by Alysh Ellis
They started to move and Huon didn’t spare any breath from the task of supporting Tybor to reply. They made it down the stairs and out into the street, but with each step, Tybor leaned his weight more heavily on Huon. His breath rasped in and out of his lungs and his feet dragged. Huon bore it all and braced himself to take more. If Tybor could keep going with so much loss of blood then Huon could too.
They staggered into the doctor’s rooms and Huon headed straight for an open door through which he could see a man shrugging into a white coat. The receptionist fired a flood of Italian at him but he ignored her. As they entered the room, the doctor strode toward them.
Before he reached them, Tybor’s eyes shut and his knees buckled and he began to sink. The doctor grabbed Tybor and helped Huon to lower him to lie on the examination table beside the door. The receptionist, who had followed them into the room, turned her tirade on the doctor. He said something in rapid Italian and ushered her and his patient out. He looked at Huon.
“Che cosa è accaduto a quest’uomo?”
Huon tried to follow but his language skills, never particularly good, had deserted him. “Do you speak English?”
The doctor nodded. “Sì. Yes. What happened to this man?”
“He has cut himself. He needs stitches.”
The doctor washed his hands and unwrapped the bandage. Immediately a sluggish spurt of blood pumped out. He dropped his hand onto Tybor’s arm and pushed.
“Your friend has a cut artery.” He turned his head and raised his eyebrows.
Huon glared. “Can you fix him?”
The doctor pushed his lips together. “He should go to a hospital on the mainland. He may need a blood transfusion.”
Huon shook his head. “We don’t have time. Can you treat him here? If you need blood, you can use mine.”
The doctor shrugged. “I can repair the artery if I have to. I treat a lot of injuries for tourists who do not have sufficient travel medical insurance. It is often easier to deal with it in the surgery. But if he has to have a transfusion I will insist he goes to hospital for proper cross-matching. Your offer of blood will not help unless you are the same blood type.”
“We are.” All the Dvalinn were. Even strange, aberrant Huon. He may have looked different from everyone else, but some genetics bred true. “Do what you can.”
The doctor assembled his instruments. He took out a vial of liquid and a syringe.
Huon grasped his hand to prevent him from drawing the substance up. “What is it?”
“Sedative. I will give him a local anesthetic but if he is relaxed and drowsy the process will be easier on him.”
“No.” Tybor’s voice brought both their heads around. “Just the local.”
The doctor’s shoulders stiffened. “I assure you, sir, the effect will be mild and there is no risk to your health.”
“No. Stitch me up. No sedatives,” Tybor rasped.
Huon nodded at the doctor. “Do it. He won’t sue you if it hurts.”
The doctor shrugged and got to work. Huon watched every movement but the doctor seemed competent and efficient and before long he tied off the last of the stitches.
He handed Huon a packet of tablets and said, “I used dissolving thread. I don’t expect I will see you again.”
Huon didn’t answer and Tybor seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. The doctor repacked his equipment.
“That was not a self-inflicted wound. It should be reported to the Carabinieri, but such things are not good for Venice’s reputation as a tourist destination, so unless you insist?” At Huon’s negative gesture, he continued, “I thought not.” He wiped his hands. “Perhaps you were wise not to go to a hospital. They might have taken a less lenient view.” He inspected Tybor’s wound, then took his pulse and blood pressure. “You were lucky your assailant’s blow to the leg did not sever the artery there. The loss of blood from your arm is enough. I suspect, from the pattern of blood on your clothing, that you may have fallen on the left side of your body and that put pressure on your arm, perhaps saving your life. Under the circumstances, provided you can keep quiet for a few days, you may not need the transfusion.”
Tybor struggled to sit up. “Let’s go.”
“In any other city I would suggest a wheelchair, but Venice, as you know, is a city of steps and bridges. Wheeled conveyances do not do well here. Perhaps you should rest awhile until your strength returns.”
