Rose let out a shaky breath. “I thought…all that blood…”
Kay turned to her, her smile soft and warm. “I know, honey. But you did real good.”
Her eyes burned.
“Nope, no waterworks yet,” Kay said, not unkindly. “We need to move him. That old futon in the pink parlor’s on castors.”
It was, and it wasn’t hard for the two of them to wheel it down the hall and into the kitchen. Rose called on her last reserves of energy, suspecting Kay did the same, and together they laid the futon out flat and made it up with fresh sheets and blankets. Moved all the chairs and maneuvered it in close to the table; locked the wheels and, somehow, slowly, managed to shift Beck over onto it. Gravity helped – the futon was lower – and with Kay cradling his head, and Rose moving his legs, they didn’t jostle him too badly.
Rose helped get his boots and pants off, too tired and worried to spare much thought for the tight black boxer-briefs he wore underneath. Blood had seeped through his jeans and stained his legs, and Rose cleaned it off with a damp towel while Kay stacked two pillows beneath his head.
They built a fire in the kitchen hearth, wheeled the futon close and locked the wheels again. They covered him in blankets, and Kay gave him both a steroid and antibiotic shot. They cleaned up the makeshift operating table, set the med kit to rights.
Now it was just a matter of waiting and hoping and praying.
Beck’s hair had dried in soft, tawny curls. The firelight picked out the golden threads against the warm honey brown; danced down the sharp blade of his nose, and the stretch of his throat. Rose watched the rise and fall of his chest; every so often, it would look like he stopped breathing, but then she’d blink and see that the sheet was in fact still lifting and falling.
“Here, honey.” Kay appeared at her elbow, streaming mug held out in offering.
Rose wondered how long she’d been standing like this, in a daze; she hadn’t heard Kay making tea.
“Thanks.” She took a sip, shocked to feel a burn in her throat that was only partly temperature-related.
“Bourbon,” Kay explained. “You’re as pale as him. Sit down before you fall.”
An excellent idea.
They dragged two chairs over closer to Beck, where the heat of the fire could reach them, and Rose was afraid, after she’d settled into it, that she wouldn’t be able to get back up again. The room spun.
“Drink,” Kay said. “It’ll help.”
She drank, and it did help.
God, if she felt this awful, how must Kay be holding up?
A glance revealed that Kay had lit a cigarette and was working on it steadily, slouched back in her chair. Her body seemed to sag with fatigue, but her gaze was still sharp, contemplative.
A drink and a smoke. Like Beck. After.
Rose took another sip of her own bourbon-laced tea. It was warming her, easing the shaking and tension. Loosening her tongue, too. She felt less cautious; downright reckless. “Who did this to him?”
She expected another tense, calculating stare-down like they’d had that day in Beck’s room. But Kay exhaled a plume of smoke and said, simply, “Some of Castor’s people, I expect. He hunts more than that, but if there were seven, and they got the better of him, I’d put that down to Castor’s goons for sure.”
“Anthony Castor? The mafia boss?”
“One and the same. His guys are like bowling pins. Knock a few down, and more of ‘em get set up in their place.”
“Is that where he goes at night? Does he go looking for them?”
“Them, usually. Sometimes others.”
“Why?” Rose asked, though she already knew.
Kay turned toward her, wry smirk twisting her lips. “Don’t play stupid, honey. It’s not a good look on anyone.”
Rose sipped more tea. She’d known from the first what Beck was. She’d learned that he loved to read, that he craved knowledge, some of it obscure and useless, but infinitely pleasing to him. That he liked to cook and was good at it. That he could walk into Steinman’s and buy an obscene amount of everything with his black credit card. Had learned that his laughter started somewhere in his chest, but faded on the way up, only the softest, breathiest little chuckles by the time they left his lips.
She’d learned that she loved him fiercely.
That he liked – no, needed – a smoke and a drink after.
After he went killing.
Beck was a killer.
