11
Somewhere quiet indeed. Garreth bit his lip. No one would think of checking Lane's apartment when they started looking for Fowler and him.
The lock clicked open. Fowler dropped his lock picks back into the inside pocket of his coat. Picking Garreth up from where he had dropped him by the door, Fowler dragged him inside and deposited him in the wicker basket chair. Then in a quick circuit, Fowler opened the drapes several inches, closed the door, and came back to the wicker chair.
Sunlight streamed across the room in a beam that splashed over Garreth. He noticed it even in the midst of his other pain, and strained away from the slap of it toward the side of the chair still in shadow.
Fowler promptly dragged the chair so the beam fell directly across the middle, where no amount of leaning would avoid it. "We can't have you too comfortable, can we, old son?"
He reached into his coat pocket. Garreth stiffened, expecting the perfume bottle again. Fowler had sprayed him twice more on the drive over and with time between for only a few gulps of air, each renewed loss of breath had felt more terrifying than the last. Instead of the garlic, however, Fowler produced four thin plastic strips of the kind electricians used to secure a group of wires in one neat bundle.
He toyed with them. "Handy little gadgets, these cable ties. One can do all sorts of things with them where one needs a loop or a way to fasten something to something else."
Or tie up someone? The ties looked just the right width to make the marks on Holle's and the Count's wrists.
Fowler wrapped a tie around one of Garreth's wrists, fed the pointed end through the lock loop on the other end and pulled it snug. "I believe your law enforcement agencies use a longer, wider version as handcuffs. It makes sense, really. They're strong and there's no lock to pick." He pulled Garreth's arms behind him and wrapped the other wrist, this time looping the tie through the loop made by the first before closing it. Cable ties went around Garreth's ankles, too. "There now. You won't wander, even if I let you breathe for a while." He smiled. "Or should I say, if you earn the right to breathe."
Garreth tested his wrists. No good. The plastic strip cut in like wire with no feeling of give. At night and breathing normally he might have the strength to break them, but not here, not now.
"The price isn't very high, really. All you have to do is tell me where to find Mada."
The hell. How did Fowler expect him to talk when he could not breathe?
As though reading his mind, Fowler said, "You can whisper if you have a good go at it. I strongly advise you do so, old son."
Why bother when he would not believe the truth?
"Where is she!" A hand cracked across Garreth's face.
Through the pain came the thought that if only he could get out of this sunlight he might find a way to fight Fowler. It would halve his handicap anyway.
Fowler slapped him again. The force whipped his neck and rocked the chair. But with the blow came an idea for getting out of the sun. Carefully Garreth mouthed: fuck you.
Fowler reacted instantly. Grabbing Garreth by the lapels, Fowler hauled him out of the chair and slung him halfway across the room against the bookshelves beside the fireplace. If Garreth had been breathing, it would have knocked the air out of him. "Tell me!"
Shadow brought no relief, though, no renewal of strength. He sagged to the floor. God if only he could pass out. This was excruciating, swimming on the edge of consciousness . . . like the half-death of his transition phase, feeling and hearing everything but unable to roll over to relieve his aches or move to scratch his itches.
Above him Fowler chuckled. Grabbing Garreth by the lapels once more, Fowler jerked him to his feet and slammed him backward again, into the brick of the fireplace itself this time, again and again, once for every word he spoke. Garreth's glasses shook loose and fell off. "You . . . will . . . tell . . . me. You'll tell me or learn just how much pain can be inflicted on one of your sort. It is a great deal, I promise you. I have seen. There's no refuge. You can't even faint. Until the central nervous system is disrupted, you must feel and endure every moment of agony, and you would be surprised how much of the body may be destroyed before damaging the spine or brain."
Garreth fought welling panic. Fowler had to be playing mind games. Not that he doubted what the writer said was true. There had probably been plenty of opportunity for observation of vampires in pain while killing Irina's friends in Europe. No wonder she hated and feared the man. But how much could Fowler do here? Whittle at him with a pocket knife?
