Rose moved the basket over to the counter and got started.
“Did you stay up all night?” Kay asked.
“Yes.” A huge, spontaneous yawn proved her point.
Rose expected another dig of some sort, a chiding remark about needing to keep her strength up. But instead, Kay paused a moment, and then said, “Did he wake up at all?”
“Once. Right after you left.” Her skin prickled at the memory. “He was pretty out of it, but he…”
“He what?”
She debated sharing, but finally decided that Kay already knew more about Beck than she herself did. And she was curious. “He was upset. More upset than I’ve ever seen him.”
“Delirium will do that to a person.”
“He was fighting Castor’s people, I think. He said his name.”
“I thought so.”
“He said they had a conduit,” Rose said, as mildly as she could manage, wondering what sort of reaction she’d get.
Kay froze, the edges of a sheet held up at eye level. A heartbeat passed; two. Then she resumed folding as if nothing had happened. Voice deceptively casual: “There haven’t been any conduits around in years. Not since before you were born.”
“None?”
“Nope.”
“But we can’t know there haven’t been.”
Kay gave a hollow chuckle. “What, you hoping there are?”
“No.” She’d seen the documentaries in school, and heard stories – probably warped and inflated after passing through so many tellers. “He must have been having a nightmare.”
“Or a flashback,” Kay muttered.
“He saw one? In person?”
“Yes.” She didn’t offer any further explanation, stowing her folded sheet and reaching for another.
Rose didn’t press; she could feel a new tension radiating off her, a worry, and, even, a fear.
After a few minutes of silence, Kay let out a breath. “Whew, this is killing my back. Come on and we’ll take this into the parlor to fold.”
“That’s a good idea.”
It was. The couch was deep, and comfy, and Kay put on one of her favorite talk shows – today the host was doling out paternity test results while the audience cheered and booed. Probably chairs would be brandished like weapons at some point.
Rose folded towels, and her eyelids started to flag. One more, she thought, fitting two corners together, fighting a yawn.
She woke with a start, frustrated with herself – and grudgingly had to hand it to Kay. She’d planned this, surely.
Rose lay on her side, feet drawn up onto the sofa, a blanket draped over her. The clean laundry and the baskets were gone; the TV still played, an old movie with the volume turned way down low. The lamps were on, and the window was dark; she could hear the rain, and a distant rumble of thunder. She’d been asleep for hours, obviously, and though she felt an instant jump of worry for Beck, and a sense that she’d abandoned him or missed something, she did feel refreshed. The sleep had been necessary and restorative.
She stretched her back with satisfying pops, and went to find Kay and see if she could help with dinner.
The kitchen was cold, though, the lamps turned down.
A quick check of the first floor proved that Kay wasn’t anywhere to be found, so she went upstairs.
Halfway down the hall, she heard the low murmur of voices coming from beyond Beck’s cracked-open door. She started to hurry – but paused. Considered. Eavesdropping was a rotten thing to do. But…
She tiptoed the rest of the way down the carpet runner, not making a sound, and stopped a foot shy of the door, straining to listen.
“…seeing things,” Kay was saying, her voice heavy in a way that Rose had never heard it. Full of palpable dread. “There’s no way…there can’t be…”
“I know what I saw, Kay,” Beck said. Voice still rough and hoarse from lack of use, but his tone firm. Lucid.
“You said you were fighting seven guys. How can you be sure of anything? You probably got whacked on the head. And you’ve been in and out of fever dreams for days.”
“You’re saying I dreamed this?” Something about the question sent chills skating up Rose’s back.
“No,” Kay said, after a moment. She sounded almost meek. Frightened. “But I don’t want it to be true.”
“Neither do I.” He sounded resigned. “But there was no mistaking it. It was a young man. Not a good bond; acting erratic, slurring its speech.”
“Is that normal?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been witness to a wide enough sample.”
Kay blew out a hard breath. “What’re are we gonna do?”
“We are going to keep on as we have been. I’ll handle the conduit.”
