He doesn’t answer. There is nothing in his world but my neck right now. We make it the ten steps to the trunk. I all but push him into it. He rests on his belly, closing his eyes. I slam the trunk shut. Now what? Think!
I close my eyes, taking deep breaths. He’s just going to keep losing blood unless I get that wound closed. He won’t make it the few hours it will take for Dr. Neill to get here, and I don’t know of any vamp doctors. I’ll have to do it. I so hate my life.
I pull out my cell phone and dial information. Within seconds, I have the address for an all-night pharmacy and peel rubber down the street, pulling into the parking lot five minutes later. Thank you, GPS. The realization that I’m covered in blood hits me when I step inside the store, but I can’t do anything about it now. The place is deserted except for the clerk, and he doesn’t look up from his magazine.
After grabbing a basket, I start going up and down the aisles grabbing items. As a former teacher I’ve had to take first-aid classes, though I’ve never had to put it to use before. I get the essentials: first-aid kit, gauze, gloves, tape, and rubbing alcohol. What he needs is stitches, but of course they don’t sell suture kits here. Instead I get a tube of superglue next to the air fresheners. I pick up a few more items like a packet of XL T-shirts, water, paper towels, and Windex before checking out. When the clerk finally peels himself from an article on Jessica Simpson, he visibly tenses. I do my best to pretend there’s nothing wrong, even though the blood on my shirt drips onto the white tile floor. He glances at my items, then at the blood.
“Are you okay, Miss?” he asks.
“Fine. Hit a deer. In a hurry.” He shakes his head but starts ringing me up. I keep a sweet smile plastered in my face. “Do you by any chance, know a good hotel close by?”
“Um, the Embassy Suites’re nice.”
“And where is that?”
Reluctantly, he gives me directions. I thank him and almost run out of the store without paying. I toss all but the Windex and paper towels into the front of the car. In the back, I proceed to wipe up as much of the blood as I can, scrubbing with all my might. The clerk watches me from the window inside. If I was him, I’d be on the phone to the police the moment a bleeding lady set a foot into his store, but he hasn’t picked up a phone as far as I can see. Maybe the deer story is more plausible than I thought. I just do a quick clean, sweat dripping off my nose, before driving off. It’s still noticeable, but not as severe as before. I can pull into the hotel without someone thinking I’ve had a dying man in the back.
Next step. I root around my bag for the cell phone. Kansas is pre-set one. It rings five times before someone picks up. “Hello?” George asks, still groggy from sleep.
“George, its Bea. Oliver’s been injured. It’s really bad.”
“What happened?” he asks, now awake.
I tell him. “I’m on my way to the Embassy Suites with him, but we have no blood and no coffin. He’s bleeding like crazy.”
“Okay, you need to calm down,” he says as if he should take his own advice. “I’ll rouse the team. They’ll be there in an hour or two. Were you hurt?”
“Not really.”
“Good,” he says, relieved.
“George, I really have no idea what to do here.”
“Just help Oliver anyway you can. We’ll bring everything he needs.”
“Bring some clothes. And weapons. The gang of vamps is definitely in Venus. We should find them soon.”
“Okay. Call when you get to the hotel.”
“I will.” I hang up. One hour, maybe two before we’re rescued. Just need to keep him alive until then.
I pull into the Embassy Suites’ parking lot. It’s a big place, eight stories of brick with a parking lot off to the side. The bored valets stand under the awning and watch as I park my own car. When I turn the engine off, I realize that my bloodstained hands quake. How long have they been doing that? I entwine the sticky fingers to stop them. It seems to work. The shallow breaths help too.
Crap, I’m really caked in blood. Smears run up and down my arms, neck, and cheeks. Marianna’s blood all but geysered over me, so it’s probably in my hair too. Bile rises into my throat again, and I almost can’t stop it from coming out. She … I can’t think about it now. I reach into the plastic shopping bag to retrieve the bottle of water. I pour it on my arms, my face, even my legs wiping as much off with the paper towels as I can. A lot sloughs off, enough not to arouse suspicion. Thank God I wore black tonight. The blood on my clothes is barely noticeable. I pull my coat back on, buttoning it up all the way before I run into the hotel.
