Cliff's Descent

by Dianne Duvall

Quiet fell.

  She held her breath.

  The thunderous racket began anew.

  Swearing, she glanced down at the tank top and pajama shorts she’d donned to see Cliff to the door. In record time, she tugged on yoga pants and a hoodie. Grabbing her cell and the 9mm, she headed into the living room.

  A shadow passed across one of the front windows.

  Sucking in a breath, she ducked back into the hallway and waited.

  When no one busted in the window, she crept over to the back door. A peek out the curtained window showed her the same tranquil meadow she’d seen from her bedroom window. Turning the lock, she eased the door open and slipped outside.

  Another of those quiet pauses struck. Then the noise resumed.

  Try though she might, Emma could not identify what hell was making it… until she headed for the side of the house, eased along it, and peered around the front corner.

  Her eyes widened. Her jaw dropped.

  No longer attempting stealth, she strode onto her front lawn. The dew-covered grass cooled her bare feet as she stopped and stared.

  Tarps covered her lawn and shrubs as a large black form moved up and down and side to side on a ladder so quickly that he blurred. On the left side of the ladder, every millimeter of flaky paint had been removed. On the right, it still looked like crap.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she called.

  The form solidified and spun to face her with a snarl, eyes glowing bright amber.

  Fear sliced through her, driving her to back away a couple of steps and grip the gun tighter.

  As soon as the man saw her, his features smoothed out and his eyes stopped glowing. “Oh. Sorry about that,” he said with a British accent as he offered her a chagrined smile. “You startled me. I didn’t hear your approach over the noise.”

  “Uh-huh.” Was this Bastien? “What the hell are you doing?”

  Leaping down from the ladder, he motioned to the house behind him with a scraper tool. “Melanie mentioned you were scraping old paint off the siding when she arrived. So I thought I would”—he shifted his weight, looking for all intents and purposes like a precocious child who’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t—“swing by and, uh… help?”

  Amusement trickled through her, easing some of the tension in her muscles. Oh yeah. She could definitely see this man using the phrase vagina doctor. “I take it you’re Sebastien Newcombe?”

  Nodding, he strode toward her. “Apologies. Yes, I’m Bastien.” He wiped his dusty, paint-flecked hand on his pants, then offered it to her.

  Emma transferred the 9mm she held to her left hand and shook. “I’m Emma.”

  “Good to meet you, Emma.”

  She motioned to the house. “I know what you’re doing. I just don’t know why. And aren’t you supposed to be sleeping right now? The sun’s up.” Fortunately for him, it would take the sun a couple more hours to climb high enough to top the oak trees that shaded the front of her home.

  He shrugged. “I’m immortal. I don’t need as much sleep as a human or a vampire. I also came early enough to get the work done while your house was still in the shade. And I’m doing it because…” He shrugged. “I love Cliff like a brother. I’ve never seen him as happy as he’s been the past two nights after spending time with you. So I wanted to thank you.”

  “By scraping old paint off my siding?”

  His lips quirked up in a smile. “Well, I’m not really a flowers-and-chocolates kind of guy.”

  She grinned. “That’s okay. I actually appreciate this a lot more. That shit is tedious.”

  He laughed. “Especially when done at mortal speeds?”

  “Absolutely. But next time knock first and let me know it’s you. You scared the bejeebers out of me.” Her eyes widened. “Not that there will be a next time. You really don’t have to do this. Loving Cliff is its own reward. I don’t need any others.”

  His hard features softened. “That almost makes me wish I were of the freely-distributes-hugs sort.”

  Her responding laugh transmogrified into a yawn, catching her unawares. “Sorry about that.”

  He swore. “I woke you up, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  He grimaced. “I forgot that humans who work the day shift often like to sleep in on weekends.”

  She waved away his concern. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You look tired.”

  “Um. Thank you?”

  “Damn it. I’m not supposed to mention things like that, am I?”

  She smiled. “No.”