“Oh, like you did tonight?”
“Nothing like tonight will happen again. I’ll be ready next time.”
Kay snorted.
“This isn’t up for discussion.”
“Fine.” The bed springs squeaked – she’d been sitting on the edge and got up, now – and then her slippers moved across the floor. “Do you still want a bath?” she snapped.
“Yes.” His voice was softer, now. Gentle. “Please. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Trouble,” Kay said with a harrumph. A moment later, Rose heard the sound of the taps cutting on in the bathroom.
The smart thing, she reasoned, would be to retreat back down the hall and pretend she’d never heard the exchange. But, she found, though she could handle pretending, she didn’t want to retreat. She wanted to see Beck. So she counted to thirty, and then walked up and knocked on the partially-open door.
“Is that Rose? Come in.”
He was sitting upright in bed, shoulders sagging with fatigue, face drawn and pale, still, but clear-eyed, the most alert she’d seen him. His grave expression smoothed to something tightly pleasant as she walked toward the bed.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
Her pulse skipped. “You look better.”
“That’s kind, but I’m sure I look like hell.” He pushed his hair back with one hand, smile tight and self-conscious. His hair was greasy, and he had three days of stubble shadowing his jaw, and he’d lost weight, and his skin was dull, but he looked wonderful to Rose. Alive was the most beautiful thing of all.
“No,” she assured. “Just tired.”
He snorted, softly. “The worst part is, I think you mean that.” He glanced up through his lashes, oddly bashful, terribly endearing.
She wanted to – do things she shouldn’t. She knotted her fingers together in front of her, and contented herself with the sight of him, instead.
The taps shut off in the bathroom, and Kay came out, sparing only a quick eyebrow shrug of surprise at seeing Rose standing by the bed. “I only filled the tub a few inches. You can’t get your stiches wet.”
“A few inches is better than nothing,” Beck said, and twisted around so he could push back the covers and swing his legs over the side of the bed. He did it with bared teeth, and quiet little hisses of pain, stomach sucked in sharply, all the muscles thrown into harsh relief. Braced his hands on the mattress on either side of him afterward, toes hovering just above the carpet. Gathering himself, preparing for the effort.
“Might as well come help me with him while you’re here,” Kay said to Rose, and both of them moved into position, bracketing him.
“I can hear you, you know,” Beck grumbled, tone flat. “And I’m sure I can manage.”
His draped his arms across their shoulders, though, and let them help him upright and across the floor. His arm was a normal temperature, Rose was thrilled to note – she was thrilled by the brush of his skin against hers, too, and hoped he couldn’t feel the way her hand tightened on his wrist.
He was weak, but not in the stumbling, semi-conscious way that he’d been before. In the bathtub, the promised few inches of water steamed. Kay had laid out a towel, a cake of soap, and a washcloth. They walked Beck up to the edge of it, a
nd Rose became aware, again, of the tight, black boxer-briefs…and the fact that he would need to strip them off in order to climb into the tub.
“Um…” she started. It wasn’t that she was afraid for him to take them off – quite the opposite – but she was going to blush a lot, and he would see it, and remark on it, and he would just be there, naked, and…
He breathed a soft laugh. “Thank you, ladies, but I can navigate the rest by myself.”
Rose blushed, furiously, as she detached herself from beneath his arm.
Kay, in typical fashion, said, “Good, ‘cause I ain’t giving you a sponge bath, your lordship.”
Rose held onto his arm another moment, until she was sure that he had his feet firmly planted and wasn’t wavering. He glanced over his shoulder as he hooked a thumb in his waistband, and winked, and it should have been absolutely lewd, but his little smile softened it. As did the sincerity in his voice when he said, “Thank you, Rose. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t get those stitches wet,” Kay admonished.
“So you said moments ago.”
They left him alone, the door firmly shut.
“Quick and we’ll remake the bed while he’s in there,” Kay said. “Nothing like getting clean and climbing back into a dirty sick bed.”
