It was close to midnight now, and the gutted building was belching black smoke into the air, lit by four banks of working lights that had been pulled into the parking lot and set up. They were running off their own generators.
There were people everywhere. Rick watched them crisscrossing between each other, tripping over themselves. He carefully didn’t look at the ambulance and its crew that sat off to one side, waiting for any bodies that might emerge from the building.
The site investigators had entered the building forty minutes ago, Marcus with them. Rick had no idea what tale he had spun to get himself included. He didn’t care. That Marcus was on the inside was enough.
Rick shifted against the back of the car once more and reconsidered going and speaking to Nial. He would have nothing to tell him. Nothing concrete, anyway. Deep reluctance kept him pinned where he was. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not yet. Not with Nathanial.
Marcus appeared in what was left of the doorway where the two glass swing doors had been. He was stepping over debris carefully, his head down. A police officer called to him as he stepped over the doorsill and climbed down the concrete steps. Rick could hear his shoes crunching in the grit and ash that littered the steps.
He extended his hearing, narrowing down the focus, until he had Marcus pinpointed.
“…nothing concrete just yet. The fire chief has confirmed it was the propane tank out the back of the store that was the source of the explosion.”
The officer asked another question that Marcus shrugged off. “You’ll have to check with the fire department about that. I don’t know fire and safety regs.”
The officer would have been asking why the tank was so close to the store, then, Rick concluded.
Marcus was heading toward the car now, his hands in the front pockets of his jacket. He was filthy, the black ash spreading from his shoes up the legs of his jeans, turning them a sooty grey. He nodded to a few people as they passed. Casual. Not in a hurry. Admiration touched Rick. Marcus was playing it very cool indeed.
Marcus finally reached the car. He turned and leaned his back against it, too. Then he leaned forward, folding from the waist, and rested his hands on his knees, letting his head hang. Rick watched his back lift as he took a deep breath.
He straightened again and stood looking at the carnage and chaos surrounding what was left of the store. The roof had gone completely, and most of the walls down to mid-way along the windows, which gaped like missing teeth without the glass.
Rick didn’t press him for information. The same odd reluctance kept him silent.
“There was a propane tank out the back,” Marcus said.
“I heard.”
Marcus glanced at him, the blue eyes narrowing. “Okay…” He pushed his hands back into his pockets. It was a stiff, tense movement. “They found a body in there. Well, it wasn’t so much a body anymore. From the width of the pelvis and the shape of it, the M.E. says he thinks it’s a mature female, probably young, because the pelvis hadn’t spread with childbirth. Identification will be based on dental records. There wasn’t anything left for DNA analysis.”
Rick let that sink in, frowning. His thoughts were stodgy. Facts difficult to grasp.
Marcus pulled his right hand from his pocket and held his fist out in front of Rick. “Here.”
Rick held out his hand. Marcus dropped the bronze band onto his palm.
For a moment, even his hearing faded. His heart slipped his control and began to rampage, each beat hurting with the ferociousness of it. Then…stillness. A silvered, calm place where his mind finally could work.
“I picked it up and hid it before anyone else saw it,” Marcus said. “It was right next to the body, lying on its side as it would be if it had been around her arm.” He turned to look at Rick more directly. “Tell me you guys can withstand fire. Tell me that’s not her in there.”
Rick looked up at what was left of the building, closing his fingers in around the band. The filigree detail on the sides of it bit into his skin. “The flames from the explosion were pure orange. Some of them dark orange. That color means the fire was burning around twelve hundred degrees Celsius.”
Marcus was staring at him and Rick could see the tiniest amount of hope in his eyes. He made himself speak the rest. “The vampire body can withstand anything up to eight hundred degrees Celsius. A candle flame, a wood-burning fire. Yellow flames. Above eight hundred degrees, immolation occurs.”
