Nightshade (1)

by Michelle Rowen

  I had no idea how long I had left to live. Weeks, days, hours.

  Hell, I had no idea for sure that the poison would actually kill me. Maybe it wasn’t even poison. Maybe Declan just said that to help keep me in line and to make me do whatever he wanted.

  I grasped hold of this thought with both hands. I’d been going only on his word, and what damn good was that?

  Dhampyr vampire hunter. Sure. All I’d seen was a trigger-happy, scar-faced lunatic. And three other lunatics who all believed in mythical creatures that drank blood and avoided the sun. Except for the lunatic part, I wasn’t sure what I believed.

  I picked up my pace. I could get to the highway in about a half an hour, I figured. Maybe a car would venture along—although it looked as if the last time it had been a well-traveled road, the gas station was in business.

  The hope didn’t last long.

  Five minutes later, the pain returned, stopping me dead in my tracks. I collapsed at the side of the road and retched my guts out.

  I would have thought my stomach had been emptied before, but when I opened my watering eyes I saw that I’d managed to throw up something that was as black as ink and the consistency of corn syrup. The sickening substance puddled on the dry ground. I wiped my mouth and saw that my hand came away smeared with blackness.

  “Oh God,” I murmured, then cried out as another wave of pain crashed over me.

  Declan hadn’t been lying—I couldn’t even try to deny it any longer. That formula had poisoned my entire body and it wasn’t getting better. It was getting worse.

  You need me if you want to live.

  Declan’s father—he said he could help me. This was a poison developed to kill vampires. Hospitals, regular hospitals were useless. His father knew what the poison was, he valued it enough to send his mercenary adopted son out on a suicide mission to retrieve it.

  If I went to a hospital, more blood servants like the ones I’d just been faced with would come to get me. To kill me. To eliminate the threat aimed at their precious vampire king and others like him.

  If I had to place my bets, all my money would be on Carson Reyes as the man with the answers I needed if I wanted to live another day.

  My life was in the hands of someone I’d never met before.

  And if I let Declan die—or if I killed him—I’d never get the chance to meet him.

  As soon as the pain and nausea passed, which took another ten torturous minutes, I forced myself to head back to where Declan lay on the ground.

  Part of me—the rational and sane part—resisted what I knew I had to do. But I had to help him if I could. Declan Reyes had caused my current condition, and by God, he was going to fix it. Him and this mysterious vampire-hating father of his.

  I shook Declan’s shoulder, which was damp and sticky from sweat and blood. “Wake up.”

  It took a minute, but his eyelashes fluttered and his eye opened a millimeter.

  “You said you have to get out of the sun,” I said. “That means I need to get you in there.”

  I could see the agony on his face as he lifted his head to look at the abandoned house I nodded toward.

  “Fine.” The single word held deep pain.

  “You said you also need water?”

  He gave me a barely perceptible nod. “Yes.”

  Come to think of it, I was pretty damn thirsty myself, and my mouth currently tasted horrible after throwing up.

  He moved his legs, which was enough indication that the bullet in his back hadn’t paralyzed him. He got all the way up to his knees by himself, but hunched over on his hands, his chest heaving. He didn’t make a sound. I was sure moving hurt like a son of a bitch, but he didn’t cry out in pain once.

  Tough bastard, wasn’t he?

  I helped him up to his feet, not pleased about being so close to someone I’d spent so much time and energy trying to get away from, but I’d run out of options.

  Declan had to be six-four and at least 220 pounds of solid muscle. And all of that weight was braced against me as we maneuvered up the four stairs to the front door. I fumbled for the handle and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. But the door looked flimsy enough.

  I leaned Declan against the wall and put some shoulder into it as I bashed against the door. I wasn’t exactly Ms. Olympia when it came to strength, even on a good day—which this wasn’t—but the door was old and it only took a few tries before the lock splintered and it swung open.

  Once we got through the door his legs gave out and he crashed to the wooden floor. Couldn’t stop it if I’d tried. I hadn’t really tried.