Having made it to a sitting position, Tybor swung his legs down from the bed. “I’ll be fine. I’ll take it easy, like you said.” He stood, swayed and put his hand on the wall to steady himself, but didn’t quail. “Huon, pay the man for his trouble and let’s get going.”
Huon pulled a wad of notes from his pocket and held them out to the doctor. He extracted a surprisingly small number. When Huon glanced at him inquiringly the doctor shrugged.
“He did not let me do much for him. A few stitches, some antibiotic, allora, it is nothing.”
Tybor took a few steps, waving Huon away when he offered to help. “We’ve made enough of a spectacle of ourselves for one day. Let’s go.”
They walked slowly back to their hotel. Tybor held his head straight, looking neither right nor left, but Huon noted every passerby who looked at their bloodstained clothes and shuddered. Many people took a second glance and many expressions changed and became horrified or inquisitive, but no one subjected Tybor to the fierce-eyed concentration of the stranger who had bumped into Huon on the street. The stranger who twenty minutes later had burst into their hotel room and tried to kill them. The Gatekeeper whose body still lay next to the bed.
They reached the foot of the stairs leading to their room and Huon held up his hand. “Wait here. I’m going up to take a look around.”
Tybor grimaced. “I’ll come with you.”
“No. You won’t,” Huon ordered. “You’re barely able to look after yourself and I don’t have time to see to you and check that no one has found the body and called the police, or that the hotel manager hasn’t come to investigate the noise or the smell of burning, or that another Gatekeeper isn’t lying in wait for us.”
“All the more reason I should come with you,” Tybor insisted.
“Not a chance. You couldn’t sneak up those stairs if your life depended on it, and you damn sure couldn’t run,” Huon replied. “You wait here, you stay out of sight until I either come to fetch you or come flying past you, Gatekeeper in hot pursuit. And if I don’t come down at all, you make your way to somewhere where you can rest up and recover, then head back home and let them send someone else to do the job I couldn’t.”
He could see Tybor gathering his energy to argue, so he shoved him under the landing of the stairs and left him.
He slipped silently up to the room without encountering anybody. If the police or manager had been called they were either in the room or they had come and gone.
The door was slightly ajar, the broken lock still hanging from one screw. Unlikely that anyone had been there, then, but he pressed his ear against the wall and listened.
Silence.
He nudged the door open with his foot, both hands wrapped around fistfuls of chemicals, held lightly, not yet squeezed into the reaction needed to turn them into a fireball. He took one step inside, then another. His lip curled in a mixture of anger and distaste at the sight of Tybor’s blood drying to a crusty brown. There seemed to be so much of it. The doctor might feel Tybor would be okay without a transfusion, and if anyone was tough enough to manage it Tybor was, but the dark pool showed him how close Tybor had come to death.
Huon took another step until he stood over the body of the human. All his training hadn’t prepared him for this sight. In the heat of battle he’d acted without thought, letting reflex and instinct carry him through the moves he’d needed. But now reaction set in. The human did not look very different from him. Away from the charring, he had pale skin, blond hair, a more solid build, probably slightly older than Huon. He couldn’t be sure about that. Human yea
rs were not calculated the same way as Dvalinn time. But in so many ways, this man, who lay dead at Huon’s feet because Huon had been more efficient at killing than he was, was like him.
Huon turned and headed down the stairs to get Tybor. He didn’t have to go far. Tybor was halfway up the steps, clutching the railing, pulling himself up painfully.
Huon growled in exasperation. “I thought I told you to stay downstairs out of sight.”
“Since when do you give me orders, boy?”
“Since you got stabbed and I didn’t.” Huon walked past him, turned and ducked his shoulders under Tybor’s good arm so he supported him. “And you can call me ‘boy’ all you like. It doesn’t bother me anymore and it doesn’t change the fact that right now I am the senior member of this partnership.”
Tybor gave a weak chuckle. “Yeah. I know. But it helps me keep my delusions of power.”
They reached the room, Tybor’s lips tightening when he saw the body lying cold and stiff on the floor.
“Shut the door,” he said as he slumped onto the bed.
