Bree closed her eyes. She was in a madhouse, dealing with men who thought they were dogs. All she wanted was to be at Jonathan’s bedside, but he was with the doctors. She had to be patient. If she played their game right, she could figure out where they’d taken him. She blinked Sam and Kenyon back into focus. “Werewolf?”
“It’s not contagious,” Kenyon said automatically. “Don’t need the moon to change. Don’t nom on people unless they ask for it. Don’t even mind cats. Much.”
“Good to know.” Bree wasn’t sure what else to say.
“I’ll leave you, then,” said Sam, giving a slight bow. It looked very old-fashioned. “If you need anything at all, just ask for me. I’m at your service.”
“What’s this I hear about specimens?” Kenyon asked Sam.
“Nicholas Ferrel’s men weren’t altogether human,” Sam replied. “We brought back bodies.”
“Oh, goody. I love takeout.” Kenyon sounded disgusted. “Well, run along to the lab, then.”
Sam took a playful swipe at the other’s head. Kenyon ducked with inhuman speed, then turned to Bree. “Let me take you somewhere quieter.”
“When can I see my son?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but we’ll find that out first thing.” Kenyon gave her a sympathetic smile and led the way through the glass doors. He seemed younger than the others, more easygoing. “That was quite the road trip you had. I can’t imagine being locked in a car with Winspear that long.”
“He was great.” She sounded defensive.
Kenyon locked his bright blue gaze on her. “Really? He never lets me play with the radio.”
Despite herself, Bree felt her lips twitch. “It took him a while to warm up.” But when he did...
Heat crept up her face. Kenyon hummed, taking a great interest in the ceiling.
When the elevator doors finally opened, he ushered her in, swiped his card again and pressed four. Bree noticed there were buttons for twenty floors above ground, and five below.
“I don’t know how much Mark told you, but the Varney Center is a secure facility. We do a lot of different things here—mostly research, but also training, administration and operational deployment. I’ll give you a card so you can get around the main areas, but the underground is off-limits, as are floors eight through twenty. Most of the people around here are, uh, employees.”
“And not human,” Bree said.
He shrugged. “We have some human specialists who work here, mostly in research.”
“I know the story about the two kings and the diamonds. You’re the Compagnie des Morts. You’re spies or something, fighting the Knights of Vidon.”
He looked surprised. “Did Mark tell you that?”
“No. Prince Kyle did. And Jessica Lark told me some.”
Kenyon’s face went serious. It made him look a lot older and not so laid-back. “We do security work with a lot of international clients. That’s not automatically espionage.”
Not automatically sounded like a fudge to her. “Whatever it is, it sounds dangerous.”
“It is.” Kenyon turned to the left. “The Horsemen take the jobs no one else can do.”
“Horsemen?”
He shrugged, falling back into boy-next-door. “All the good operatives have code names. It’s a guy thing.”
“Do tell.”
He shot her a half smile. “Mark is Plague. Sam is War. I’m Famine.”
He meant the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, then, but that was only three. “Who is Death?”
His face fell. “He was killed. He died around the same time as your boss.”
She took a guess. “Jack Anderson?”
“Yeah. He was the best.”
The elevator doors opened and they got out. The hallway had no windows, but in every other way it looked like a top-notch hotel, with thick burgundy carpets and brass light fixtures. Custard sniffed the air curiously.
“Mark said you found Jack’s killers.”
Kenyon gave a short laugh. “Yes, but never the whole story. He was working with Jessica at the time, and her death was connected. You’re our first break on that case.”
They stopped at a door marked 50 in brass numerals. Kenyon swiped a key card through a reader and opened the door. “This is where you’ll be staying. You’re on the same floor as the medical wing, so you won’t have to go far to visit your boy.”
Bree stepped inside. It was a suite of rooms decorated in dark reds and creams. It would have done any Hilton proud. “This is lovely.”
She set Custard down. The puppy bounced in a circle and then ran to sniff Kenyon’s shoes.
“Get cleaned up and have a rest,” he said, trying to chase the puppy away from his shoelaces. “There’s clothes—nothing much, but they’re fresh. I’ll have some food sent up.”
“What about Jonathan?”
Kenyon gave another sort-of smile. “I promise to let you know as soon as there’s any information.”
Bree paced nervously. “One question. How come no one knows about this fabulous medical facility?”
Kenyon looked up, a slight edge of warning in his expression. “Like I said, we’re a secure facility. If you found out about it, it was because our best agent told you. Mark’s never done that before. He must have his reasons.”
Already uneasy, that made Bree fold her arms protectively over her stomach. “Will I have to sign a confidentiality contract when it’s time to leave?”
Kenyon looked away. “Let’s worry about that when the time comes. Mark is the one who takes care of that sort of thing anyhow.”
Bree’s stomach went cold. What does that mean?
“Let me go check with the hospital and see how things are going,” Kenyon said quickly. “Make yourself comfortable in the meantime.”
“Okay.”
Kenyon exchanged a glance with Custard, who then trotted to Bree and sat down on her foot. His warm weight was unexpectedly comforting. Kenyon was gone and the door closed before she looked up again. Werewolves can move fast if they want to. Something to remember.