Abruptly he wished he had not thought of that. He hated knives. The idea of being cut always bothered him far more than the possibility of being shot.
Fowler hissed through his teeth. "I don't know why you protect the vile creature. She condemned you to this life. One would expect you to hate her, to rejoice in seeing her destroyed." He brushed at dust on Garreth's lapels. "Perhaps what you need is the opportunity to reflect on it. Yes, that's it. I'll hang you up in the bedroom closet with a clove of garlic around your neck. I doubt very much that anyone will discover you there. In a couple of weeks or months, then, I'll come back and resume our discussion. How does that strike your fancy?"
It struck pure terror . . . bone-melting, bowel-emptying, paralyzing dread. Visions spun behind Garreth's eyes of weeks or months without food or breath, also without unconsciousness or sleep, unable to die, only to hang there suffering ceaselessly. A living death.
"Or maybe we'll try a stake on you for size. Not kill you, you understand, just give it a little tap so you know what it feels like."
Dumping Garreth back in a chair beside the fireplace, Fowler went out to the kitchen. A cracking noise came back to Garreth, then Fowler returned carrying a chair rung. With his pocket knife he sharpened one end into a long, thin point, carefully cutting so that all the shavings fell in the fireplace. "We don't want to be untidy, do we."
Don't panic, Garreth thought desperately, watching him. That had been one of the first lessons in survival at the academy. Panic kills. He must stay calm and think rationally.
Or get mad, a voice whispered in his head. It sounded a little like Lane, but more like his father and the instructors at the academy. Think Survival. Fight. Even if your teeth are kicked in and you're shot full of holes, you never stop fighting. Never. Kick, claw, use any weapon you can find but don't let the scum waste you.
And this bastard in particular. He obviously enjoyed inflicting terror. He had probably hummed and smiled just like this at Count Dracula while preparing that other stake.
Anger boiled up thinking about the savagery of the little man's death. Garreth let it come . . . welcomed it. Fowler had had enough fun. It was time to stop him. What was a little suffocation and daylight? Irina had made herself live a human rhythm without any aids like dark glasses, had forced herself even to go to church. He could surely bear some pain in the name of survival.
As anger grew, his mind started working again . . . planning. The first order had to be freeing himself. By twisting his wrists he could reach around to slip a finger of one hand under the cable tie on the other. He pulled. The plastic bit into his finger and wrist. Come on man, he prodded himself. Work at it. We're talking life and death here.
Fowler whittled at the stake.
Garreth eyed the knife. That would have him free in a second. He could talk if he made an effort, Fowler had said. He would try, then. Straining, he managed to compress his aching chest, moving a fractional amount of air up his throat. "Fowler." It hardly counted as even a whisper, but it was sound.
Fowler heard. He turned, smiling. "Hello, hello. Do you mean you have something to say to me after all?"
Garreth let the smile and arrogant tone feed his anger. He worked another bit of air out. "Closer."
Fowler came over and leaned down. "Now then, where's Mada?"
Garreth rammed his head into Fowler's nose as hard as he could.
The writer reeled back with a howl, clutching at his face. Knife and stake
clattered to the floor.
Garreth threw himself out of the chair on top of them. He could barely feel the knife. His fingers shook weakly as he tried to close them around the handle and the room spun beyond the red haze of his vision. Curses ran through his head. The garlic effect should have been wearing off, unless he was still being affected by some that had soaked into his coat. If only he could breath a little. Well you can't, damn it, he yelled at himself, and you're not going to pass out, either, so forget about it.
Biting his lip, he locked his fingers around the knife and turned the blade so he could saw at his bonds. It seemed to take forever to find the right position, then a sudden lance of pain in his wrist told him he was also cutting his skin. He kept working anyway. Fowler would not remain blinded by pain forever.
Or even another minute. From the corner of his eye he could see the writer's hands coming down. He sawed desperately with the knife, cursing. How could a stupid damn piece of plastic take so long to cut?
A moment later he swore again. Fowler was stiffening; he had seen what Garreth was doing.
With a snarl, Fowler charged, foot swinging.