She’d known it all along, from the first moment, when he’d killed Tabitha and pulled her out of the pie safe. An un-addressed truth that she never examined too closely.
She examined it now; dragged it out into the light and cradled it in her palms, the way she’d cradled his wound, his blood pulsing against her fingers. That night in the library, the feral gleam in his eyes – the dark smudges on his hands had been blood. Because he’d just killed someone. Or several someones.
“No,” she said, slowly, “I meant: why Castor’s people specifically?”
The question earned her an eyebrow jump of surprise. “Hmm. I think I’ll let him tell you that later. They’re his reasons; he should be the one to share them.”
Rose nodded. “Fair enough.”
Kay snorted, mouth tugging in a sideways grin. “You’re full of surprises tonight, huh?”
Rose didn’t know how to answer, so she didn’t. Turned instead to watch over Beck again.
His head had rolled toward them, and a notch had formed between his furrowed brows. His lips moved on a low murmur too garbled and soft to make out.
“He won’t be good and awake for a while,” Kay said. “But he tends to fight the sedation on his way back to the surface.”
“This has happened before?”
“Me patching him up? Yeah, a few times. More than I’d like. Never had to put a whole hand inside his stomach before, but, hey, nothing I haven’t seen in the past.”
“Were you a doctor?”
“Close enough.”
Beck’s hand twitched on top of the blankets, opening and closing. “…can’t…” he murmured on a deep exhale, and then a quiet sound of pain.
Rose set her empty mug on the floor and got to her feet. Everything hurt, and fatigue dragged at her, but she didn’t hurt like Beck did; wasn’t as tired as he must be.
“Can he hear us if we talk to him?” she asked, crossing to the makeshift bed. Up close, she could see a fine glazing of sweat on his brow, and she smoothed it away with her sleeve without thinking. He chased the touch, turning his head to follow the movement. She lay the backs of her fingers against his cheek. He still felt colder than he should.
“Probably. Sometimes he tells me he remembers the songs I sing when I putter around his sickbed. But I think it’s fuzzy. Nothing distinct, you know.”
She found that to be a relief: he wouldn’t know how badly she trembled, how broken-up and needy she must look, as she laid her palm on his forehead, smoothed his hair back. Gentle strokes, like petting a cat, marveling at the silky-softness of his hair. She’d never touched it before, but she’d dreamed of it sliding through her fingers.
Not like this, though. Never like this, with him unconscious, and wounded, and his skin already beading with the sweat of fever.
“Please get better,” she whispered. “Please don’t go.”
His eyelids fluttered, dry lips parting again. She swore he looked at her – that he saw her, eyes bright with recognition – but then they fluttered closed and he slipped back beneath the surface once more.
She heard Kay stand up behind her with a groan, and shuffle up to stand beside her. But Rose didn’t stop petting his hair; smoothed a thumb along one graceful eyebrow. She wasn’t going to shrink back beneath anyone’s scrutiny, not even Kay’s, not even if she disapproved.
But Kay only sighed. “I guess it’s no use telling you to go to bed.”
Rose shook her head.
“Well. I’ll pull your chair over here. At least sit down a bit.”
Kay sighed again. “I’m gonna go lie down for a while in the parlor. Come get me if he needs anything. He can have more pain meds at noon.”
“Okay.” A glance at the clock proved that day would break soon, such as it was. She didn’t hear sleet hitting the windows anymore, so that was at least something.
Kay added another log to the fire, and shuffled from the room.
Rose stroked Beck’s long thumb with her own, again and again, until the edge of the bed rushed up to meet her face, and sleep took her.
NINE
She dreamed of blood. Streams of it. Rivers. Lakes. It rushed in a tide across a field of black, swirling around her ankles, lapping up her thighs, warm and velvety when she trailed her fingertips through it. The moon shone overhead, and she lifted her hand to it, watching the way it gleamed like glass on black blood that ran down over her knuckles and the delicate bones of her wrist.