Lost, she looked around the room. She could shower and change—undoubtedly should—but she was hungry for information. She pulled out her cell, popping the battery back in. No bars. There was probably a signal blocker in the building.
There was a TV on the wall, but no computer. No other phone. She dislodged Custard from her foot and checked the bedroom. It was cool and dark, but there was no phone by the bed, either.
A sick panic began crawling up her throat. She’d been keeping it together, pushing aside the memory of Ferrel’s sidekicks with the fangs and yellow eyes, of Mark turning monster, of the gore and horror of the fight. She’d clung to the fact that Mark had stood by her and Jonathan, made her head rule her instincts to scream and flee.
But the moment of crisis had passed, and she didn’t need to be so strong anymore. Bree fell onto the pretty white quilt of the bed, letting the soft mattress take her weight. The very luxury of the place seemed sinister. She felt far more secure when the world was showing its ugly side.
Slowly, she curled into a little ball. She was in a building full of monsters with no way to call out, and they had taken her child. Custard scrabbled at the side of the bed, trying to get up to her.
This is crazy. Nobody had done anything bad—at least not to her. They’d done nothing but help her. There was no reason to be afraid.
She bounced off the bed again, hurrying back into the sitting room. Everything’s going to be okay. Yet she was so nervous she couldn’t swallow, just like the old saying about having her heart in her mouth. Why was she so scared? Was it instinct? Premonition? Or just the fear of a mother hoping against hope that all would be well?
She couldn’t wait for Kenyon to come back. She needed answers
now, and then she would be able to calm down.
Bree tried the door. Locked.
Prisoner.
Chapter 23
Mark turned to Sam. They were in the autopsy suite, peering into the bodies of Mark’s erstwhile opponents. “I think this tells us more than we wanted to know.”
“Science-speak aside, they’re mutants.” Sam shifted uncomfortably. Like many strong men, he was more comfortable killing than studying the remains. “What does that tell us?”
“That everything is starting to make sense, although I wish it weren’t. Let’s get out of here.”
Mark slammed out of the autopsy suite, Sam on his heels.
“How is everything making sense? I don’t see it,” Sam said. “And where are you going?”
Mark didn’t answer, his mind already racing ahead. Jonathan was in a private room with so many tubes and drips that he seemed more machine than child. Mark’s stomach had hurt to look at him. It was one thing to treat strangers, but he’d spent time with the boy. He’d watched Jonathan’s delight while playing with the toy dinosaur, the dog and even just a handful of crayons. He’d cheered him on while he figured out how to put together a puzzle from one of those candy eggs. Kids made everything new.
Mark had even caught himself planning to take the boy into the woods to teach him about the plants and animals there. As if Jonathan was one of his own sons, lost so long ago. For a moment, he’d had a family again. He’d thought he was falling in love. But that was madness. Nothing would ever happen—especially now that Bree had found out the truth.
Her eyes had said it all. Get away from me and don’t come back. Bitterness soured his mood, so sharp he imagined an actual taste in his mouth.
Mark stormed down the hall, Sam still following. They made a sharp turn into a tiny room with a sink and coffeemaker. One of the lab techs was reading a magazine at the table. She took one look at Mark’s face and left.
He flung himself into a chair. “They’re all connected. Ferrel. The boy. That book. Lark’s murder. Now that I’ve seen the science it’s starting to tell a story.”
“How? You just got here.” Sam sat down opposite him.
“I had a theory. It didn’t take that long to check a couple of facts. I’ve more to do, but I’ll be surprised if I’m wrong.”
Sam waved a hand. “So tell me. Where’s the beginning of all this? I can’t figure it out.”
“Not a surprise if you haven’t read the journal.” Mark sighed. He should have seen it before. “It starts with a crazy vampire. Remember Thoristand?”
“With the castle and the grubby robes? Seriously?”
Ralston Samuel Hill—once a lieutenant colonel in the American Civil War—had picked up some of his mortal partner’s slang.
Mark wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or amused. “Very seriously. Thoristand wasn’t always behind the times. When I met him, he had developed an interest in natural philosophy, or science as they call it now. He had already studied anatomy and alchemy, astronomy and magnetism. He was a fascinating man, but he was encroaching into areas I dared not tread.”
“Such as?”
He shrugged. “You are familiar with the story of Dr. Frankenstein’s monster?”
“Yes.”
“Then you will understand when I say Thoristand’s pride as a scientist outweighed his judgment as a man. The more I read of the book hidden beneath Lark’s sketches, the more I believe it to be his work.”
Sam made an impatient gesture. “So he was a mad scientist, and that book is his work. Where does that get us?”
“Is there anything here to drink?” Mark jammed his hands into his hair.
Sam got up and looked under the sink. There was a bottle of Scotch. He set that on the table, and then found a couple of plastic cups.
Mark poured them each a shot. “According to the book, Thoristand believed science would provide the answer to what he saw as the vampire problem. You know the song—too many predators making more predators and not enough humans to eat. True, he was a vampire himself, but he wasn’t in favor of adding to the undead population.”