Huon reached into his kit and pulled out his pocketknife. “I wondered why they threw one of these in.” He flicked open a screwdriver. “Now I know.” He fiddled with the door lock for a moment. “There. I don’t think it would hold out a determined kitten but at least it gives the illusion of privacy.” His levity faded. “What do we do with him?”
“We dump him in the lagoon. Late tonight you sneak out and borrow a gondola. We weigh him down, take him offshore and dump him.”
Huon nodded. Then he pulled a spare blanket from a drawer to cover the body. Tybor watched him.
“Good move. I don’t want to stare at that for the rest of the day.”
“He’s got something on his belt,” Huon said as he prepared to spread the blanket.
“What is it?” Tybor grunted.
“Some sort of plastic box,” Huon replied. “I bumped it and it gave me a shock.”
“Don’t touch it again,” Tybor muttered, pushing himself to his elbows. “It might be some sort of weapon.”
“More to the point, it might be some sort of signaling device,” Huon replied. “I’m going to put it out of action.”
Huon stood and walked to the tiny bathroom, emerging with a wet towel and some soap and a glass of water. He poured the water over the box on the Gatekeeper’s belt. There was a quiet hiss, then silence.
“Whatever it was, I don’t think it’s working now,” Huon said as he pulled the blanket over the body. “I’m going to see what I can do about removing the worst of the scorch marks.” He pushed open the window. “And get some fresh air to blow away the—” He stopped speaking and his head recoiled. “What is that smell? It’s awful. Worse than anything in here.”
Tybor grinned. “That, my friend, is the smell of the canals of Venice at low tide. The smaller canals dry up to a layer of mud. Stinking mud.”
Huon pulled the window shut. “I’ll take the charring any day.” He looked at the blanket-covered mound on the floor. “No wonder no one came to investigate anything strange. If you could live with that, nothing would bother you.”
Tybor settled back on the bed. “It will go when the tide comes back in.”
Huon looked at him. His color was a little better but there were pinched lines around his mouth and his lips were white.
“You try to get some sleep. I’ll finish up here and go and get us something to eat.” He looked at the floor again. “That is if you think you can eat with him here.”
Tybor didn’t look in the human’s direction. “I need to recover and to do that I need to eat. So do you. If one dead body is the worst we have to cope with we’ll be getting off lightly.” He turned onto his uninjured side. “I need to rest if I’m to help you dispose of the body tonight. Keep watch.”
His breathing changed almost instantly and Huon knew he slept. Huon’s hand stilled on the wall. Tybor trusted him to protect him while his guard was down, to get him food and to organize for the disposal of the human’s body. His trust would not be misplaced. Huon would protect him, whatever it took.
When two hours had passed with no sign of any disturbance—no visitors, no police—Huon let his vigil relax a little. He gathered up some money and hurried out to get food and something to clean up Tybor’s blood and to remove the soot and charring from the walls. His earlier efforts had done nothing more than smear the mess and ruin the towel.
He had a feeling Tybor was going to need lots of fluids and while bottled water would be good, he added fruit juice to his purchases. Bread, olives, cheese and sausage joined them and he threw in some chocolate as well. He wasn’t sure why, it just seemed like a good idea. He passed over the wine. Tybor may have shown a marked preference for the ruby-red Valpolicella but with less blood than usual pulsing through his veins Huon didn’t want to risk coping with a drunken Tybor.
The tide had obviously turned, because the awful stench of earlier in the day had gone to be replaced by the smell of salt water—slightly fishy, slightly oily, but clean and pure compared to the odor of rotten garbage and mud.
He returned to find Tybor awake and they shared the food, Huon making sure Tybor ate more and drank more than he did.
The light in the room faded to evening as they finished the meal. Tybor had not said much other than brief thanks for the food.
Now he pushed away the scraps and turned to face Huon. “The attack today. That would never have happened if I hadn’t come here. Instead of helping you, I’ve put you in more danger.”
Huon frowned. “How? None of this was your fault.”
