Another few heartbeats, and one of the Slaygate vampires bows his head briefly to Atlan. "The incident is closed," he agrees.
"Great," says Atlan. "And now—I need a shower."
22
Atlan
She loves me.
She said she loves me.
In the shower, I replay what happened over and over.
Finley, her eyes blazing, begging me to help Harry, to do something.
I cringe inside at my own cowardice, my fear of what the other vampires would think, what Markham and the commanders might do to me, and to her, if I defied them. I wish I hadn't needed Finley's example before taking action—I should have been bold enough to act on my own.
Maybe I'm not very brave at all. Like I told Finley once, it doesn't take much courage to walk out amid a crowd of zombies who really don't notice you.
But Finley's act of courage—
Damn, it was glorious.
I can see it now—her, snatching the soldier's gun, vaulting the wall, skimming down the rope, her blond hair flying in the wind of her descent. Leaping in front of Harry, shielding him with her body. Blasting the brains out of the first couple vamps.
The panic tore my heart in half—I knew she was going to die.
I'm not even sure how I got down there. I think part of it was scrambling, part of it was falling—somehow I managed not to break anything, thanks to my vampire strength—and after that, it was all a mess of guts and bone and blood-slick skulls under my hands. I didn't care—wasn't conscious of anything except kill, kill, kill, as fast as possible so they don't kill my darling, my darling—I checked in on her a couple of times—no bites, still fighting—good.
And then, when it was over, I was ready for her revulsion. No sane woman watches a man rip carcasses open with his teeth and his bare hands, and then looks at him with any kind of affection.
Thank god Finley isn't quite sane.
When she kissed me, when she said "I love you"—oh hell—something tightly coiled in my soul swelled and burst—unfurled, opened—I don't know how else to describe it. It was like a damn conversion experience—I've heard people describe them. It was freedom, and light, and joy.
I play it again in my head, her eyes glowing as she stripped off her shirt and wiped my mouth. As she kissed me, fierce and firm, with those soft, warm lips of hers. Atlan, you magnificent monster. I love you.
I'm so turned on right now, and I don't even bother trying to resist the urge to pleasure myself.
The ectasy is just as intense this time, washing over me in a flood, turning my legs limp. Footsteps enter the shower room, and I bite back a moan.
"Atlan?"
Damn it, it's Markham.
I lean against the shower wall, thankful for the curtain. "Yeah?" I croak.
"We have a mission."
"What?" I'm wiped out. Exhausted. I need blood—I need Finley. "Why? Who—"
He rips the curtain aside, and I push myself away from the wall and stand up straight. "Don't think you can be insubordinate now. I let your little stunt play out because I happen to like Harry myself. I couldn't intervene without angering the vampires, but one of their own could show mercy, and you did. It's over now. You're still my warrior, under my command."
"Yes, sir."
"Get dressed, have a blood drink, and report to my strategy room. Bring Finley with you."
I frown. Bring Finley?
Markham gives me a wry smile. "That girl is something else. Drywall expert, superior blood source, daredevil, fast thinker—I'd like her opinion on this mission."
"Yes, sir."
He leaves, and I shut down the shower and towel off slowly. As pleased as I am that he's noticing Finley's intelligence, that very fact could also put her in danger. Markham is cautious with his resources, but he can also be uncompromising when it comes to sacrifices for the greater good. He'll look at Finley as just one more asset to be moved around his game board—whereas to me, she is the board—she's the pieces, the cards—hell, the whole damn endgame.
When I reach my quarters, she's standing in her room, drying her hair with a smaller towel while another one is wrapped around her body, tucked tightly under her arms. I move toward her, and it's like I'm floating or gliding—I swear my feet are that light.
She has her back to me, so I slide both arms around her and pull her against my chest. She gasps a little, but it's a delighted, excited kind of gasp, and when I lean around to kiss her cheek, I can tell she's smiling.
"You like me, too, don't you?" she says, half glad, half cautious.
