by Tanya Huff
He reached behind him and scooped up the phone. “I think we’ve got something Detective Fergusson will listen to now . . .”
“No.” Vicki got slowly to her feet, her movements jerky and barely under control. “First, we’ve got to rescue Henry. Once he’s safe, she’s history. But not until.”
She wasn’t going to fail Henry the way she’d failed her mother.
Twelve
As the day surrendered its power to hold him, Henry fought the panic that accompanied awareness—the steel coffin still enclosed him, wrapped him in the stink of death perverted and the acrid odor of his own terror. He couldn’t prevent the first two blows that slammed up into the impervious arc of padded metal, but he managed to stop the third and the fourth. With full consciousness came greater control. He remembered the futile struggles of the night before and knew that mere physical strength would not be enough to free him.
His head swam with images—the young man, strangled, newly dead; the older man, long dead, not dead, not alive; the young woman, pale hair, pale skin, empty eyes. He swallowed, tasted the residue of blood, and was nearly lost as the Hunger rose.
It was too strong to force back. Henry barely managed to hold the line between the Hunger and self.
He had fed the night before. The Hunger should be his to command. Then he realized his struggles had tangled his arms in the heavy folds of his leather trench coat. Someone had removed both it and his shirt and not bothered to replace them. Bare to the waist, he found the marks of a dozen needles.
And I no more want to be strapped to a table for the rest of my life than to have my head removed and my mouth stuffed with garlic.
He’d made that observation, somewhat facetiously, just over a year ago. It seemed much less facetious now. Over the course of the day someone had obviously been conducting experiments. He was helpless during the oblivion of the day. He was captive in the night.
The panic won and a crimson tide of Hunger roared free with it.
Consciousness returned a second time that night, bringing pain and an exhaustion so complete he could barely straighten twisted limbs. His body, weakened by blood loss, had obviously set a limit on hysteria.
Can’t say . . . as I blame it. Even thinking hurt. Screaming had ripped his throat raw. Bruising, bonedeep on knees and elbows, protested movement. Two of the fingers on his left hand were broken and the skin over the knuckles, split. With what seemed like the last of his strength, he realigned the fractures then lay panting, trying not to taste the abomination in the air.
They’ve taken so much blood, I have to assume they know what I am.
The Hunger filled his prison with throbbing crimson need, bound for the moment by his weakness. Eventually, the weakness would be devoured and the Hunger would rule.
In all his seventeen years, Henry had never been in a darkness so complete and, in spite of Christina’s remembered reassurances, he began to panic. The panic grew when he tried to lift the lid off the crypt and found he couldn’t move. Not stone above him but rough wood embracing him so closely that the rise and fall of his chest brushed against the boards.
He had no idea how long he lay, paralyzed by terror, frenzied need clawing at his gut, but his sanity hung by a . . .
“No.” He could manage no more than a whispered protest, not quite enough to banish the memory. The terror of that first awakening, trapped in a common grave, nearly destroyed by the Hunger, would reach out to claim him now if he let it. “Remember the rest, if you must remember at all.”
. . . he heard a shovel blade bite into the dirt above him, the noise a hundred thousand times louder than it could possibly have been.”
“Henry!”
The Hunger surged out toward the voice, carrying him with it.
“Henry!”
His name. It was his name she called. He clutched at it like a lifeline, the Hunger a surrounding maelstrom.
“Henry, answer me!”
Although the Hunger tried to drown him out, he formed a single word. “Christina . . .”
Then, the nails shrieking protest, the coffin lid flew back. Pale hands, strong hands, gentle hands held him in his frenzy. Rough homespun ripped away from alabaster skin and a wound in a breast reopened so he could feed again on the blood that had changed him, safe behind a silken curtain of ebony hair.
He couldn’t free himself.
Four hundred and fifty years ago, a woman’s love had saved him.
He couldn’t surrender to despair.
But it had taken Christina three days . . .
Vicki, come quickly. Please. I can’t survive that again.
The halls had always been empty when she walked them, empty, echoing, and dimly lit. And they are no different tonight, Aline Burke told herself firmly, placing one foot purposefully before the other. They are still empty. I am making the only sounds. Shadows are merely absences of light.
But air currents moved where she’d never felt air currents before and the whole building exuded an aura of expectant doom.
Which is not only overly melodramatic, it’s ridiculous. She dried moist palms against her pants and kept her eyes firmly focused on the next band of illumination. She would not give in to fear; she never had and she wasn’t about to begin now.
Who was in number eight’s isolation box?
There could be any number of very good reasons why Donald hadn’t been around all day; Vicki Nelson’s investigation was only the most obvious. Donald, charming, brilliant, and undisciplined, had never had any trouble in coming up with reasons to take a day off.
Who was in number eight’s isolation box?
Memory continued to replay the fall of Henry Fitzroy’s wallet onto the pile of clothes.
Who was in number eight’s isolation box?
There was only one way to find out.
Rounding a comer, she could see the outline of the lab door. No light escaped, but then they’d gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure that none did.