“Yes. It was. That man knew exactly what I am. I just don’t know how he knew where to find me.”
Huon felt his face heat. He forced himself to meet Tybor’s gaze. “I do. He followed us.”
Tybor’s head snapped up. “How do you know that?”
His cheeks burned even hotter. “When we were walking here from Judie’s this morning I bumped into him. He was so busy staring at you he didn’t see me.”
Tybor blew out a breath of air. “Why didn’t you tell me? Didn’t you think it was unusual for someone to be so interested in me?”
Huon figured he’d burst into flame any minute. “Not really. I mean. Well, look at you. Anyone would be impressed. Judie Scanlon saw you and fell at your feet and I think you’re…”
“You think I’m…what?”
Huon clenched his fists. “You said to ignore it. This thing between us. So I’m not going to tell you I think you’re good looking. Handsome. Beautiful.” The last was said on a soft rush of air and Huon got to his feet, pushing his chair back. “It’s dark. I’m going to steal a gondola.”
Tybor remained seated but a flush stained his skin. “You can’t do it now. It’s passeggiata.”
“What?”
“Evening stroll. The streets will be crowded. You’ll have to wait a couple of hours.”
Yeah, sure, Huon thought. Wait here, in this tiny, one-bed room, pretending he didn’t feel his chest tighten and his pulse quicken every time he looked at Tybor, pretending he hadn’t just admitted how attractive he found the man, pretending he didn’t know that Tybor would never admit to this weakness.
“I’ll wait. But not here. You don’t need me to nursemaid you anymore. I’ll be back when I have the gondola, then we can get rid of this,” he pointed at the blanket, “and I can get back to doing what I was supposed to be doing. You can go home or whatever.”
The last thing he heard as he walked out of the door was Tybor’s voice. “I’m not going home. Not alone.”
* * * * *
Judie Scanlon had to get her mind on her work. Yesterday, Brian Hopewood had been out of town and most of the men who worked there had taken advantage of the break and not come in. When Brian had arrived back in the office at around two p.m. today, he’d thrown her the latest weapon he’d taken for testing and snapped out a report about a malfunction. He expected her to work on it until late, to be there as long a
s it took her to find the problem and fix it.
He’d been his usual curt, distant self. Brian Hopewood never seemed to have any awareness that she was an individual who might have other plans. He expected her to be at his beck and call at all hours. It was one of the reasons her quarters were in the building.
She would have liked to have had other plans for tonight, but neither Ty Borland nor Huon Green had contacted her. She thought that Huon, if left to his own devices, might have wanted to see her again, but he seemed to be influenced by the enigmatic and unpredictable older man. Although Ty had come back and apologized for his abrupt departure, she felt tense and confused, as if she had failed to give him what he wanted, even though he’d made it clear he desired no more than physical release.
Maybe they’d already left Venice. How would she know? She sighed. Even if they had wanted to see her she would have had to put them off for as long as Brian wanted her to work.
She pressed a button and called up a wiring diagram on her computer. Her fingers flew as she dismantled the weapon, constantly comparing the reality with the schematic. Brian had approached her when she’d been doing post-graduate study at a university in Australia and offered her an excellent salary, a chance to travel and the opportunity to work designing advanced electronic devices. The job had been too good to pass up.
Since coming to work for him in Venice, Judie had made a discovery. Brian Hopewood was insane. He believed demons roamed the world, seeking out humans and converting them to the cause of evil. And he spent large amounts of the fortune he’d inherited from his parents, and their parents before them, searching for information about demons, gathering like-minded souls together and making plans to capture and destroy the enemy.
There seemed to be any number of people who, for enough money, would indulge Brian’s obsession, feeding him the information he wanted no matter how ridiculous it seemed. Worse, some of these people actually believed all this rubbish.
Perhaps the most shameful thing of all was that she, knowing now how deluded Brian was, kept on accepting the money he paid her. She took his crazy ideas and rough diagrams and turned them into devices he believed were weapons and traps to capture these demons.