I nuzzle into her damp hair, and then I kiss a few drops of water from her smooth shoulders. If I hadn't already taken care of myself in the shower, I'd be hard again right now. I'm glad I'm not though—it's too soon to tell her about that.
Slowly I swivel her around in my arms. "Trouble, I'm crazy in love with you."
"Really?" Her lips tremble a little. "Are you sure?"
"Hell yes I'm sure. What kind of a question is that?"
"Good, because I'm sure, too. And I don't expect anything from you—we don't even have to kiss again if you don't want to."
"I do want to. But if we do it again now I won't be able to stop, and we have to go see Markham in the strategy room, after—" I hesitate.
"After a little blood." She
"Only if you're okay with—"
"Atlan." She lays a hand over my heart, and I think I might die for her. "This may have started as a 'have to do it' thing for me, but now I want to. I told you how I feel about this. It's a way I can help the human survival effort—and you."
"But the last time a vampire drank from you, it was Charon. If you need more time—"
Her fingers curl against my chest, crumpling my shirt. "I need you to erase what he did, okay? I don't want his fangs to be the ones I remember." She swallows hard. "This is important. You're always so gentle, Atlan. I'll be fine."
I gather her close. "Brave," I murmur in her ear. "Brave, beautiful woman."
"Stop it," she hisses. "You're going to make me cry."
She wriggles out of my arms and reclines against her pillows, inching up her towel enough to expose her thigh. Her favorite spot.
The now-familiar buzzing starts again in my groin, a flicker of desire.
I can't get excited right now. I have to focus, to make this about healing her.
Kneeling beside the bed, I splay both hands over her thigh and sink my fangs into her flesh. The suction from my mouth draws the hot blood from her veins up through my fangs into my body. The extra liquid that washes over my tongue is salty, rich delight.
We're both used to the process now, so it's over quickly, but I seal the wounds slowly, reveling in the taste of her skin. She sighs, completely relaxed. If we weren't due to Markham's strategy session I'd push that towel up a little higher and taste her—
Someone knocks on my bedroom door, and I swear. "Get dressed, Trouble. We've got a mission briefing to attend."
23
Finley
I've never sat in on a mission briefing before—unless you count the meetings and training we used to have just prior to starting the school year. Captain Markham stands at the head of a long table ringed with other military leaders and a couple of vampires from Slaygate and Bastion. Atlan and I sit at the end of the table opposite Markham, and throughout his speech his eyes lock onto us repeatedly—observing, analyzing.
"Until now, the personnel manning the Blue City wall have been primarily a defensive force," he says. "But I've been made aware of an urgent issue that needs a strong hand—our best fighters. It's an extraction, from a facility in the Hordelands."
"Wait, in the Hordelands?" Atlan says.
Captain Markham slaps a map onto the table and jabs a thick finger at it. "There's a bunker, here. We've received a distress call from them—spotty and intermittent over the past week, and we've had trouble deciphering it. But from what we can tell, there's a group of scientists and doctors in that bunker
, and they've been working on something—"
"A cure?" interjects one of the women at the table. I think she's a sergeant or something.
"I'm not sure. But they say it could fix the zombie problem. I've got orders from Lieutenant Nolan to send a team out into the Hordelands to fetch the researchers and bring them back here to safety behind the wall."
Tentatively I raise my hand, unsure if I'm allowed to speak out. Captain Markham nods to me, a glint of humor in his eyes.
"Why are we just now hearing from this group?" I ask. "Why didn't they call for extraction a lot sooner? Have they really been surviving out there in some bunker for two whole years?"
"Excellent questions. We have no answers right now, since the communication with the bunker has been so sporadic. But the information we've been able to get has grabbed the interest of my superiors enough for them to risk a mission like this."
One of the vampires speaks. "How many humans are we talking about?"
"Twelve or so, I believe."
