The Bloodline Series Box Set

by Gabriella Messina

  Sam brushed her hair back from her face, then rubbed at the tears on her cheeks. “Um, I’d like to get the paperwork—”

  “Never mind that. I’ll take care of it.” Hudson looked quickly around, then pushed open the stairwell door. He leaned into the stairwell and Sam could hear the sound of metal clacking and banging as he struggled to pull something from the stairwell into the hall. Hudson cursed as he gave a final heave and a folded wheelchair clattered into the hallway beside them. He turned to Sam and flashed a charming smile. “Let’s get him out of here, shall we?”

  Hudson pushed the wheelchair quickly down the hallway and, upon reaching the door to Ivan’s room, shoved the chair through.

  The heavy door slammed open, startling Ivan. He watched nervously as Hudson entered with the wheelchair. The tension in Ivan’s face relaxed a bit, though his posture remained stiff and still.

  “Mr. Karolyi, it’s time for you to go home.” Hudson stopped the wheelchair right beside the bed and folded up the footrests. “Right this way. Quickly now.” He offered his hand to Ivan and, taking the older man firmly but gently under the arm, guided him into the wheelchair.

  Sam stuffed the remaining toiletries and personal items on the bed into Ivan’s bag, zipped it shut and placed it on Ivan’s lap.

  Hudson grabbed the handles of the wheelchair; Sam opened the door and they were on their way out into the hallway. They moved quickly down the hallway toward the bank of elevators.

  Suddenly, Sam slowed. “Wait.”

  Hudson slowed to a stop, watched closely as Sam looked to Ivan. He followed her gaze, searching the old man’s face.

  Ivan was staring down the hallway where the corner of one elevator was visible. Ivan raised his chin, his mouth opened slightly, his lips barely parted... and sniffed. His jaw tensed as he spoke: “Varcolac.”

  Hudson immediately did a 180-degree turn and started back down the hallway.

  Sam ran to catch up with him as he wheeled her grandfather down the hall and around the corner. “Where are we going?”

  Hudson hesitated, looking at the hospital map posted on the wall nearby. “How about Radiology?”

  The entrance area to Radiology was quiet as the electronic doors slid open and Sam scooted out. She hurried to the curb, raising a hand to hail a taxi. A yellow cab swerved out of its spot in traffic, weaving its way around delivery trucks, cyclists and other taxis to pull up in front of the entrance. Sam turned, motioning toward the door and Hudson exited with Ivan.

  Hudson helped Ivan into the back of the taxi, settling him with his bag. “Take care, Mr. Karolyi.”

  “You know, don’t you?” Sam paused on the curb, her hand on the taxi door. She lowered her voice before continuing. “You know about... the werewolves.”

  Hudson smiled. “Oh, yes. As I said, your grandfather is safer at home. And so are you.” He held on to the door as Sam got into the taxi, shutting the door behind her.

  Sam hit the “down” button, lower the window before Hudson could back away. “Doctor—”

  “Please, call me Jack.” Hudson rested an arm on the cab and leaned down, his face almost level with Sam’s and mere inches away.

  “Okay, Jack. Um... About the other day, grabbing you like I did? I’m really sorry about that. It’s just been a really bad week.”

  “I know and I understand.” The gaze from his eyes was intense, focused. Sam felt her stomach drop, and not just because the man was sexy as hell and his mouth was inches from her own. No, it wasn’t about that at all. He knows... what I am.

  Hudson leaned back a bit, breaking the moment before he continued: “Take care, all right?” He reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out a small business card. He handed it to Sam. “If you have any problems, call me at this number. If you come into the hospital for any reason, ask for me. Not Diane Weber. Only me. Do not let anyone else see you, understand?” Sam nodded.

  Hudson tapped the top of the taxi and the vehicle pulled away and into traffic, disappearing into the mass of transport heading up the street.

  “You always send your patients home to die, Doc?”

  Hudson’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. He did not turn to acknowledge the source of the voice. He knew who it was... “What are you doing here, John?”