  Declan’s face was pasty white and he already looked half-dead to me.

  And water was going to help him recover from this? I’d believe it when I saw it.

  The house opened up on a bare room, dusty but luckily not rotting or smelly or infested with insects. To the left of us was a kitchen. Leaving Declan where he lay, I went into the kitchen and looked at the faucet. It reminded me of the one my grandmother had in the home she lived in her entire life—old-fashioned, utilitarian, and very practical. Definitely not courtesy of Ikea. I turned the handle. Nothing happened.

  I hadn’t really expected anything to happen. The house looked like it had been abandoned for decades.

  Water. Where was I supposed to get some?

  “Where else is there water?” I asked aloud.

  “There’s a ... pump at ... the side of the house. I noticed it when we arrived.”

  I looked over at him. “You’re thirsty?”

  “I need it to heal from the silver they used on me. Full vamps heal quickly without scarring. I heal fast ... but I scar, obviously ... and it takes a great deal more effort for me. Water helps speed up the process.” His eye moved to the knife I held. “Where did you get that?”

  “The servants swapped me for your gun before they knocked me unconscious with it and took off. I thought it was a fair trade.”

  Without another word, I went outside again and around to the side of the house. Sure enough, there was a pump. Rusted. More searching netted me a dirty wooden bucket. I brought it to the pump and put it underneath the nozzle.

  Then I started pumping. It took a while to even loosen up the handle. Blisters formed and popped on my palms, but I gritted my teeth and kept going. A few blisters for the chance to live a long healthy life? Totally worth it.

  After what felt like an eternity, but was probably no more than five minutes, water, dirty and dark, began to flow. I kept pumping and it soaked into the ground. A couple more minutes and it ran clear. I felt like I’d just struck oil.

  “Finally something’s going right,” I mumbled, then rinsed out the bucket a few times before filling it with the clean water and carried it back inside.

  I did find several old teacups in a kitchen cabinet and one that wasn’t chipped. I wiped the dust off with my shirt and scooped some water from the bucket into it.

  “Here. Drink.” I held the cup to Declan’s mouth, my hand at the back of his neck to raise him up a little.

  He drank. My own mouth felt parched and rancid from throwing up that black ink, or whatever it was, but I could wait a bit longer.

  “How does water help your injuries?” I asked.

  “Her—her heels were made of silver. They were meant to be weapons. That material affects me as much as it would a full vampire. It leaves a ... residue behind, preventing the wounds from healing as they normally would. Same with the bullet—it was silver. Pour water on it to purify it.” A violent shudder went through him.

  “Thought silver bullets were supposed to be for werewolves,” I said uneasily.

  He didn’t reply to that. He was unconscious again.

  Silver. I wondered if the knife Cruella gave me was made from silver. I’d left it on the kitchen counter for now.

  I hissed out a long, shaky breath. I still wasn’t completely convinced this would work. Declan needed an ambulance, not a sponge bath.

  He had at least two serious
wounds on his upper body. I clenched my teeth and pulled at his black T-shirt until I’d managed to remove it. Even with the covering of blood, the scars that crisscrossed his chest were visible—both long lines and small gashes. Some of the scars looked like healed bullet wounds, although I was no expert aside from watching emergency room TV shows.

  I didn’t like blood.

  In fact, I might go so far as to say I hated it.

  The raw, painful-looking wound on Declan’s upper chest near his shoulder oozed blood. I couldn’t see any silver residue. Since when did silver leave a residue?

  And if silver harmed vampires, why would any servants working for vampires be armed with it?

  I scooped another teacup full of water and poured it directly on top of where the stiletto heel had stabbed him. Declan’s unconscious body jerked violently and I jumped. Steam rose from the bloody wound and there was a sound like a steak sizzling on a grill.

  I gagged. The wound was welling with blood again, so I forced myself to scoop another cup of water and poured it over the damage again. No jerking this time. Less sizzle, too.