Twelve people survived in a bunker for two years, and somehow managed to create a cure of some type within that time? I don't buy it. There's something fishy here. I frown at Captain Markham, trying to communicate my suspicion.
He gives me a brief nod. "I don't like it either, but we have our orders. We're being given three armored vehicles for the transportation of the research team and any equipment they may need to bring. I'm one warrior down, so I can only spare Atlan here for the mission, and a squad of soldiers under Sergeant Perez." He nods to the woman who spoke earlier.
The rest of the extraction team takes shape quickly—two more vampires from the other outposts, additional soldiers, and a couple of ordnance handling experts. Then Markham addresses me again. "Miss Mars, as you've probably guessed, the vampires going on the mission will need to have their blood-bags along. I'd like you to advise on security and safety measures for them."
I do my best to swallow my shock. "Well—offhand I'd suggest that we all carry guns to protect ourselves."
"Not all of the suppliers are as handy with a firearm as you are, Miss Mars."
"Then maybe some quick training before we leave. Or perhaps those who aren't comfortable with guns can carry knives or electroshock weapons."
And that's only the beginning of hours of discussion and planning. By the time we're done, it's late in the evening, and my mind is buzzing with the details of the mission—the route we're taking, who's riding in each vehicle, the scenarios we played through in case we encounter a horde at various points along the way. Atlan is in soldier mode, focused and firm, throughout the session—but when we're finally dismissed and we trudge upstairs to our rooms, he's silent as death, his lips pressed thin and his brows lowered.
"You're worried," I tell him, closing the bedroom door behind us.
"Hell yes I'm worried. Markham is sending us—sending you—out into the Hordelands. That doesn't bother you?"
"Sure it does. But I'll be inside an armored truck the whole time. And you'll be there to keep me safe." I smile up at him, fighting down my inner twinge of panic at the thought of myself free-floating in the Hordelands, with nothing but the truck's walls, a few vampires, and a handful of soldiers between me and countless zombie mouths.
Atlan shakes his head, glowering. "Plans never work out like they're meant to. What if something happens to one of the vehicles?"
"We covered that in the meeting, Atlan." Again I speak with a confidence I don't feel. It's odd, like our roles have reversed. Like his new affection for me makes him more anxious, more vulnerable, in need of an extra boost of courage. "If a truck breaks down, we'll find another vehicle and gas it up using the extra fuel we're bringing along. It's fine."
"But what if—"
I reach up and cover his mouth with my fingers. "Atlan. Stop borrowing trouble, okay? It's just a couple days' drive to pick up some scientists, and then a couple days back. We'll be okay." But there's a sick twist of uncertainty in the pit of my stomach, and a voice in the back of my head screaming I don't want to go, I don't want to go over and over. After all, I'm the girl who didn't want to get near the wall when a horde was approaching. I have a very strong sense of self-preservation, and I know that when we leave the gate and drive out into the Hordelands, every molecule of my body will be crawling with the urge to bolt back to safety.
Atlan removes my hand from his mouth. "This is why loving someone is so dumb. It makes people crazy with worry. Why do you have to be so damn fragile?" He runs his fingers through my hair, tucking it behind my ear.
"Sorry?" I wince apologetically. "I'll try to carry my weight if we get into a firefight with the zombies."
"No," he growls. "You will stay under cover and hide, and survive."
"That is the more likely scenario," I admit.
"Good. Whatever keeps you alive." He cups my face in his hands, and for a second I think he's going to kiss me—
But he doesn't.
He releases me and backs away. "You should get some rest."
"Oh. Um—yeah." I had hoped we could share a bed, but I guess that's not going to happen. I'm not entirely sure why he didn't kiss me, or why he's keeping me at arm's length—I thought we could at least snuggle. Maybe kissing really doesn't do anything for him—maybe it even grosses him out. I don't know how deeply the lack of libido affects him, how much physical contact he's comfortable with. It's probably something we should discuss soon.
But honestly, I'm exhausted, and not ready to delve into that awkward conversation tonight.