  John Prutzmann raised an electronic cigarette to his thin lips and took a long, drawn-out puff, exhaling a cloud of vapor. “I need to speak to Weber.” He squinted as the cloud billowed around his head. He cursed himself for not grabbing the pack of real cigarettes on his dresser when he went home to change. The rush to get out of his MTA uniform and into street clothes was to blame; that and the urgency he had to speak with Weber. “Well?”

  Hudson frowned. “Well, what?”

  “Do you always send your patients home to die?”

  Hudson turned to glare at the tall, muscular man beside him. “Only the ones who deserve a peaceful death.”

  “A peaceful death. That’s something of an oxymoron, isn’t it?” Prutzmann inhaled again, puffing out vapor as he continued: “I mean, death is inherently violent. The body shuts down, the life force ripped away. It’s always surprising, always unexpected, no matter how long the body has suffered, no matter how long the sickness has lasted. And in so many cases, death is violent. Stroke, heart attack, traumatic injuries.” He took another puff, this one smaller, and let the vapor ease away out of his mouth in a tendril-like trail. “Death is not peaceful. Death is... nothing.”

  “I would suppose, by your reasoning, you have nothing to be afraid of.”

  Prutzmann frowned, blew out another puff of vapor, this cloud swirling around Hudson’s head. “I suppose. Is there something you think I should be afraid of?”

  Hudson turned to Prutzmann, his face calmly amused. “Hubris, perhaps?”

  It was Prutzmann’s turn to frown. “Who?”

  Hudson fought the urge to laugh outright. All brawn, small brain... He could see why Weber thought he was so valuable. Prutzmann did what he was told, didn’t over-think things... the perfect number two.

  “John.” Weber stepped up beside the two men, her arms pulling her shearling-lined jacket close around her body. “Report.”

  Prutzmann puffed on his e-cig before he began: “The shop in Clinton has already attracted a regular crowd. We’re ready to open phase two. But... we have a problem.” He glanced at Hudson briefly, then lowered his voice. “Wolfmörder.” The word came out harshly, the syllables grinding together.

  Weber flinched, her arms unwinding from around her as her usual reserve melted away. Her eyes were wide and, Hudson noted, possessing an emotion he had never seen Diane Weber exude before... Fear. “How? We’ve been so careful. How did he find us?”

  Prutzmann shrugged. “He came here, saw the old man. And he was with the girl in Times Square the other night.” He glanced at Hudson, his irritation at the doctor’s continued presence obvious in the sound of the sigh he made before leaning toward Weber and continuing: “I remember what he did in Dublin... I was there. He set us back ten years in one night and he was alone.”

  Weber nodded, running her hand over her scalp, smoothing her hair nervously. “Why hasn’t he killed them?”

  “He has a name, you know.” Weber and Prutzmann turned quickly, both looking at Hudson.

  Hudson sighed as he turned toward them, his mouth tight. “Vincent. His name is Vincent.”

  Weber’s eyes narrowed. “You knew he was here? How?”

  “I’ve seen him.” Hudson glanced at his watch before he continued. “He was here. Yesterday.”

  “And you didn’t say anything?”

  Weber quickly stepped in front of Prutzmann and stretched out her hand as a secondary barrier between the two men. “Jack has been... focused... on his work.” She looked askance at Hudson as she continued: “I’m sure it just... slipped his mind.”

  Prutzmann was smoldering... Perhaps Weber’s staying hand would not be enough. Hudson could feel his adrenaline begin to rush, his muscles ten
sing in preparation for the blow that he believed was imminent. Weber saw it as well and stepped forward, her body blocking Prutzmann and forcing him to focus on her. “You have a job to do, John.”

  Prutzmann seethed, his jaw tense. “What about... the wolf-killer?”

  “Keep an eye on... Vincent... and the girl. Be discreet. We don’t want to draw any extra attention to ourselves. Put someone on the mortuary as well. We do not want all our recruits melted before they can prove of any use.” Prutzmann nodded curtly and stalked away.

  Weber turned to go back into the building then paused. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Jack.” Hudson looked up and their eyes met. Weber’s were cold and dark as they looked back at him. “A very dangerous game.”