They’re probably both in there. Arguing about something trivial. Or he’s watching her work, letting those damned candy wrappers fall on my floor.
She put her hand on the metal doorknob, the stainless steel cold under her fingers. Stainless steel. Like the isolation boxes.
Her heart began to pound. The metal warmed under her grip. Fifteen seconds passed. Twenty. Forty-five. A full minute. She couldn’t turn the knob. It was as if the link between brain and hand had been severed. She knew what she had to do, but her body refused to respond.
Lips compressed into a thin line, she jerked her arm back to her side. This kind of betrayal could not be allowed. She drew in a calming breath, exhaled, and then in one continuous motion grabbed the knob, turned it, pushed the door open, and stepped into the room.
The lights were off. She could see a number of red and green power indicators at the far end of the room but nothing else. Stretching out her left arm, she groped along the wall, the sound of her breathing moving outward to meet the hum of working equipment. The light switches were just to the right of the door. Turning her back was out of the question.
Her fingers touched a steel plate, recoiled, then continued on until finally they hooked behind a protruding bit of plastic.
A heartbeat later, Dr. Burke blinked in the sudden blue-white glare of the fluorescents.
At the far end of the room, number eight’s isolation box—number eight’s no longer—hummed in unattended solitude. The other two boxes were gone and with them the portable dialysis machine and one of the computers. A quick scan showed smaller pieces of equipment were missing as well and apprehension turned to anger as Dr. Burke stomped the length of the room to the remaining computer.
“That vindictive little bitch!”
The message on the screen was succinct and to the point.
I’ve hidden Mr. Fitzroy. You can have him back when you agree that numbers nine and ten can continue to their natural conclusions. I have the only copy of today’s data. I’ll be in touch. – Catherine.
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Obviously, she’d not only hidden the vampire but numbers nine and ten as well.
“Damn her! She must’ve started the second I hung up the phone.” This would ruin everything! If Catherine couldn’t be brought round and quickly, the whole plan would be as dead as . . .
. . . as dead as . . .
She raised her head and bands of pressure settled around her temples. The distorted reflection of a small, warped figure in white stared back from the curved side of the only remaining box.
Why hadn’t Catherine hidden this box as well?
Because it couldn’t be unplugged.
Why couldn’t it be unplugged?
Because the bacteria still worked on the body it contained.
Who was in number eight’s isolation box?
The clothes remained on a chair on the other side of the lab, a pale brown windbreaker draped over the back.
Lots of people wear jackets like that in Kingston in April.
She made the largest circle around the box she could without admitting to herself that she was avoiding it. Desperately holding on to the anger, using it as a weapon against the rising fear, she reached out and lifted the jacket off the chair. It could still belong to anyone. Ignoring the damp smudges her fingers printed on the fabric, she reached into one of the front pockets and drew out two wrapped candies and a half-eaten chocolate bar, package neatly resealed with a bit of tape.
There’s nothing that says Donald couldn’t have left his jacket in the lab.
But she was losing the fight and she knew it.
Henry Fitzroy’s identification lay where she’d tossed it. Draping the jacket over one arm, she watched her free hand reach out and scoop the wallet and its contents up off a neatly folded pile of clothes. A jacket might be accidentally left behind but not jeans and a shirt, socks and underwear. These were Donald’s clothes, no question of that, and beneath the chair, heels and toes precisely in line, were the black high-top basketball sneakers he’d been so absurdly proud of.
“But Donald, you don’t play basketball.”
Donald continued to vigorously pump the bright orange ball set into the tongues of his new shoes. “What does that have to do with anything?” he asked, grinning broadly. “We’re talking the cutting edge of footwear here. We’re talking high tech. We’re talking image.”
Dr. Burke sighed and shook her head. “The perception of athletics without the sweat?” she offered.
The grin grew broader. “The point exactly.”
Still holding the jacket and the vampire’s wallet, Dr. Burke slowly turned to face the isolation box. Numbers one through nine had been pulled from the medical school morgue already very dead. Marjory Nelson was dying. But Donald, Donald had been very alive.
She took a step forward, feeling so removed from reality that she had to concentrate on placing her foot down on the floor. Walking no longer seemed to be a voluntary movement. She could see Donald, dark eyes sparkling, completely unrepentant, as he sat in her office and listened to the reasons why he should not only be thrown out of medical school but brought up on charges. When she’d asked him why he’d done it, he’d actually looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. “I wanted to see what would happen. ” She’d gotten him off. The particulars were buried when the professor who’d uncovered the incident had moved out west the next semester.
She took another step. She could see Donald frowning over the neural net, clever fingers running along the gold strands, bottom lips caught between his teeth as he struggled with the design.
Another step. She could see Donald lifting a confused Catherine’s hand aloft for a high-five when number four finally responded to their combined genius.
Another. She could see Donald joining her in a private toast to fame and fortune, barely touching the single malt to his lips for he never drank.
Another. She could see Donald agreeing that Marjory Nelson was the inevitable next step.