The huge lobby is near empty with only the front desk attendant, bellboy, and a chatting couple on the sofa off to the side. The concierge smiles as I power walk over to her. “Good evening,” she says.
“Hello. I don’t have a reservation,” I start. I worked this story out between the pharmacy and here. “Is it possible to get a room for the night? I think my husband has food poisoning, and we won’t be able to make it all the way home tonight.”
“Does he need a doctor?” she asks.
“No. Can we get a room?”
The woman checks the computer. “Of course.”
After paying with the emergency credit card, I sprint back to the car to get the bags. I unzip the duffel, pulling out one of the guns and vamp pepper spray, stuffing them in my purse. I grab Oliver’s jacket and pop the trunk.
His eyes have returned to normal, but some of the veins have resurfaced. “You drive like a madwoman,” he says groggily.
“You have to get up,” I say.
He lifts his right arm up a few inches without help, but I do the rest. I fling his arm over my shoulder again, wrapping my other arm around his back. He groans in pain. My thigh and back muscles feel as if they’re on fire as I hoist him up. We both groan this time. He pushes, and I pull him out of the trunk. “I do not know how much more of this I can take,” he says through the pain.
“Shut up,” I say, out of breath. I prop him up on the bumper. “We’re almost there. Here, put this on.” I reach down and gather my purse, the bags, and his coat. He manages to stand, and I help him on with the coat. But if he doesn’t stop wincing, I’ll cut off his lips.
We stumble like a pair of drunks through the parking lot with me close to carrying him along with the bags. All of his two hundred muscled pounds lies against me like a Roman column. My poor shoulders will be beyond sore tomorrow.
“Is he okay?” one of the valets asks as we pass.
“Food poisoning,” I manage to say.
The bellboy rushes toward us, mouth agape. “Do you need help, ma’am?” he asks. The jerk stops right in front of me. I cease walking. “Should I call a doctor?”
“No. All he needs is a toilet and some sleep,” I say, sidestepping him.
“Sir?” the bellman asks.
“I will be fine. Never eat raw oysters, my son,” Oliver says with a small smile.
This is good enough for him. The bellman gets on the opposite side and puts Oliver’s free arm over his shoulder too. Oliver bites his lower lip to stop the whimpers. The weight is literally lifted off my shoulders by half. We both carry him through the lobby past the stunned people and into the elevator.
“Perfect end to a perfect night, right my love?” Oliver says when the elevator doors close.
I smile at the bellman. “We’ve had worse, pookie.”
The doors open onto the fourth floor, and we haul him down the hallway to room 408. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor, sir?” the bellman asks as I find the room key.
“If I have not improved in an hour, I am sure my wife will phone one,” Oliver says.
Handing Oliver off to the man, I open the door. First I turn on the light. “Let’s get him face down on the bed,” I say, resuming my supportive position. We toss Oliver on the red and gold comforter.
“Is there anything else I can do?” the bellman asks.
“No, I can take it from here,” I
say hustling him out of the room. I do put a twenty in his hand before shutting the door on his face. I lock every lock before spinning around to my patient.
“Nice lad,” Oliver says.
“We have to close that wound ASAP.” I yank off my jacket and kick off my shoes before tossing the contents of the bags onto the bed next to him.
Oliver flips his head to watch me. I open the gauze, superglue, kit, and gloves. “Done this before, have you?” he asks with a weak grin Number Four.
Ignoring him, I move to the other side of the bed with the scissors from the kit in my hand. “I have to cut your shirt off. It may hurt.” He bites his lip when I lift up his arms to remove the coat. The shirt underneath is so drenched in blood it sticks like tape to his torso. Making sure not to touch the wound still weeping blood, I cut the shirt vertically and lay it open, getting the full extent of the damage. Wow. Freddy sliced at least two feet from shoulder to hip. The flesh creases like swollen lips with a gaping gash an inch deep. Every centimeter is bloody.