  Hudson watched her walk away, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Yes, indeed... Politics is always a dangerous game, Diane...Unless, of course, you hold all the cards. Hudson pulled out his mobile phone and quickly dialed a number, waiting as it rang. Then the ringing stopped.

  “It’s me. I sent the old man home... They know we’re watching them. They’re taking precautions at the mortuary... Be careful.” He hung up the phone... and smiled.

  18

  THE SOFT RASP OF IVAN’S breathing told Sam he was asleep. After the events at the hospital, the taxi ride home had been quiet, punctuated only by Ivan’s fluid-laden cough halfway through.

  It seemed like she had been listening to that cough for years; as Ivan’s heart had become weaker, after three heart attacks and a triple bypass, the intensity and frequency of the coughing had increased. Congestive heart failure was a real bitch.

  Sam recalled lying in bed at night as a teenager, listening as her grandfather coughed. The coughing would become so violent at times that she would find herself praying ‘Hail Mary’ after ‘Hail Mary’, desperately imploring for intercession, begging for it to stop.

  She remembered when the time came for his surgery; then she would lie in bed, the oppressive quiet enveloping her little room, the entire apartment even, and she would pray a new prayer. She prayed that when the time came for Ivan to leave this world and journey on into the next, his death would be an easy one, he would be ready, he would go quickly and without pain. It was odd, but those prayers gave her more peace than the prayers for recovery. Perhaps there was a point that you reach when caring for a loved one who is ill, who is dying, when the priority stops being about getting a decent night’s sleep.

  Sam crept away from the bedroom doorway and headed for the living room and the comfort of the sofa. Even though her room was a few steps away, Sam had always had an affinity for this old sofa. There was something oddly comforting about the rough texture of the vintage upholstery, the rigid structure and anything-but-soft cushions. She pulled her afghan around her shoulders and curled up tightly in one corner, every inch of her covered by the heavy knit throw except for her head.

  She was so cold now; after feeling overheated for what felt like days, it could just mean her body’s thermostat was finally getting back to normal. Normal, she thought, that’s funny. Couldn’t use that word to describe herself after this week. Nothing would ever be “normal” again. Sam sighed, snuggled down within the afghan, and fell asleep.

  Sam woke with a start. The room was dim, the last remnants of the sunlight peeking through the blinds on the west-facing windows in the kitchen. She wasn’t sure what had awakened her; there were no sounds of coughing or other distress from Ivan’s room, no sounds coming from the hallway outside. She tossed back the afghan and unfolded her legs as she stretched. It had been a dreamless sleep, peaceful and refreshing. Sam felt badly for a second, as if after all that had happened, she didn’t deserve to have a decent bit of sleep.

  She tiptoed into the bathroom and closed the door quietly. Soon, the tiny room filled with the sound of water running as Sam quickly showered. As she stepped out of the shower, she caught a glimpse of her back and froze.

  Quickly, she grabbed a towel from off the rack and wiped the steam and water droplets off the mirror. She turned around, craning her neck to see her back.

  It was smooth, not a mark on it. No sign of the deep lacerations Franco put there... no scabs, no scars, nothing. She turned, facing the mirror completely, and stared at her reflection for a few moments. She certainly looked normal enough. There you go with the “normal” again... Sam shook her head, her damp hair spraying droplets of water on the mirror. Quickly wrapping the length of it in a towel, she dried off and slipped out of the bathroom, hurrying into the small bedroom next door.

  Sam glanced around the room as she pulled clothing out of the drawers and began to dress. This had been her room for as long as she could remember. Even when her parents had still been alive, she would stay here when she came for sleepovers with Grammy and Grampy. The yellow paint on the walls never seemed to fade, though spots buckled as the wallpaper underneath was beginning to detach from the wall.

  The ceiling glowed in the dim light. All the little stars she had carefully stuck up there with her grandfather’s help still hanging in strong, still taking in the day’s sunlight and shining throughout the night.

  Sam shook her head and looked away, suddenly feeling dizzy. Looking at “stars” up-close like this always made her a bit dizzy. Even a trip to the planetarium when she was little required her to be assisted a bit when exiting the domed room.