Stars wheeled overhead, bright pinpricks that pulsed and glowed. A clear night – wildly clear. She couldn’t remember seeing the stars outside of photos and videos. Hadn’t known how dazzling they were in person.
The blood tide rose, at her thighs, at her hips. Circling warm around her waist like a hug, a snug embrace.
But, no, it was an embrace. Two strong arms; when she glanced down, she saw two elegant, long-fingered hands, slick and dark with blood, but gentle against her stomach. Warm breath rushed in her ear, and Beck’s silken voice. “Can you believe how much there is? It’s a marvel: how much blood there is in the human body. There’s nothing quite like watching it all come pouring out.”
The tide rose again, and Beck held her face.
“Stay here with me, Rose. I want to show you something.”
Overhead, a star flickered, and swelled – and flashed. A jagged white bolt appeared in the sky, rent it in two. A tear like a ripping of fabric. A rift.
The stars screamed.
And the blood closed over their heads, and dragged them down into the dark, dark deep.
~*~
She woke with a start. She was too warm, and her neck crackled with sharp pain when she lifted her head, but she registered light – sunlight, though faint, falling in through the open curtains. The fire crackled, and she smelled bacon, and Beck was awake.
Mostly.
“Beck,” she gasped. She had sleep in her eyes, and her mouth was paper-dry, and she ached from sleeping upright in a hard kitchen chair, but none of that mattered because his honey eyes were open, and pinned on her.
She blinked her eyes clear, and noticed that his were glassy – from pain, or meds, or fever, or all three.
She also noticed that she was still holding his hand – though she’d thankfully let go of his hair. (She had a vivid mental image of Kay prying her fingers loose from it while she slept, and couldn’t fault the woman for it.)
She couldn’t resist touching it – touching him – again. Just one hand wasn’t enough, not after she’d thought he would die; after she’d dreamed of a great tide of blood closing over them. “Beck.” She felt his forehead – alarmingly hot and dry – and smoothed his hair back the way she had last night. And like last night, he shifted into the touch; there was no mistaking the way he chased her palm, though weakly. “How are you? Do you need anything? How’s the pain?”
He stared at her a long, unblinking moment, then closed his eyes, and smiled a wide, sweet smile she’d never seen before. It held none of his usual wry amusement, or soft encouragement, nor the feral gleam she’d glimpsed only twice now. This was utterly unselfconscious and…dopey.
“Rose.” His eyes opened again, his pupils over-large. “Sweet Rosie. Always worrying about me.” His voice was low, and dreamy; not slurred, but delivering the words with a blurry indifference. “Isn’t Rosie sweet, Kay?”
“Uh-huh.” Kay appeared, and shoved a plate of bacon and toast under Rose’s nose. It was either take it or let hot bacon slide off onto Beck. “Real sweet.” She was smoking, and still had her hair in curlers. To Rose: “He’s high off his ass. Don’t listen to a single thing he says.”
“Aw. Kay.” He pouted – actually pouted. “No, I’m not.”
Kay patted his cheek. “Tell that to the morphine, handsome.”
He stuck his tongue out at her as she returned to the stove.
Rose sat holding her plate, dumbstruck. She couldn’t decide which was more earth-shattering: seeing him like this, so unlike himself, or hearing him call her Rosie.
Both, she decided.
“How is he?” she asked.
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not…” Beck yawned hugely. “Here.” And then promptly fell asleep with his mouth open.
Kay snorted. “Like I said. High off his ass.” She returned with a plate of her own and dropped into the chair beside Rose’s, still in position from last night.
“How is he really, though?”
“Eat and I’ll tell you.”
The toast was a little burned, and Rose was more than a little queasy, but the first bite proved she was starving, too.
“I already changed the bandages,” Kay said, “and there wasn’t any bleeding, which was good – though that’ll change the first time he insists on getting up. I imagine he’ll want to sleep in his own bed tonight, and I don’t blame him. He’s got a slight fever, but it’s not bad yet. I’m pumping him full of antibiotics, so. Fingers crossed.” She took a bite of bacon and exhaled, shoulders slumping. She looked as exhausted as Rose felt, even if her gaze was sharp as ever.