“This is not how I envisioned the circumstances of you tearing my clothes off.”
I ignore him again. “I need to clean you up or I won’t be able to see what I’m doing,” I say more to myself than him.
I gather the white towels from the bathroom, soaking them in water before returning to my patient. He smiles weakly as I reach him. “Ripping my clothes off and now a sponge bath. It is as if you have been reading my mind.”
“Will you please shut up?” I bark.
He doesn’t utter a word as I delicately wipe over hard muscles and broad shoulders that comprise his back. This is intimate, I know it, but I feel nothing. This must be how doctors do it, shutting off everything but the logical side of their brain. No wonder they’re such jerks. His hands clench when I pat around the wound. When I’m done, the towel resembles a maxi-pad. I toss it to the floor. Now comes the part I’m dreading. I open the superglue and slap on the surgical gloves.
“Superglue?” Oliver asks.
“It was used in Vietnam in combat situations when suturing would take too long or was unavailable.” Thank you, History Channel.
“Fascinating.”
I stare at the wound. Okay. Here goes.
I position my body above his, hands and instruments ready. But I can’t move. I can’t. Shoot. Blood continues to run down his alabaster flesh, slowly draining his life force out, but I still can’t move. My hands tremble again. I am not going to glue pieces of my friend’s flesh together in a room at the Embassy Suites. It’s too surreal. I close my eyes and shake my head. I can’t do this.
“What is the matter?” Oliver asks.
I close my hands into fists then open them again. Just do it. He could die if I don’t. I have no choice. I open my eyes. “Nothing. This will hurt.” Here goes. My hands move this time. I push together the loose edges of his skin and squeeze the glue between them. Oliver winces again, and my gag reflex spikes. I swallow the bile back down. “I think I’m going to be sick. You need to distract me. Talk to me.”
“About what?” he asks through the pain as I move up the next inch.
“I don’t know. Anything. What’s the story with you and the lord of the swords? Who was this Jules chick I was almost killed over?”
“I met them in France close to two hundred fifty years ago. They were residing with my sire, Alain, when I came to visit.”
I move up the wound. “Your sire? The guy who turned you?”
“Yes. He was Frederick’s sire as well.”
I move up again. The cut gets deeper. “So Freddy’s like your brother? And you stole his girlfriend? Classy.”
“It was not that simple. They were together for over a century, and Frederick was … smothering. Where Jules went, who Jules fed upon, Frederick insisted he be involved.”
“And then you came along, offering to take her away from it all.”
“Jules seduced me,” Oliver says as if I’ve offended him.
“Sorry.” I manage another inch, but cannot get an angle to continue. “I’m going to have to straddle your legs,” I say, meeting his bloodshot eyes. “If you make one inappropriate comment, I will glue your eyelids shut when you’re sleeping, got me?”
“I shall do my utmost to control myself,” he says with a faint smile.
With a sigh, I throw my leg over his body, resting my lower half on his legs. I continue gluing. “So you and this chick ran off. How’d she die?”
“We were ill suited together. I was simply a means to an end to escape Freddy. I believe we lasted all of a week before parting ways.”
“Then she died?”
“Vampire hunters. Jules was careless one too many times. Captured, and then left outside to burn in the sun. A horrible way to die.”
“And Freddy’s carried a grudge this whole time? He must have really loved her.”
“Or as close as he is capable of.”
I’m halfway done, thank God. I wipe the sweat off my forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?”
“I had hoped it would remain irrelevant. We would arrive, dispatch the gang, and leave without issue.”
“I guess Marianna ruined that,” I mutter.
“Yes, I suppose she did. We will no doubt make her regret it.”
“I already did,” I say to myself.
Oliver’s torso moves as he pushes himself onto his elbows a few inches, twisting to look at me. “You went back to the Dauphine?” he groans.