  “Apparently I’m about as adept at social interaction as Roland Warbrook is.”

  She nearly laughed at the comparison. Roland was notoriously antisocial. And Bastien was often described as having a bit of a fuck-you attitude.

  “I didn’t mean to be impolite,” he said, his deep voice full of contrition. “It just occurred to me that Cliff’s late-night visits might adversely affect your health. Don’t humans need eight hours of sleep?”

  “Ideally yes. But we can get by on less when we have to. I think most adults do get by on less. I got way less than eight hours when I was in college. So don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.”

  “Not if Cliff keeps you up late seven nights a week.”

  If Emma were a morning person and had gotten more sleep the previous night, she most likely would’ve reacted better to the innocuous statement. But crankiness and the fact that her relationship with Cliff was entirely dependent upon other people letting them see each other sparked anger and resentment. “Well, don’t even think about limiting the nights Cliff can see me, Bastien. As long as no one wakes me up at the crack of dawn, I can catch up on my rest on weekends. And if that isn’t enough—”

  He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, one still gripping the scraper. “I wouldn’t do that, Emma. Cliff loves you. And I can see you love him, too. I was simply worried that not getting enough sleep would eventually wear you down and make you ill. Cliff wouldn’t want that. And I wouldn’t either. That’s all.”

  “Oh. Sorry about that.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not really a morning person.”

  “Nor am I,” he said with a smile. “I’d let Cliff have his roaming time and come here before we hunt together so you could go to bed earlier, but…” He hesitated a moment, expression sobering. “He needs the hunts to alleviate the aggression that grips him.”

  Her stomach sank. Swallowing hard, she nodded. “I appreciate your being frank with me about that.”

  “I will always be so when it comes to Cliff,” he vowed, voice softening. “You quiet the voices.”

  “I do.”

  “But he needs to hunt to eradicate the violent impulses that constantly build within him. And I think it best that he do that before he comes to see you. If Cliff ever hurt you—”

  “He won’t.”

  “But if he did, it would kill him.”

  “He won’t hurt me, Bastien. I’m sure of it. And I can sleep late on weekends. If I get too tired during the week, I can always nap after I get home from work.” She shrugged. “And even if I couldn’t do either of those things, I’d still be okay because I’m a gifted one.”

  His eyebrows flew up. “You are?”

  She nodded. “According to the network, I’m the descendent of a healer, so I never get sick. Ever. I’ve never even caught a cold.” She also had a photographic memory that enabled her to remember with crystal clarity everything she’d ever read.

  He stared at her, an almost comical look of horror dawning on his handsome features. “You aren’t a descendent of Roland Warbrook, are you?”

  Emma grinned. “No.”

  Relaxing, he pretended to wipe sweat from his brow. “Whew. That was a close one.” He grinned. “For a moment there I thought I was going to have to start playing nice with the surly bastard.”

  She laughed.

  He jerked a thumb over his sh
oulder. “I’d better get back to work. I want to finish the whole house before the sun tops the trees.”

  “You really don’t have to do that.”

  “I know. But I want to.” He smiled. “I’ll come back on a weekday to sand it and paint it so I won’t keep you from sleeping in again. Just leave the paint on your back porch.”

  Without another word, Bastien turned and strode toward the ladder.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A year passed. One wondrous year illuminated by nights with Emma that Cliff could hardly believe. Though some might mock him for saying it, to him Emma was the light that kept a sea of darkness at bay. Without her, he would have long since drowned in it.

  The voices seemed to grow louder and louder every day. Emma still silenced them. But as soon as he left her, the damn murmurs began anew, swiftly escalating in volume.

  The aggression and violent impulses grew stronger, too, threatening to consume him. To rob him of who he was. But Cliff continued to fight it.

  Most days he won.

  Some days he didn’t.

  He began to have psychotic breaks. Mild ones compared to those Vince had experienced.