Rose lingered a moment, outside the closed door; listened to the gentle sounds of disturbed water, a hiss, a few deep breaths, and then the displacement as Beck settled in the tub. Her face felt on fire. Her palms itched. She felt like she did when she was in the middle of reading a passionate love scene – only everything was heightened by the knowledge that Beck was real.
“Don’t just stand there,” Kay said, and she went to help.
ELEVEN
Beck showed marked improvement over the next several days. He could navigate his bedroom and bathroom without assistance, and Kay allowed that the bandages could come off, and the stiches allowed some air. He insisted on coming downstairs to eat in the kitchen, a slow process that left him pale and out of breath, but they refused to allow him to cook. He sat on Kay’s usual stool and offered suggestions while Kay and Rose prepared soft, easily-palatable dishes, and tried to keep him from sneaking bites of things he wasn’t yet allowed to eat.
He paced the length of the first floor hallway, building up his strength despite their cautions and admonishments. He would sigh, and thank them, and try to disguise whatever frustrations he felt – and shoot Rose winks when Kay wasn’t looking.
Finally, the stitches came out, and that night at dinner, over a meatless shepherd’s pie that Beck had tried to get them to at least put chicken in, he turned to Rose and said, “I think we should resume our lessons tomorrow.”
She’d smiled instantly; beamed. She’d missed their lessons. But then said, “If you’re sure…”
He waved away her concern. “I’m more than ready; I’m going stir-crazy, and you must want something to contemplate besides matching my socks when they come out of the dryer.”
She went to bed with a lighter, fluttery feeling of happiness in her chest, hopeful and eager.
And woke sometime later to the sound of a loud crash from downstairs.
She startled upright in bed, heart thumping wildly, listening. Maybe it had been a nightmare, a trick of her imagination. But it wasn’t raining tonight, the air outside eerily still, and there was no mistaking the next crash: the sound of the front door splintering open.
She was on her feet before she could acknowledge that she had no idea what she was going to do. Weaponless, clad in a t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, she had no means with which to attack an intruder. But her first thought was for Beck: still healing, still vulnerable, possibly still asleep. She had to warn him; and she’d protect him, too, if it came to that, even if she didn’t know how. She had a visceral urge to put her body between him and whatever threat had entered their home.
She stumbled out into the hall – and into a warm, solid body.
A hand clapped over her mouth before she could scream. A face pressed in close to hers, breath warm across her cheeks, eyes brass and gold in the faint moonlight that spilled from her room. Beck. She recognized his smell; the calluses on his palm against her lips.
“Shh.” He lifted his other hand, and she saw the glint of the knife he held. “Stay here, Rosie.” He pulled his hand away and slipped on silent feet to the head of the stairs.
He stood there a moment, head cocked, listening, his lean form a black silhouette poised for action, hair moving silently as he breathed.
Then he gripped the bannister, and vaulted over it.
Rose choked on a gasp as she watched him plummet down into darkness. She wanted to yell, wanted to warn him, beg him, too late, not to do such a thing.
It was silent one terrible moment – and then she heard a thud, and a shout. A scuffle. Something hit the hardwood floor of the foyer, and something hissed, and yelled, and gurgled…and was silent.
Rose went to the head of the stairs, gripped the bannister where Beck had, and peered over the edge.
The front door stood wide, and moonlight fell in a long panel down the foyer, enough glow to make out a crumpled man on the floor – and, thankfully, Beck standing over him, the blade of his knife gleaming darkly now, coated in blood.
He tipped his head back and met her gaze. She saw a muscle in his cheek twitch as his jaw clenched. “Rosie.”
A sound farther down the hall caught his attention; he straightened and stalked forward, out of sight, moving toward the sound – toward the danger.
Rose took a deep breath and hurried down the stairs, bare feet quick and silent on the carpet. Her pulse pounded; this was a bad idea, reckless and against his wishes. But she had to follow him; had to. She couldn’t explain it. She was afraid – stomach churning with fear – but it was a fear that drew her along in his wake.