  Sam grabbed a well-loved tee shirt from the drawer and slipped it on, working her towel-clad head through the neck hole. In spite of her care, the towel was working itself loose. Sam bent over, shook her hair a bit and began to re-wrap the towel around her head. That’s when she heard it... A quiet coughing sound came from Ivan’s room. He was awake.

  Sam wrapped the towel, tucking the end tight. She grabbed up her pajama bottoms and stepped in one leg at a time as she made her way down the hallway toward the coughing sound, pulling the waistband into place just as she arrived at the door.

  Sam knocked gently before she pushed the door open and peeked in. “Grampy? You awake?”

  Ivan smiled weakly and motioned for her to come in. It was a slight gesture, just his hand raising the tiniest bit, yet it seemed to take a great deal of energy for him to do so. Sam crossed the space between them and started to pull a nearby chair closer.

  “No, no,” Ivan said, his voice hoarse and dry, “Sit down right here.” He patted his hand on a spot right beside him on the bed before dissolving into a coughing spell.

  Sam helped him to sit upright and rubbed his back as he coughed. Thankfully, the spell did not last long. She reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, removing the piece of cardboard from the top of the glass and bringing it to Ivan. “Can you sip?”

  Ivan nodded weakly and Sam carefully lifted the glass to his lips, her hand steady as she allowed him to drink several small sips of the cool water. “Good?” Ivan nodded. Sam set the glass back on the nightstand, replacing the important piece of cardboard. She chuckled inside; Ivan always had done that with his night-time glass of water, whether out of fear of dust falling in or bugs or who knows what else.

  Sam adjusted the pillows, then eased Ivan back into a reclining position. She took a good look at her grandfather and was startled at how pale and weak he looked. She glanced towards the window, hoping the movement would be enough to hide the tears that had welled up in her eyes.

  Ivan placed a comforting hand on top of hers and the tears came very near to spilling over. “You know, twenty years ago, this would have been nothing,” Ivan began. “I was stronger, had more, what did your grandmother call it? Gumption.” He chuckled. “But now... My body is too old, the strength to fight on - gone. My spirit is willing, but my flesh, too weak.”

  That did it. Hearing that same phrase that her grandmother had said so often coming from her dying grandfather’s lips was too much for Sam and the tears that had threatened so strenuously to pour forth finally did. She sobbed openly, her head resting in her hands.

  Ivan watched her for a mom
ent before he pulled on her hand, bringing her into a surprisingly warm hug. Sam sobbed there, her face pressed against the soft flannel of his pajamas, her tears wetting the front pocket of the pajama top thoroughly.

  “You’re getting my shirt all wet, Nepoata.” There was a smile in his voice as he said it.

  Sam sniffed a couple of times before she sat up. “I’m sorry.” She grabbed a handful of tissues from the nightstand and blew her nose enthusiastically.

  “No, do not be. It is not important.”

  “I just,” Sam started, her frustration clear; “I just don’t understand. You were doing well yesterday. Good, even.”

  Ivan sighed and smiled a weak little smile. “It is just the way things are. We are born, we live, we die. And do not say I am going to be fine. You were never a good liar.” His smile faded. “Samantha. You have always been there. I thank you for that. And I am very proud of the woman that you have become. I wish that I had more time to give you. I wish... that you were not burdened with this.” He gestured to the glass of water. “Give me another sip. There is much to tell you, much to say.”

  Sam quickly grabbed the glass and helped him take several sips again.

  Satisfied, Ivan motioned it away and adjusted himself on the pillows before beginning: “My book... I think you know the one.”

  Sam nodded, “The big old scrapbook type thing you would never let me look at. You want me to get it?”

  “No! No, I do not want to look at it again. That is all finished for me. But you must read it, learn it. Everything you will ever need to know about us, about our burden, is in that book.”

  “All right.”

  Ivan took both of Sam’s hands, holding them in his warm and surprisingly still strong grip. “I want you to remember something. This is very important so remember it. People strive all their lives to be good, to do right. But simply being good and doing right, sometimes they are not enough. Sometimes you need to do... terrible things for the greater good. Do you understand?”