Marcus didn’t ask what immolation meant. He shook his head, just a little. Denial. “There were bones and …and other stuff,” he hissed, keeping his voice down. “You’re supposed to flake away to nothing, afterwards. If it was her, she wouldn’t be there.” He was breathing heavily, almost panting. The planes of his face, the high cheek bones, looked gaunt in the stark light from the spotlights.
Rick squeezed the band tighter and felt it give inside his fist. “At those temperatures,” he said, speaking slowly, “everything stops. Everything vampire and anything human that is left just stops. Not even the breakdown of the body is able to continue.”
Marcus turned away from him, but not before Rick saw his eyes close. He kept his face averted. After a moment, he pressed both thumbs to his eyes, digging them into the corners, his fingers colliding.
“Why?” he demanded, his voice thick with the strength of his feelings. “Tell me what I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know why,” Rick whispered. “It doesn’t make sense. She was too valuable to him.”
“Unless he found out what you were planning.”
“She would not tell him.” Rick knew that without stopping to question it. Ilaria had wanted her freedom too much. Revealing her scheme to escape would end her hopes. She wouldn’t have told him, even involuntarily.
For a moment, the calm that held him slipped. He drew in a shuddering breath, clawing for control. Control would hold this all at bay, hold it away from him.
Marcus had his fists rammed back inside his pockets. He watched the officials climbing all over the smoking ruins. “I didn’t like vampires because you all live a life of lies and false fronts. Nothing about you is real. Not the surface stuff. That’s what I thought before I met Ilaria.” He swallowed and fell silent.
Rick nodded. “Is that what happened in Tangier?”
Marcus gave a laugh so dry it crackled. “It’s my whole fucking profession! Spooks and spies…liars one and all. They’re trained to lie. There’s no one you can trust. No one” he repeated softly.
Rick rubbed at the back of his neck. “Lying eats away at the soul. One grows so weary of the charade. Sometimes, I think I understand the old ones, why they give up and withdraw. It would be easier, but it’s just another form of denial.” He let his hand drop. “With Ilaria, I was able to tell the truth,” he finished.
Marcus looked at him. “So was I.”
Rick nodded. “You look tired.”
He gave a hallow laugh. “I’m beyond tired.”
“Want to go home?” Rick dug for his keys in his pocket.
“Don’t you need to report in?” Marcus asked, his head tilting toward the limousine. He had spotted it, too.
“I’ll send them a text.” Rick pulled out his cellphone. “Come. It’s time to get you to your pillow.”
* * * * *
Nial pulled up the new text message as Rick’s black Eclipse slowly negotiated the busy parking area, heading for the exit.
Ilaria dead. Taking Marcus home. Will call
“It is as I feared.” He sighed. “Ilaria died.”
Winter’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “Poor Marcus. And Rick, too.”
Nial watched the black car slide past the limousine and accelerate down the road. “They’ll have a hard time of it for a while,” he agreed. “But I have a feeling that Ilaria’s influence hasn’t ended, yet.”
* * * * *
The harsh buzzing grated in Marcus’ ears and he tried to flap it away with his hand, but his hand was too heavy, so h
e let it lay.
His mind was floating nicely, hanging neatly between the place where dreams dogged him, and the other place where the memories were.
Time passed.
He felt his hand lifting. Strange. He wasn’t trying to lift it.
“Marcus!” The call came from a long way away. Did he know that voice? Strong. Hard to ignore.
He became aware of his head, which was rolling from one side to another.
Curious.
Then he noticed the sharp impacts to his face. His mind creaked along sluggishly. That was why his head was moving from side to side.
“Marcus, can you hear me?”
Just fine. He said it, but his mouth wouldn’t work. Why wouldn’t it work?
Where was he, anyway?
He tried to open his eyes. Nothing happened.
He became aware of something clamped around his jaw. Two painful spots on either side of his mouth. Forcing his jaw open. Bringing his lips apart.
Softness slipped between them. Blessed water! He tasted it and recoiled. Salt. The water was thick with salt, almost solid with it. But the water was sliding down the back of his throat, making him gag. The reflex forced him to swallow the stuff. He felt it move down to his stomach.