“What the heck are you doing? Don’t move like that! The glue hasn’t dried.”
“Why did you return?”
“Lie back down or finish the job yourself. Lie down!” He does as I say. Shaking my head, I move up the cut. “I went back because you needed blood, and I didn’t know where else to go.”
“That was the second most idiotic thing you did tonight.”
“And what? Me saving your life was number one?”
“Yes.”
Before I can stop myself, I smack the back of his head. “How can you say that?”
“You nulled the contract. By law he is now able to do whatever he desires to us.”
“Well, excuse me for not wanting to see that hobbit decapitate you. Ungrateful much?” I pinch the next inch of skin as hard as I can and glue. “Besides, everyone is on their way. We should be gone by tomorrow.”
“If Marianna and Frederick do not have their spies out in full force.”
I pinch more gently this time. “We don’t have to worry about Marianna.” I finish the last bit over his shoulder and sit beside him. The glue holds, but blood weeps from one or two gaps. I blot them with the washcloth and pull off the gloves. “Keep still while the glue dries.”
Everything after that is gravy. I put gauze over the red line and tape it up. The wound on his arm isn’t that deep, so I just put butterfly band-aids on it and gauze it up too. “Excellent job, Nurse Alexander,” Oliver says.
“Will it heal?” I ask, putting on the last piece of tape.
“It depends on my blood consumption, but it should.”
“Good.” I stand up, taking the packet of shirts with me. Oliver watches as I put them in the bathroom. Next I go to my purse and take out the cell phone. I hand it and the TV remote to him. “I need to take a shower. Don’t move until I get out. And call George. Tell him the address and room number,” I say, pointing to a small pad of stationery bearing the hotel’s logo and information on the nightstand.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says as he takes the gadgets.
Once again I find myself literally peeling off my clothes. I wish it was only sweat this time. From now on, I will associate Dallas with bodily fluids. I can’t wait to get back to Kansas. I step into the warm shower and start scrubbing myself like a person with OCD who just stuck their hand into a vat of toxic waste. The water at my feet is as red as the soap in my hand. For five minutes straight, I scour and wipe until the water turns pink. I wash and conditioner my hair until the bottles are empty. I know I’m cle
an, but I feel the stickiness still on me like a phantom limb. I want to stay in this shower forever, but know I can’t. He’s not out of the woods yet. Despite his ribald front, Oliver still needs blood and fast. It must be sheer will and determination that’s keeping him from lunging at my neck to chow down. I’ve gone this far, gotta finish the trip. I shut off the water and step out.
The white shirt I bought barely goes past my hips, revealing my not so long legs and cellulite. Having no choice, which is the story of my life, I rinse out and put back on my slightly bloodstained panties. Within seconds, my nipples stick out like erasers. At this moment, I regret both not taking my clothes from the Dauphine and ever setting foot inside a McDonald’s.
Oliver says nothing as I return. His eyes are closed again.
“Oliver?” I ask, rushing over to him.
His eyes open. “What?”
I sigh. “Nothing. How do you feel?”
“My back itches. It is healing.”
I look. The gauze is soaked in blood in places. “You’re still bleeding.”
“I know. It is fine. Can you help me move? This is not a comfortable position.”
“Fine.” I grab his feet, spinning them so they’re dangling over the side. He does his best to sit up on his own but fails. He’s still weak. I carefully throw his arm over my already sore shoulders and lift. We make it three steps before his legs give out. It’s been a rough couple of days and my energy level is at negative three. I can’t handle the dead weight. We both buckle to the ground, him on top of me.
“Shoot,” I mutter.
“I apologize,” he says. I wriggle out from under his body and he lands on his stomach. “Perhaps I should remain here. I do not wish to move farther.”
“Are you going to be able to last two hours without blood? Honestly?”
He can’t even lift his head to look at me. “I do not know.”
That’s a no. Crap. I don’t want to do this, but I know I have to. It is sort of the theme of my life. “You need to feed from me.”
To Catch a Vampire Page 18