The toe connected just behind Garreth's ear. Pain exploded in his head. A little more pain he might have ignored, but the force of the blow loosened his grip and the knife fell out of his fingers. He groped frantically for it.
At the edge of his vision, Fowler's foot swung a second time. Garreth rolled away, cursing. Dodging the kick meant abandoning the knife.
With a snort of triumph Fowler kicked the knife into the fireplace and snatched up the chair rung. He came at Garreth gripping it in both hands.
Garreth rolled again. Not quite fast or far enough. The stake drove into his hip. A spasm of pain wracked him. He kept rolling. Maybe he could jerk the stake out of Fowler's hands, even if it meant landing on top of it and driving it in deeper.
No such luck. The point came free in a flood of wet warmth down Garreth's leg. Through the red fog clouding his vision, Garreth saw Fowler reset his grip on the stake and lunge again. Garreth flung himself sideways one more time and twisted his wrists desperately, straining at the cable ties.
With a sharp jerk, the cut tie broke. His hands came free. Just in time to reach up and deflect the stake. Instead of driving through the middle of his throat, it impaled the muscle where his neck and left shoulder joined.
This time Garreth pulled it out himself. Grabbing the shaft below Fowler's hands, he forced it back up toward the writer. A wordlessly snarling Fowler leaned on the stake to drive it down again. Garreth pushed up, resisting. Even as he held Fowler off, though, he knew he could not do so for long. The writer had gravity and daylight on his side and the strength was seeping out of Garreth's arm along with the warmth of blood spreading across his shoulder.
Garreth abruptly shoved sideways. As his arms went out from under him, Fowler came crashing down on Garreth. Garreth rolled, taking the writer with him. Coming on top, he wrenched away the stake and hurled it across the room.
Fowler caught Garreth's belt and heaved him aside, then scrambling to his feet, dived to retrieve the stake.
Garreth rolled for the fireplace. He had to free his feet! His fingers closed around the knife as Fowler scooped up the stake and turned. Garreth picked up a log from the stack on the hearth and heaved it at the charging Fowler, then reached for the cable ties on his ankle with the knife.
The log struck Fowler's chest. With no effect. To Garreth's dismay, the writer reeled back only a step before recovering and charging on.
Sawing at a cable tie with one hand, Garreth picked up another log with the other.
Fowler deflected it with his arm as casually as though brushing off a fly.
Hunters were like berserkers, Irina had said. They had to be killed to be stopped.
The cable tie parted. Garreth scrambled to his feet. Tried to scramble. His body would not respond. The injured leg collapsed, spilling him back on the floor. The knife popped out of his grip and skittered away across the floor.
Holding the stake two-handed like a dagger, Fowler dropped on him. Garreth caught Fowler's wrists with the point bare inches from his chest. With every ounce of his evaporating strength, he struggled to hold it there . . . long enough to lash up with his good leg and sink the toes in Fowler's groin.
Fowler curled up into a squeaking ball of agony and toppled sideways. Garreth rolled one more time to throw an arm around Fowler's throat. The choke hold tightened. Fowler went limp.
Now, tit for tat, quid pro quo. Getting even. Garreth dug through Fowler's pockets. There was his gun. He shoved that back in its holster. And there was the perfume dispenser. He dropped that in his pocket, too. Then here was what he really wanted . . . more cable ties. Heaving Fowler over onto his stomach, Garreth secured both wrists and ankles with the ties.
If he could breathe, he would have sighed in relief. Now he could strip off this coat and- But the thought cut off there. He found he could not sit up. His strength had all run out. Maybe his blood, too. It seemed to be everywhere, soaking his trousers, soaking his coat and turtleneck, streaking the hardwood floor.
He closed his eyes. Rest. That was what he needed. At sunset he would feel better. Surely by then the garlic would have dispersed enough for him to start breathing again.
Part of him prodded the rest sharply. Sunset is hours away, you dumb flatfoot. What do you think Fowler will be doing in the meantime? Waiting politely for you to work up the strength to arrest him?