The next day is spent preparing for the mission, so I don't see much of Atlan—and we both collapse into our separate beds that night, dreading our departure at 5 a.m. I can't sleep right away though, partly because I'm anxious about venturing into the freaking Hordelands and partly because things between Atlan and me seem—weird. I mean, we just declared our love for each other, but since his last feeding we've barely spent five minutes alone together. He sits nearer to me at meals than he used to, but he seems careful of touching me, or being too close to me for too long.
I really, really need to sleep, but my brain won't stop churning, tossing around possibilities and maybes, like a Ferris wheel going round and round, continually rotating the same cars from top to bottom and back again.
Maybe Atlan has decided that, in his own words, "loving someone is dumb." Maybe he doesn't want the anxiety that goes along with caring about me on that level—deeply enough to really hurt.
Another terrible suspicion creeps into my mind—the idea that maybe, just maybe, he said he loved me only because I said it first. What if he followed my declaration with his own so I wouldn't feel rejected? It would be just like him to do that, with that big stupid heart of his.
Maybe he doesn't really love me. Or maybe he does, but he can't handle touching me, and the physical contact repulses him. No, that's ridiculous. He has touched me plenty of times before—in fact, he seemed to enjoy knowing that his touch was turning me on.
So why won't he touch me now? Is he trying to stay focused? After all, we have a very dangerous mission starting tomorrow—maybe he doesn't want the extra distraction until it's over—
Groaning, I pull the pillow over my head. I have to sleep. I need to sleep, because who knows when I'll have a comfortable bed again? I'll have plenty of time to obsess over Atlan during the drive tomorrow.
My mind keeps coming back to the same issues, the same possibilities, and I keep diverting and rerouting it to innocuous images of butterflies and English gardens and deep, calm pools under weeping willow trees until finally, finally, my brain shuts off and I fall asleep.
***
Our departure from the gate is uneventful—in fact, I don't even see it. I'm safely buckled into an armored vehicle, with a carefully packed survival bag at my feet, and in my lap lies a dog-eared paperback Sarah shoved into my hands before we climbed into the trucks. It's a romance novel, something about a kilted guy with massive pecs and a woman who's slumped against him with
an adoring expression on her face. Not my thing, but maybe it's better than stewing over Atlan's strange behavior.
He's sitting up front with the driver, so he can spot danger and react quickly. Each of our vehicles is fitted with a massive gun on top—I don't know what it's called, but I know it shoots a lot of bullets and could take down a hell of a lot of zombies, and that's good enough for me.
We all have radios in our bags, and I've been shown how to use mine; but we were also warned about the spotty communications in the zone we're entering. During the Gorging, a lot of crap went down, and some of it resulted in the damage or dysfunction of a bunch of satellites. Plus, the Hordelands have endured tons electrical interference lately—huge storms sweeping across the plains, wreaking havoc with their violent winds and jagged lightning.
Communication signals stay strong throughout the first day, though—strong enough for Deathcastle to warn us of horde movement twenty miles ahead. We pause for about an hour until we receive word that the horde has passed and it's safe for our caravan to proceed.
The other soldiers in my vehicle don't really talk to me. There's an odd social gap between us—they're free humans, sworn to serve the military and the human survival effort. I'm a ratty street girl turned slave and blood-bag. It's an unspoken difference, but they manage to make it tangible by being polite when it's necessary and leaving me strictly alone otherwise. I find myself wishing that the other two blood-bags had ridden in the same vehicle with me, just so I could have some company and conversation; but we've been divided up, with one vampire and one supplier per vehicle.
We don't stop for the night. The soldiers sleep where they sit, taking it in turns to drive, occasionally chugging those tiny bottles of liquid that claim to give you energy for five hours.
My head is lolling from exhaustion, my eyes closing without my permission, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I snap upright, wiping drool from the corner of my mouth.
It's Atlan, his blue eyes warm with amusement. "You all right?" he asks.
Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1) Page 15