More of the brine. It was trickling down his throat in a steady stream, barely stopping as he was forced to swallow it.
His belly cramped painfully. The contents sloshed and stirred uneasily.
Alarmed, he tried to sit up, but his muscles wouldn’t cooperate. Hands slid under his arms. They lifted him and turned him, moving him around like he was a toy. He opened his eyes, surprised he could do it. There was a bucket right in front of him.
Thank you! He sent the gratitude out to the universe and vomited until he saw stars and the back of his throat burned. Then he did it again, and again, until he was bringing up nothing. His stomach was still cramping hard, but the worst of it was over.
He tried to fall back onto whatever he was lying on, but the hands prevented him. “No you don’t,” the voice told him.
He recognized the accent.
Cyneric was lifting him up, hoisting him with the same powerful ease as before. “You need to sober up,” Rick said. “Because then I’m going to beat the crap out of you.”
“But I’m such a nice guy,” Marcus rumbled and was surprised the words formed and emerged aloud. He was being carried along, his feet pretty much useless. He recognized his kitchen. Then the bedroom. He was being marched into his ensuite. “Rather swim in the sea,” he mumbled.
“You’d drown if I let you put so much as a toe in the water,” Rick replied. He was stepping into the shower, bringing Marcus with him. Marcus realized, with his rapidly improving vision and thought, that he was being held up against Rick’s chest. Rick’s arms were propping Marcus up.
He felt one of his arms shift and the shower came on.
It was as cold as outer Mongolia. A shout of shock escaped his lips, but it emerged as a groan. “Fuck!” he cried as he began to shiver.
“You think that’s bad, you’re going to love this,” Rick told him. The water changed to hot, almost to the point of scalding. Marcus threw back his head and scrabbled with his feet to find leverage on the tiles so he could get the fuck out of there. But Rick’s arms were like iron bands around his back.
The water switched to full cold once more and he swore long and hard while it cascaded in icy rivulets down his back. His clothing was soaked – there was no protection from the cold there. When he was shuddering with the impact, the water switched back to scalding again.
It felt like five years passed, standing under that torturous fall of water. But after about ten rounds through the hot and cold cycle, Marcus shook off the excess water from his hair. He could focus on Rick’s unmoving expression, the black eyes. Every sense was firing on all cylinders.
“When you get around to letting me out of this,” he told Rick, “I’m going to cave in your face for you.”
Rick considered him. “You’re awake,” he judged and turned off the shower with a jerk of his wrist, and let Marcus go.
He swung his fist hard and fast, aiming for Rick’s face. He had nearly his full weight behind it, as much as he could leverage on the wet tiles, in such a confined space.
His fist never made contact. Rick’s hand flashed up and his fist slapped into his palm. Marcus tried to disengage, but the pure fucking strength in the man’s grip had his hand locked as tightly as it would have been in a vice.
“I’ve no time for theatrics,” Rick told him. He tossed Marcus’ hand back so it thumped against his chest and stepped out of the shower. His clothes were as sodden as Marcus’. “When you’re dry, I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” he said over his shoulder, as he hooked a towel from the rod and left the bathroom.
Marcus stepped out and reached for the counter around the sink as his world spun for a moment. He was awake – wide awake – but he wasn’t fully sober yet. Moving carefully, he shucked off the wet jeans and tee-shirt, which wasn’t easy, for they clung to his damp skin like glue. Then he toweled off and found a clean pair of jeans. All his tee-shirts were dirty, so he pulled out a button through shirt from the closet and tossed it on. He thought about combing his hair, but shrugged and tousled it with his fingers. Who would care?
Hot food smells were coming from the kitchen as he stepped out of the bedroom, and his stomach stirred uneasily. Rick wasn’t going to make him eat, was he? But who else would the food be for? Certainly not Rick.