Her knee touched the box, the vibration burrowing into the bone. She flinched back, then froze.
Staring down at her reflection, she saw it become a progression of gray faces, contorted, robbed of rest, bodies disfigured by gaping incisions hastily tacked together with knotted railway lines of black silk. What would she see when she lifted the lid? How far had Catherine gone?
Forcing a deep breath past the constriction in her throat, she let Henry Fitzroy’s wallet drop from her right hand to floor. It wasn’t really important anymore. Anymore. Anymore . . .
She reached out, unable to stop the trembling but refusing to give in, and wrapped her empty hand around the latch. Her fingers were so cold, the metal felt warm beneath them.
“Knowledge is strength,” she whispered.
The latch clicked open.
From inside the box came a sigh of oxygen rich air as the seal broke, then, following it, a noise that had nothing to do with electronics or machinery.
Dr. Burke froze. The muscles in her arm, already given the command to lift, spasmed and shook.
A moan.
“Donald?”
Vowels began to form. A tortured shaping. Still recognizable.
There was nothing even remotely human in the sound.
Sweat dribbled in icy tracks down her sides. Fingers fought to close the latch. Whatever was in there, wasn’t getting out.
“Doc . . . tor . . .”
She jerked back; panting, whimpering. Then she turned and ran.
Terror that couldn’t be banished by intellect, or rationalizations, or strength of purpose ran beside her through the empty halls. The echoes mocked her. The shadows bulged with horror.
“What if she’s not there?”
“She’s not at home,” Vicki replied through set teeth—they’d found Dr. Burke’s address in the brown leather book beside her mother’s phone. “She has to be somewhere.”
“Not necessarily at the office.”
Vicki turned to face him, even though the darkness left her blind. “You have a better idea?”
She heard him sigh. “No. But if she isn’t there, what then?”
“Then we rip her office apart. We look for anything that might tell us where Henry is.”
“And if we don’t . . .”
“Shut up, Celluci.” She spat the words in his direction. “We’ll find him.”
He drew in breath to speak again, then let it out silently.
Vicki twisted back around in the passenger seat, her grip on the dashboard painfully tight. We’ll find him. All she could see through the windshield was the glare of the headlights, nothing of what they illuminated, not even the surface of the road. The lights of other cars appeared suspended, red and yellow eyes on invisible beasts. She felt the car turn, then slow, then finally stop. Silence fell, then darkness.
“I parked around beside the building,” Celluci said. “A little less obvious if we have to slip past Security.”
“Good idea.”
For a moment, neither of them moved, then Vicki turned toward her door just as Celluci opened his. The interior light came on and for a heartbeat she saw herself reflected in the car window.
Pressed up against the glass, fingers splayed, mouth silently working, was her mother.
“Mike!”
He was at her side in an instant, the door mercifully closing as he slid across the front seat. She backed into the circle of his arms, squeezed her eyes so tightly shut they hurt, and tried to stop shaking.
“Vicki, what is it? What’s wrong?” He’d never heard his name called in such a way before and he hoped like hell he’d never hear it called that way again. The pain in Vicki’s voice not only gouged pieces out of his soul, it clutched at him in a way she wasn’t able to. She had her back pressed so hard against his chest he could barely breathe, but her fingers were folded into fists and her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
“Mike, my mother is dead.”
He rested his cheek against the top of her head. “I know.”
“Yeah,
but she’s also up and walking around.” A hint of hysteria crept into her tone. “So, it just occurred to me, when we find her, what are we supposed to do. I mean, how do we bury her?”
“Jesus H. Christ.” The whispered profanity came out sounding more like a prayer.
“I mean,” she had to gulp air between every couple of words, “am I going to have to kill her again?”
“Vicki!” He held her closer. It was all he could think of to do. “Goddamnit! You didn’t kill her the first time! As much as it seems cruel to say it, her dying had nothing to do with you.”
He could feel her fighting for control.
“Maybe not the first time,” she said.
The Hunger clawed and fought to be free and it took almost all the strength he had left to contain it. Released, it would quickly drive his abused body back into unconsciousness, probably breaking more bones as it fought to feed. Henry had no intention of allowing that to happen. He had to remain aware in case his captors should actually be stupid enough to open the box between dusk and dawn.
With so little left to fuel fear, he was able to view his imprisonment almost dispassionately. Almost. Memories of being trapped in darkness flickered mothlike against the outside edges of his control but worse even than that were images of the experiments that would begin when sunrise made him vulnerable once more.
Henry had seen the Inquisition, the slave trade, and the concentration camps of World War II and knew full well the atrocities people were able to commit. He’d seen his own father condemn men and women to the pyre for no better reason than temper. And these particular people, he thought, have already proven themselves less than ethically bound. There had been three containers. He was in one of them. Vicki’s mother was, no doubt, in one of the other two.
Turning his head slightly so that the flow of fresh air through the grille—through the unbreakable grille—passed over his mouth and nose, he concentrated on breathing. It wasn’t much of a distraction, but it was one of the few he had.