defend your sorry ass.”

  Bastien’s lips compressed in a tight smile. “You don’t hear me asking for your help, do you?”

  Melanie tightened her fingers around his in warning. “I’ll ask for it.” When Bastien started to protest, she held up her free hand to shut him up. “Can you two buy us some time?”

  At most, she thought one or the other of them might keep the guards at bay long enough to convince Mr. Reordon that Bastien had indeed left his men unharmed. Maybe offer a token protest when Bastien was escorted to the holding room or tranqed or shot. So she was shocked when Richart strode toward them. “I’ll teleport him out of here.”

  She held on to Bastien’s hand. “Where he goes, I go.”

  “That’s what we thought,” the brothers said simultaneously.

  Richart motioned to their entwined hands. “It’s easier for me to take you one at a time. I’ll take Bastien first, then immediately return for you, Dr. Lipton.”

  “Melanie.”

  “As you wish, Melanie.”

  “Where are we?” Bastien asked when he and Richart appeared inside a house.

  “My home. I’ll return in a moment.”

  Bastien clutched his arm. “You should leave her there.”

  “I should,” Richart agreed. “But I gave her my word.”

  As soon as Bastien released him, the other immortal vanished.

  When
he reappeared, Melanie was with him.

  She grinned up at Bastien. “That is so awesome.”

  Try though he might, he couldn’t prevent himself from returning her smile. Not because he thought it was cool, too. (It was the only perk to having to hunt with Richart nightly.) But because he found her smile so enchanting and irresistible. So utterly free of guile.

  Richart let out a piercing whistle.

  Bastien heard a thud sound in some distant room.

  “Damn it!” a male they couldn’t see shouted. “I told you not to do that! You scared the crap out of me!” It must be Sheldon.

  Bastien met Richart’s gaze. “Have you told him he doesn’t have to shout for you to hear him?”

  “Several times.” He seemed amused rather than annoyed by his new Second’s slow learning curve.

  Melanie aimed her smile up at Richart. “I’m dying to know how you do that.”

  “It’s easy. I just purse my lips and blow.”

  Laughing, she shoved him. “Not the whistling. The teleporting.”

  Richart, no more immune to her charm and goodness than Bastien was, grinned down at her. “I wouldn’t mind knowing that myself.”

  “Really? Could I by any chance talk you into letting me run a few tests? I’d love to do an MRI while you teleport and see what lights up.”

  Richart’s smile faltered beneath a look of supreme unease. Immortals tended to be nearly as uncomfortable around doctors—on the doctors’ territory at least—as Ami was. And Ami still broke out in a cold sweat if she had to go anywhere near the network.

  Melanie touched Richart’s forearm, resurrecting Bastien’s jealousy. “Just think about it.”

  His stance relaxing, the Frenchman nodded. “I will.” He motioned to the living room around them—modern, with more clutter than Bastien was accustomed to seeing since most immortals were neat freaks. David’s place, despite the heavy traffic it saw, was usually immaculately clean and tidy. “Please make yourself at home. The kitchen is through there. Bastien, there is blood in the modified meat compartment in the refrigerator. There’s a bathroom just down the hall. There are four guest rooms on this floor and four more in the basement. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask Sheldon.”

  How long did he think they would be here?

  “Oh, and Bastien . . .” His words turned brittle. “Tread carefully with my Second. Mistreat him in any way and you will answer to me.”