  Now there was less blood. I repeated it twice more, amazed at what I was witnessing. His previously raw and bloody wound seemed to be healing in mere minutes, right in front of me. But it didn’t heal back to smooth unmarked skin. After a while, it formed a raw-looking reddish mark about the diameter and shape of a stiletto heel. More water washed the surrounding blood away and I wiped it dry with Declan’s black T-shirt before I actually touched the skin. Raised scar tissue. Like a wound that had been healing for weeks, not minutes.

  “Holy shit,” I said under my breath. A glance over his bare, muscled torso, now less bloody thanks to the water, confirmed that he’d been down this road many times before. Like his face, there were wide patches of skin that were unmarked and smooth, but they were few and far between.

  There was no time to let this all register with me. I rolled Declan onto his stomach and grimaced when I saw the bullet wound there. Just to the left of his spine and under his shoulder blade. I couldn’t help but gag again at the sight of it. I still had half a bucket of water, so I scooped and poured. His body jerked even more violently than before, and a scream caught in my throat.

  I was very thankful he was unconscious for this. Even though there was no love lost between myself and Declan, I hated seeing anyone in pain.

  After pouring cup after cup of water on the wound, nothing seemed to be happening this time. There wasn’t even a sizzling sound. I even had to go outside to pump more water. There was a pile of old, dirty rags underneath the kitchen sink, which I used to mop up the water around Declan’s unconscious body. Then I poured more water onto his wound and wiped with his T-shirt so I could see what I was doing.

  He’d lost a lot of blood, most of it soaking into the gravel outside or into the old wooden floorboards here. I could barely believe he’d stayed alive this long.

  The bullet wound wasn’t healing like the stab wound had and I didn’t know what to do next. After several more cupfuls, however, it finally started to sizzle and smoke so much I worried that it might catch fire, but it still wasn’t healing up. Then as I wiped the jersey material of the shirt over the fresh well of blood, I saw something odd.

  Silver. Just a glint of it beneath the raw, punctured flesh.

  I drizzled more water on it so I could see it better and my eyes widened.

  It was the bullet. Had it ... risen to the surface?

  More water coaxed it farther out, enough so that I was able to get my fingernails on the tip and pull it out completely. I stared at it for several long moments, stunned. I threw the bullet to the side and kept up with my ministrations of the water. Now that the silver had been released from the wound, it began to heal. Ten minutes later a reddish scar was all that was left of it.

  I exhaled shakily. Done.

  No, wait. I wasn’t quite done, was I?

  There was one more wound I’d noticed. I’d found it when I’d tried to take his cell phone only to find it was broken. A deep injury on his lower hip by his groin.

  Terrific. I glanced at his face, which was turned to the side toward me, but his eye was still closed. His eye patch hadn’t shifted from the ruin of his left eye.

  I rolled him onto his back again and looked at the general area of the wound.

  This might have been vaguely humorous if it wasn’t totally mortifying.

  “You damn well better stay unconscious for this,” I growled. Then, without delaying any longer, I unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans and pulled one side down as far as I could. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite far enough to see the wound completely.

  Although I did see enough to confirm that Declan Reyes went commando.

  Oh boy.

  “No time for modesty,” I told myself, and pulled his jeans down over his hips and buttocks so I was able to clearly view the wound. And ... everything else he had going on for that matter.

  He had a pretty big cock for a scarred, one-eyed dhampyr assassin. Then again, he was the first one I’d ever met. My eyes flicked from his impressive penis up to his face and I wondered how often he’d been in a situation like this. Probably not that often.

  Believe me, I wasn’t enjoying myself in any way, shape, or form. Puking up gallons of poisonous ink like a dying squid had taken its toll on me. And besides, I hated the man I had undressed and been forced to splash cup after cup of water on—I didn’t really care how big his unit was. He was only a means to an end. If I had any choice, I would have let him bleed to death if it meant I could escape with my life intact.