“What time is it?”
“Just after three.”
“In the afternoon?” Rose’s toast turned over in her stomach. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late.”
“You needed it.”
Rose stared at her.
“I may be old and tired, yeah, but you were a bundle of nerves last night. It was a shock, seeing him like that. The adrenaline crash wears you out worse than anything in situations like those.”
Still, Rose felt guilty. “Did you sleep at all?”
“A little.” Tone evasive.
“After we eat, I’ll wash up and sit with him a while so you can take a nap.”
“Oh, you will, will you?” When Rose refused to glance away, face schooled to what she hoped was a firm expression, Kay shrugged and said, “What the hell. Who am I to turn down a nap? Just come get me if starts thrashing around or anything.”
Rose was drying the dishes when she heard the sheets rustle, and Beck let out a croaky, “Rose?”
She felt a brief, sharp flicker of gladness to know that the first one he’d called for when he woke was her. Even if he was drugged and it didn’t count.
Or maybe it counted more. Maybe the drugs had stripped him of all his inhibitions, and she really was the one he thought of first, and wanted first.
She wiped her hands quickly and went to his bedside. “Are you alright? Can I get you something?” Kay had said he would need to be on a strict diet, nothing but liquids and a few soft foods. There was a second fridge in the garage; she’d spotted it the day they’d gone shopping, and Kay had said it was full of sports drinks, among other “essentials.” “There’s some Gatorade…”
But Beck was shaking his head. Slowly, sloppily, hair rustling on the pillows. He swallowed afterward, blinking. Dizzy, she thought, just from that simple movement.
“You need to rehydrate,” she prompted, gently. “You lost a lot of blood.”
He closed his eyes. His throat moved as he swallowed, and it looked painful and dry. But he said, “No.” Said, “I want you.” And opened his eyes again, low-lidded, and golden, and glassy, but trained on her face, and only on her face. They didn’t waver.
It shouldn’t have, given that he was lying down, and high on morphine, and wounded, and pathetic, really, but the force of his gaze hit her like a s
hove, right against her breastbone. How could he do that? How could he project such weight and meaning, even like this? Just looking at her. Other people didn’t speak with their eyes this way, not like he did. She’d never felt anything remotely like this before.
And he wasn’t pathetic at all, really, was he; even weak and vulnerable and wounded, there was no mistaking the lean, muscled shape of him beneath the blankets; a big cat at rest, a lion in the tall grass, waiting, watching her, of all people.
She sucked in a breath. “I’m here.”
He made a face she would have laughed at in another moment; a displeased, crumpled-up expression he would never have worn ordinarily. “No. I want you.” He lifted an unsteady hand and pointed at her.
Despite all her worry for him, she couldn’t help but crack a smile. “But I’m right here.”
He crooked the finger. “Here.”
She rested a hand on the edge of the futon and leaned in closer. When she did, her necklace – the crown he’d bought her at Steinman’s – slipped out of her shirt and swung forward, catching the light.
And his attention. His gaze shifted to it, and he reached to cup it in his palm. She could feel the heat of his hand up close to her throat like this; felt the fever in him. It should have heightened her worry – and it did – but it sent goosebumps rippling down her back, too.
“Beck,” she prompted.
He was smiling again, wide and free. “I picked this out special just for you.”
“I know. I was there, remember?”
“I saw the crown and I wanted you to have it. You know why?”
He hadn’t pulled on the chain, but she found herself leaning in closer. She should tell him to stop talking; he would never be this candid if not for the morphine, and this was like an invasion of privacy. But she said, “Why?”
His smile widened an impossible fraction, teeth gleaming. “Every king needs his queen, doesn’t he?” He rasped a laugh. “And I knew – I knew the minute I saw you – that you were just like me.”
King Among the Dead (Hell Theory Book 1) Page 8