“So?” Sam asked.
“In that book, he’s attempting to replicate the genetic changes that take place when a human turns into a vampire, and introduce them through a virus. Not just mad science, but extremely risky mad science.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “But doesn’t the virus just make more vampires?”
“He’s creating a hybrid. Mutants. Humans strong enough to fight us.”
“Oh, brilliant. I’m not liking this story.”
“That was merely groundwork. Now the tale gets more interesting. A splinter group of the Knights of Vidon killed Thoristand five years ago.”
Sam tasted his Scotch and made a face. “So? They kill vampires on principle.”
“My guess is they wanted his research. Eventually they found out Lark had it, and they killed her to get his journal.”
“Why did she have it?”
“Not sure.” Mark sipped the drink. It was cheap and rough, but he was too weary to care. “I suspect the fey found it. Or stole it. That’s more their style. So would be keeping an object like that for a future bargaining chip. Lark worked with us, but she made sure to cover her own needs, as well.”
“Let’s say that was true,” Sam conceded. “Why did this splinter group of Knights want Thoristand’s research? They’re nothing if not anti-monster, anti-magic, anti-everything that’s not purely human.”
“When we had our altercation with the leaders of the Knights last spring, none of them could say why Lark was murdered. They were probably telling the truth. I think what we’re dealing with now is Nicholas Ferrel’s core faction.”
“The splinter group.”
“Exactly,” Mark agreed. “A small number of extremists, if you like, willing to throw the Knights’ code out the window and out-monster the monsters. They created the mutants.”
“Which brings us to the bodies in the morgue. But there’s a problem.”
“Which is?”
Sam waved a hand. “Ferrel doesn’t have the book yet. No book, no recipe, so where did those mutants come from?”
This was the part of the story Mark didn’t want to tell. He sat quietly for a moment, listening to the hum of the lights, the sounds of the building around him. Machines. People. The beep of the monitors around one little boy’s bed. Or maybe it was his imagination that he could pick out that single sound among so many.
Mark cleared his throat. “According to what was in the book, there were three versions of the formula. The one Thoristand wrote there is the last. It was supposed to have worked out the bugs of the first two trials.”
“Bugs?”
“You saw the damage when we opened up those bodies.”
“I’m not a doctor.” Sam made a face. “I just saw bloody flesh.”
“It was obvious those creatures wouldn’t have lived long. Tinkering with genetics is risky. The Knights probably used the first viable version of the formula to make them. Maybe they found it when they killed Thoristand. But they need the final formula before their warriors will live longer than a few months.”
Eyes narrowed, Sam leaned forward across the table. “Then do they know the mutants are going to keel over a few months after they change? Are they sacrificing their own people just to match us in hand-to-hand combat?”
“Ferrel’s crew are fanatics.”
At that, Sam poured himself another drink. “Do we know what’s in the formula? Or what the difference is between the first version and the third?”
“We do.” Mark frowned. “I had Kenyon do a scan of our records. Thoristand sent his early research to the Company executive—everything up to his second version of the formula. There’s every possibility Carter ga
ve a copy of it to the Knights when he was playing double agent and sold us out.”
Sam curled his lip. “Carter. That figures.”
“He hated us.”
Scowling, Sam set down his glass. “So let me recap. Version one they got from Mr. Crazy Vampire when they offed him. Version three is in the book the fey got somehow and Jessica Lark hid. Version two was in our own files but may have been leaked to the Knights by a traitor?”
“Exactly.” Mark noticed Sam skipped over the fact that Carter had been his maker, and that Sam had killed him for betraying the Company only months ago. That wound ran bone-deep.
They sat in silence for a long moment. Sam was still brooding when Mark’s pager buzzed.
Mark rose, glad he’d barely touched the Scotch. “I have to go.”
Sam just nodded, lost in his angry memories.
* * *
The page was about Jonathan. When Mark burst through the door, there was a nurse on either side of the bed, checking everything there was to check. One of the junior doctors was scanning the chart.
“What happened?” Mark demanded. He was already reviewing the vitals, but he could hear Jonathan’s labored breathing. Panic lanced through him. No, no, no. This can’t be happening! He was a whisker away from diagnosis, but until that was confirmed, he couldn’t come up with a treatment.
“Respiratory distress,” said the junior doctor. “Cardiogenic pulmonary edema would be my guess.”
“Don’t guess,” Mark snapped, letting his fear drive his temper. “Get films.”
One of the nurses leaped to the phone to call for the X-ray technician.
“Vasodilators?” the doctor suggested. “Morphine? Or maybe a diuretic?”
“Have you checked his kidney functions? This is a child, not a guessing game. Or do you regularly prescribe by closing your eyes and picking a drug off the shelf?”
“Oh,” said the young idiot, turning pale. “Kidneys not doing so well.”
“Then perhaps think harder.” Mark wanted to strangle him. Sadly, that didn’t work so well on the undead. “This child is on the edge. Any mistake could be fatal.”
Possessed by An Immortal Page 19