  It wasn’t selfish or cold. It was practical.

  Silver was Declan Reyes’s kryptonite. I would keep that piece of info safely filed away.

  The wound three inches to the right of his groin closed up and scarred after I slowly poured six cups of water on it to help wash away the invisible silver residue.

  Then I used the rags to wipe up the excess water, and tried to pull his pants back up, but that didn’t go completely without incident. There was the need for significant tuckage. His T-shirt helped serve as the barrier between my hand and his—thankfully flaccid—genitals.

  “You owe me for this,” I said under my breath when I was done. “Big time.”

  He didn’t reply. I might have been faking sleeping earlier in the car, but he wasn’t faking at the moment. He was so still and so pale under the blood that caked his face I thought for a second he might have croaked while I’d been juggling his goods.

  Holding my hand over his nose confirmed that he was still breathing. Since I couldn’t stand the sight of blood another minute longer, I took a minute to wipe as much of it off his face as I could. Then I felt his scalp, locating the bump he’d received thanks to the redheaded servant’s shit-kickers. The injury was smaller than expected, though, considering how hard he’d been stomped on. Dhampyr healing abilities, activate. At least bumps didn’t leave scars.

  I scooted away from him until my back hit the wall behind me and tossed his black shirt, bloody and wet from wiping up his waterlogged wounds. It draped over his stomach.

  I finally took a moment to rinse my mouth out with the remaining water until I felt better. Then I sat there and waited impatiently for Declan to wake up, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

  A couple hours later, the alarm on his watch went off, piercing the silence of the house. I nearly jumped right out of my skin.

  The alarm indicated it had been three hours since his last injection of serum. The same serum that he wanted me to administer to him, since he was unconscious until further notice. The serum that kept his dark vampire tendencies at bay and kept him from having a thirst for blood or ... for other things, as he’d said.

  His father had been a rapist. A murderer. A vampire who drank blood and killed without conscience.

  According to Declan, all that stopped him from truly being his father’s son was taking that serum every three hours.

  That serum he no
longer had, thanks to me.

  6

  IT WAS ANOTHER FOUR HOURS UNTIL DECLAN WOKE up. He’d officially missed two doses of serum. Both times the reminder alarm sounded, I scurried to his side and shut it off as quickly as I could and tried very hard not to think about the consequences.

  Since I’d had hours to wait, I’d taken the time to study him rather intently—his face and his body. Long enough to imagine him without his scars or the eye patch or that flat, emotionless expression. If you took those things out of the equation, Declan Reyes wasn’t all that monstrous to look at.

  I tried to guess his age. Earlier I would have guessed high—forty, maybe more. Now that his face was at rest, I’d say no more than thirty.

  A good age to be fighting a war nobody knew about and showing that very battle on your skin.

  I looked away, refusing to feel anything for him other than hate and disgust. He’d caused me enough pain so that the last thing I wanted was to empathize with his.

  I tried to think about something else, anything else. It had only been hours but my old life—the one I’d had before I’d met sleeping beauty, that is—felt like an eternity ago.

  When Declan finally woke, I tensed and clutched the knife in my hand. I wasn’t sure what would happen next. He was dangerous enough to start with, but add on the fact that he hadn’t been given his serum ...

  I had no other options other than to wait and see. I was dead for sure if I didn’t. I just thanked God that I hadn’t had another squid attack since coming back to tend to Declan’s wounds.

  He groaned, and it sounded as though it was from the act of waking than any indication of pain. He stretched his arms over his head, arching his back. I studied him warily. He was still shirtless. I’d taken the bloody and wet T-shirt off his stomach a couple hours ago, wrung it out, and draped it over the railing of the stairway a dozen feet to my right. It would still be dirty, but it had to be mostly dry by now. His hand went to his face, touching his eye patch as if to check if it was still there. Then he turned his head toward where I sat in the shadows in the corner of the room.

  If he attacked me, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d stab him.