He walked out into the kitchen, ready to protest.
Rick was pulling a pizza out of the oven – he must have found it at the back of Marcus’ freezer. He glared at Marcus as he sliced it on the cutting board. “Don’t even think about telling me you won’t eat,” he said. “You’ve adequately demonstrated that your sense of judgment is utterly absent. So sit down and eat this, or I’ll force it down your throat like I did the salt water.”
There was a glitter in Rick’s eyes that told Marcus he wasn’t joking. So he picked up the chopping board. “I’ll eat it at the table if you don’t mind. There’s something barbaric about eating standing up.”
“I eat standing up all the time,” Rick shot back.
“I rest my case.” Marcus dropped the board onto the table and lowered himself gingerly into the chair behind it.
Rick pulled out the chair opposite at an angle. He dropped the towel he had taken from the bathroom onto the seat, then sat down, one hand on the table, the other on his thigh. His clothes were sodden and clinging to him. “Eat,” he warned.
“It’s too fucking hot. Give me a break.”
“I really do not give a damn about your delicate gums. Take a bite, or I’ll make you.”
Marcus sighed and picked up one of the slices and bit into the corner. It was as hot as he had suspected. He juggled the steaming hot crust in his mouth until it was cool enough to swallow, then waited to see how his stomach would receive it.
Faint protest, but it stayed down. Cautiously, he took another bite, looking around the room. It was a shambles. There were dirty plates on the coffee table, and this table, too. Empty glasses with a glaze of brown sticky liquid at the bottom. A sweater piled in a heap on the floor in front of the kitchen counter. He couldn’t remember even wearing the sweater, let alone taking it off and dropping it there.
He hadn’t realized what a mess it had become. How had that happened? He hadn’t done anything but sit on the sofa and watch television for two days. True, the current bottle of JB had stayed on the sofa with him. But still…
When the pizza was half eaten, a full thirty minutes later, Rick reached into his jacket and pulled something out. He placed the plastic pill bottle on the table in front of Marcus, his fingers resting on the white lid. “Would you like to tell me what you were planning to achieve, taking Lexapro with alcohol?”
Marcus stared at the bottle, a cold chill settling in his chest. “I took them?” he asked. He wasn’t surprised when his voice cam
e out hoarse. But the bottle was his. He could see the name on the label. “Where were they?” he asked.
“Most of what was in the bottle was strewn across the counter. The lid was on the floor.” He picked up the bottle and looked at the label. “This is used most often to treat depression.”
“I know.”
“It’s also used for PTSD,” Rick added.
Marcus took another bite of the pizza, which was pretty much cold now. He didn’t want any more, but chewing it saved him from answering.
Rick put the bottle back on the table and got up and went into the kitchen. He pulled a coffee mug out of the cupboard without searching, and poured coffee from a full pot he took out from under the coffee machine. He brought the cup over to Marcus and sat it next to the chopping board. “You’re going to drink a quart of this, too.”
“Gladly.” Marcus took a sip of the hot, rich brown liquid. It was perfectly made. Then he realized. “You didn’t offer cream or sugar.”
Rick rolled his eyes. “One. You don’t have any sugar or anything resembling cream or those caricatures parading as coffee cream in this house. Two, you didn’t use the cream or sugar when Winter gave you a cup of coffee.”
Marcus took another sip of the warm brew. Then he yawned. His eyes were suddenly drooping. The idea of putting his head on the table and letting sleep take him was enormously attractive. There was something he had to do, though. He struggled to stay awake. “I don’t remember taking them,” he muttered. “It wasn’t….I didn’t mean….”
“I know,” Rick replied.
Marcus felt hands under his arms and opened his eyes. He didn’t remember closing them. He was being lifted like a teddy bear again. “Stop doing that,” he complained.
“I’m more than happy to,” Rick replied.
He was lowered again, but this time, it was a soft pad. His bed. The covers were dropped over him.
Blood Unleashed (Blood Stone) Page 26