No of course not. Garreth forced his eyes open again. He could not lie here. He would only lose the war when he had fought so hard to win the battle. He needed help, though. It furthers one to appoint helpers.
Where was the phone? He peered around him, straining to see through red-hazed vision. There . . . on a table near the kitchen door.
He never asked himself if he could reach it. Never stop fighting. Don't let the scum win. He used his good arm to drag himself on his belly toward toward the phone, praying Lane kept it hooked up while she was away.
Standing was impossible but a pull on the cord brought the phone crashing down from the table to the floor beside him. To his relief, the receiver buzzed at him. Carefully, he punched Lien's number. Calling Harry would also bring Girimonte. Better to have Irina coming with Lien.
"Hello?"
Would he be able to make her hear him? He struggled to breath out just a little more. "Li . . . en," he whispered.
He heard her breath catch on the other end, then, quickly, anxiously: "Garreth? What's happened? Where are you?"
"Lane's . . . a . . . part . . . ment," he forced out.
Across the room, Fowler groaned and stirred.
"Hur . . . ry."
No time for more. No strength to waste hanging up, either. He left the receiver lying and dragged himself back to where he could keep choking Fowler into unconsciousness until help arrived.
12
It seemed like an eternity before Garreth heard the door downstairs open. From where he lay stretched on the floor with his hand on Fowler's throat, he listened to two sets of footsteps ran up the stairs. Three sets. The third were just a whisper of sound. They all echoed as though from a great distance through the thick fog enveloping him.
A rap sounded at the door. "Garreth?" Lien called. The knob rattled. "Damn! It's locked. What are we going to do?"
"Irina . . ." his grandmother's voice said.
"Is a difficulty. This is a dwelling and I have never before been invited- Nichevo. I will tend to it."
She had discovered the barrier gone. Garreth's pulse jumped. Now she knew Lane was dead. Would she guess how?
"Holy Mother!"
He twisted his head toward the door. Her voice came from this side of it now. She stood just inside. But stood only for a second, then she jerked open the door and ran for the bay window.
"Lien, Grania," she called in a voice turned to a hoarse rasp. "Take him into hall away from this garlic."
Footsteps raced into
the room toward him. And halted in two gasps.
"Garreth!"
"Mother of god." Grandma Doyle dropped to her knees beside him. "The devil's killed you. I knew it. When you left I felt a wind between me skin and me blood."
Garreth shook his head. He was not dead yet.
Each of them grabbed an arm and began dragging him toward the door.
He pulled against them, shaking his head again. "Coat," he whispered. Being in the hall would not help a bit as long as he wore these clothes.
Irina had the drapes pulled wide and all three windows in the bay open. Coming back to them, she stopped short, too. "Is on him. Quickly; remove his coat and shirt."
They sat him up and stripped him to the waist. Irina removed the two pieces of clothing, carrying them to the kitchen like someone with a bomb, held as far away from her as possible.
Gradually the unbearable pressure in Garreth's chest released. Air trickled in. Nothing had ever felt quite so good before. He leaned back against his grandmother and closed his eyes.
Her arms tightened around him. "He looks like a corpse, Lien."
"I'll call an ambulance." Her footsteps moved in the direction of the telephone.
"No," Irina's voice said firmly. "You cannot."
He opened his eyes to see her holding Lien's wrist with one hand and blocking the dial face with the other.
"But you can see he's seriously hurt. He needs a doctor."
Irina shook her head. "We're strong. We heal quickly. All he needs is blood." She turned to look at him. "Human blood."
Garreth stiffened. "No."
"Yes. This is the point at which animal blood fails us."
Fowler groaned.
Irina crossed swiftly to him. Rolling him over on his back, and removing her glasses, she sat down astride him and stared hard into his opening, dazed eyes. "You are a statue. You cannot move or make a sound, nor can you see or hear anything unless I choose to talk to you again." Fowler went stiff. Irina put her glasses on again. Coming over to Garreth, she squatted beside him and took his face in her hands. "Listen to me, child. This is not a matter of choice but necessity. Only human blood will heal you."
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