She paused to look at the dead man, toes just shy of the spreading puddle of blood. He wasn’t fully dead yet, she realized; his mouth still moved, a silent opening and closing, though his face was stark white, and the veins stood out in his temples. Beck had cut his throat, deep enough she glimpsed bone in the wide, glistening red gash that bisected his windpipe.
She’d glimpsed Beck’s insides when Kay patched him up, and that had been a terror. This seemed right somehow. It was right that a man who’d tried to hide in the shadows of their home should be laid bare, with nothing of his own left to hide, not even the vessels and sinews of his throat.
His gaze fixed on her, pleading, frightened. And then it dimmed. He stilled. She watched him die. Watched the last bit of life faded out of him.
Then she hurried after Beck.
When she reached the kitchen, it was full of the muffled thumps and grunts of close fighting. The back door stood open, moonlight framing two tussling silhouettes. She knew Beck’s straight off; saw the glint of his blood-slick knife. His opponent was larger than him, and undoubtedly less injured, but as she watched, Beck got back a step, and spun; brought his leg up in a lightning-fast arc and kicked the man in the chest. He staggered back with a rush of breath.
Rose took a step into the room, knowing she shouldn’t, that it was foolish, that she wasn’t equipped. But Beck was only just now feeling more like himself, and she was worried for him, and wanted to help, and–
A hand gripped her arm, and yanked her deeper into the room.
She shouted with surprise. There was another man – of course there was – unseen, lurking in the shadow of the counter, and while she’d been watching Beck fight, he’d snuck up on her. Dragged her now across the room, his other hand grabbing at her front, trying to get a grip on her shirt and subdue her more firmly.
She was determined not to make it easy for him.
She kicked, and felt it connect; she thought she hit his torso somewhere, based on the solid meatiness of the mass her bare toes glanced against, but he grunted. Pain, maybe surprise. She kicked again. Raked the back of his hand with her nails. Thrashed.
“Yo
u little shit,” he grumbled, and slammed her up against the counter. The edge bit into her hips, and he pressed in close behind her, pinning her in; she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck; felt a low laugh vibrate through his chest. He took hold of her other arm, and she was caught. At his mercy.
Panic left her heart beating wildly; squeezed her lungs.
But right there in front of her, at eye level, a gleam of metal. Bright, clean, sharp-edged. The magnetic strip, and all of Beck’s lovingly-sharpened kitchen knives.
The man leaned in close, his breath rustling her hair.
Rose gathered herself – and slammed her head back. Pain moved through her skull in a shockwave, but she heard the crunch of bone breaking, heard his garbled yell of pain; felt the hot wetness of blood against her neck, sliding down her spine. She dropped like a stone, fast and hard, and his grip had gone loose, and she twisted her arms out of it.
He roared, and grabbed for her, but she was quicker than him, and didn’t have a freshly-broken nose bleeding down into her mouth. She dodged, and sprang back upright. Snatched a knife off the strip.
He took hold of her arm again, and spun her toward him.
When she turned, she led with the knife. He was a big man, fleshy, and she drove it in like she would throw a punch, with all her weight behind it.
It was so, so sharp, and it went into his belly so, so easy.
He gasped. Enough moonlight filtered through the window to catch the whites of his eyes, to show his shocked expression, his mouth open, blood showing black on his teeth.
Rose pulled the knife free, and blood splattered across her feet, droplets hot as bathwater between her toes.
She stuck him again, higher this time; the knife hit something hard, the impact juddering up her arm. Bone. Pulled back. Found a better, softer target, in to the hilt again.
The man staggered back a step, gasping, groaning. He clapped one hand over his bloodied stomach, and lifted the other, his own knife gleaming duly.
It was easy to dodge his swipe. Easier, after, to put her foot against his belt buckle, and kick him backwards. He stumbled, fetched up against the island, and slid down it, sitting with legs flopped out, panting and clutching at his wounds.
King Among the Dead (Hell Theory Book 1) Page 10