  He usually didn’t even know he’d had one—that he’d flown into a rage—until he awoke, afflicted with the telltale lethargy and mental bleariness that resulted from being sedated with the only drug capable of knocking out a vampire or immortal.

  Fear and dread always consumed him in such instances. His stomach would roil, his skin would break out in a cold sweat, and his hands would tremble as he wondered what he’d done. Whom he’d hurt. Or worse, if he’d killed anyone.

  He had not yet slain anyone while in the grips of a psychotic break. But he’d broken bones.

  Shame filled him. He didn’t even remember doing it. But he had injured Stuart once when his friend had struggled to restrain him long enough for Linda to tranq him. And the reprieves that followed the breaks—the quiet after the storm—seemed to shorten with each one he experienced.

  Even now, while Cliff sat on the sofa in his apartment, the voices clamored at him to maim, dismember, and kill. It sickened him.

  “This is not who I am,” he whispered, as if saying it aloud would ensure some part of him would never forget it and would help him defeat the looming madness. “This is not who I am.”

  He should be sleeping. He had only left Emma’s arms a few hours ago. Members of the day shift had just arrived. But the damn voices wouldn’t let him rest.

  Rising, he crossed to the kitchen, opened one of the cabinets, and drew out a box of graham crackers. The top showed a bit of wear from being opened and closed so often but shouldn’t draw undue attention from the network employees who stocked his cupboards. Flipping it up, he dumped out two thick sleeves of long brown crackers and retrieved the cell phone he’d hidden beneath them.

  As soon as he turned it on, Emma smiled up at him from the lock screen.

  Cliff clutched the device like a lifeline as he returned to the sofa and sank down on the cushions. Bastien had never asked him to return the phone he’d given him to use while he roamed alone. The one the network had provided was constantly monitored. But Cliff didn’t think Bastien had told them about this one. So he figured as long as he kept the Wi-Fi and Bluetooth turned off and the cell set to Airplane Mode, Reordon shouldn’t be able to detect it or access anything on it unless he somehow learned of the device and got his hands on it.

  Fortunately, there were no cameras in the vampires’ apartments to clue him in. Bastien had insisted on it and had gotten Seth’s okay.

  Unlocking the screen, Cliff opened the photos app and scrolled through the pictures.

  Most were of Emma. Smiling. Laughing. Teasing. Goofing around. But there were selfies of the two of them as well. And videos. Nothing exciting. Nothing pornographic. Just snippets of everyday, ordinary life that seemed utterly extraordinary to him. The two of them cooking together in her small kitchen. Cliff helping her assemble wooden shelves for her growing home library. Him mowing the lawn for her while she nurtured the pretty flowers in her hanging baskets under the porch’s light. Emma sitting on the floor between Cliff’s knees while he sat on the sofa and carefully combed the tangles from her beautiful hair, oiled her scalp, and tried to fashion yet another intricate braid she’d found online.

  They had discovered during the past year together that tasks that occupied his hands and required him to focus on learning how to do something new helped calm him. So there were quite a few photos of him braiding her hair in increasingly complex patterns, as well as of the two of them putting together five-thousand-piece puzzles while they chatted and listened to music.

  He continued to scroll through the pictures until he came upon the one he sought.

  Emma had taken it. She had caught him laughing, and he looked young and carefree.

  THIS is who you are, she’d written across the bottom.

  He studied it a long moment. That is who I am.

  He swiped to the next photo.

  She’d taken this one as well with one of those extender things that let you take better selfies.

  Emma was perched on his lap. Cliff had wrapped his arms around her and ducked his head to press his cheek to hers. Both were grinning over a joke she’d just cracked.

  And this is who WE are, she’d written.

  He swallowed hard, wanting desperately to believe that would always be true. But he was having a hard time today. The voices were almost deafening. And restless energy constantly plagued him.

  He wished he could call Emma or Facetime her or something. But he couldn’t risk the network picking it up and learning of their relationship. Reordon and Seth were both incredibly protective of gifted ones. There was just no way they would be okay with Emma seeing a psychotic vampire whose tenuous grip on sanity weakened every day.

  Rising, he returned the phone to the box of graham crackers and tucked it back in the cabinet. He needed to find something to get the voices to shut the hell up. If he slept, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. If he slept long enough, then when he woke he would only have to make it through a couple of hours before he went hunting with Bastien and loosed this aggression.

  He fetched his earbuds and plugged them into the cell phone the network had given him. A quick scroll through his playlist and Disturbed began to roar in his ears, blocking out the twenty-four-hour-a-day bustle at network headquarters. Blocking out the voices. But it did little to rid him of the restless energy that soon drove him to pace like a caged tiger.

  He needed a good long run on the treadmill.

  Or maybe he should ask Linda to sedate him. She and Melanie sometimes gave him and Stuart diluted doses of the drug to take the edge off when they could feel the pressure building. He hated the way it made him feel—like his limbs were twice as heavy and his mind full of fog. But he did often sleep better afterward.

  Swearing, he shut off the music, tossed the cell and earbuds on the sofa, and left his apartment. Melanie and Bastien had headed home shortly after he and Bastien returned from hunting. But Linda was still around.

  He gave the guards at the end of the hallway a nod of greeting, then headed into the lab only to find it empty. He checked her office next.

  Empty.

  Maybe she was in the restroom.

  Opting to pound the treadmill until she returned, he headed back out into the hallway.

  The elevator dinged, drawing his attention.

  His lips tightened when Dr. Whetsman emerged and headed toward the lab.

  Kill him! Kill that motherfucker! the voices bellowed. Gut him! Feed him his own fucking entrails!

  Cliff clenched his teeth. His hands curled into fists.

  No way could he be around that bastard today. The treadmill and Linda would have to wait.

  Cliff strode toward his apartment, intent on ignoring the asshole.

  Whetsman’s nervous gaze fastened on him as they approached each other. A bead of sweat tr
ailed down one temple.

  Even that infuriated Cliff.

  Then a scent wafted to him. Linda’s.

  Damn it. Now he’d have to talk to him. “Have you seen Linda?”

  Whetsman’s eyes widened slightly. His pupils shrank as he swiftly looked away and quickened his pace. “No.”

  Cliff’s steps slowed. “Bullshit. I can smell her on you.”

  Another bead of sweat rolled down to join the first. “I passed her when I came in just now. She was on her way out, probably heading home. That must be what you’re smelling.”

  Highly doubtful. Just walking past someone didn’t imbue you with her scent. You had to come into physical contact with her for that to happen.

  Cliff stopped.

  Whetsman scurried past him, eyes averted.

  When he did, the slight breeze he created carried another scent to Cliff’s ultrasensitive nose.

  Blood.

  Linda’s blood.

  Over the years, Cliff had infused himself with blood donated by almost every employee that worked for the network. And even if he hadn’t, Doc Linda had gotten enough paper cuts for him to recognize the scent as hers.

  Alarm struck. Spinning around, he grabbed Whetsman by the arm. “Where is she? What have you done?” he demanded, his voice low and guttural. Too low to carry to the guards down the hallway whose attention, he sensed, sharpened on him.

  Whetsman gaped up at him with terror-filled eyes. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know where she is. Probably out fucking that German immortal who thinks he’s smarter than me.”

  Liar! the voices cried, slavering for action. Kill him!

  “Bullshit,” Cliff snarled. Crowding the man up against the wall, he scanned the white lab coat.

  There. On the cuff of the arm Cliff held. Crimson speckles.

  “Cliff?” Todd called from the end of the hallway. “Everything okay down there?”

  Cliff ignored him and yanked Whetsman’s arm up to sniff the droplets of blood.

  Whetsman’s heart pounded in his chest as he trembled in Cliff’s grasp and watched him touch his tongue to the spots. “What the fuck are you doing? That’s disgusting!”

  “Cliff?” Todd called again.