Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
I pulled off the interstate at a truck stop and parked near the semis. Sunset was still a couple of hours away, and the rain had reduced to a constant drizzle. Somehow, sitting in the middle of the trucks, we seemed protected from prying eyes. An illusion, but it kept me focused. I watched the truckers as they moved about, some going in and out of the attached diner, others carrying small duffels that most likely held a towel, a change of underwear, and a dopp kit.
Other than the truckers, the lot was quiet. I got out and climbed into the back, sliding Lucas’s legs over so I could sit. Blood dripped onto the carpet. I took a moment to center myself, readying myself for the next step.
His eyes were closed, but he was breathing, as shallow as it was.
“Lucas? Are you awake?”
A mumble was his only answer.
Taking a deep breath, I started at his legs, searching for each injury, assessing which were minor and which were life-threatening. The worst-case scenario was that he would lose enough blood that either his beast would rise, or he’d bleed out. A vamp could eventually die of that, but I didn’t know how much blood Lucas could lose before there was no coming back.
His pants were bloody, but there weren’t any cuts or holes in the fabric. I tenderly lifted his shirt, though it was more like prying it off. Dried blood had mixed with both congealing and fresh blood. Our last bottle of water had rolled under the front seat. My hands were too bloody, so I used my shirt to grab it and twist off the cap. I soaked the shirt so I wouldn’t create more damage.
When his shirt peeled away, I gasped. His chest looked like a tic-tac-toe board, lines crossing everywhere. Most weren’t too bad, but there were four deep cuts and two holes that probably pierced one of his kidneys or maybe his liver. My anatomy wasn’t the best.
But I knew enough. Lucas might be safe in the car, but he was bleeding out. My first priority was to stop the blood loss. I dug through a duffel, yanking out the few shirts we had left. Using the last of the water, I cleaned his chest, then used two shirts to staunch the bleeding. If I couldn’t lift his body, I wouldn’t be able to wrap the makeshift bandages tight enough to keep pressure on the wounds.
I applied the pressure manually for five minutes then cut my palm, giving Lucas more blood. His pulls were weak at best. I would need to give him blood more frequently, but unless I stopped the bleeding, it would be an endless cycle until I was too weak to give more. I sealed my cut and sat back.
I held his hand, murmuring words of love and support as I considered our options. The first thing was to take stock of myself. My clothes were covered with blood. I had to change. I grabbed leggings and a T-shirt and stepped out of the car, leaving the door open to cover me from onlookers as I quickly changed.
Once dressed, I slumped in the front passenger seat, mental fatigue overtaking me. But after a couple minutes of silence, I pushed it aside and picked up Lucas’s wallet, pulling out the cash. I added it to what was left of my emergency funds and the money I took from the dead vamps. We were flush. Thank heaven for small favors. We were a long way from New Orleans, where Lucas could get a blood donor, but I didn’t think he’d make it in his current condition. And those three vamps were still out there. We needed a safe place to hole up until Lucas was strong enough to stay conscious and walk. Fighting strength would be out of the question without a healer or several blood donors.
The truck stop would provide basic supplies. Then a thought struck. Up to now, I’d been trying to think like a vamp. We were up against vamps who thought like vamps. I had to switch up the game. Lucas was of no help. We had to rely on my skills. The survival skills I’d learned on the streets—cold, hungry, and on the defense from street thugs.
Instead of channeling Sergi, I needed to channel Harlow.
Soft murmurs made me turn around, and I squeezed through the gap between the front seats to get closer to Lucas. He kept repeating a single word, and once I understood what it was, my brow rose.
“Rosalynn.”
Lucas mumbled. A burning ache like fire. The beast stirred. The darkness returned.
“Hold your arm up. You’ll never defend your neck that way.” Marcus swung, and Lucas ducked, bringing his sword up to take a stab at Marcus’s stomach. “Better.”
Marcus swung again, and this time Lucas blocked it, keeping his elbow raised. Sweat leaked into his eyes, burning them, but he didn’t back down.
“Lucas!” His name squealed from a young girl, and he took a moment to glance back in time to see her take a tumble.
The flat edge of a blade hit him on the shoulder. The force was so powerful it brought him to a knee, and then a sword touched his neck.
“If I’ve told you a thousand times, brother, don’t let anything distract you—even Family.” Marcus shoved his sword into the sheath that hung at his side. “If you’re dead, who will protect them?”
“Understood.” Lucas rose and brushed the dirt from his knee then turned to watch Rosalynn, his five-year-old sister, pick herself up and continue her run to him. He grabbed her as soon as she reached him and swung her in the air, her giggles bringing a smile to his face.
“You got me killed, little sister.”
“You’re funny,” she said. “It’s only practice.”
“I’ve told you before, Rosalynn,” Marcus lectured. “There’s no playing during practice.” He marched past them before Rosalynn turned and stuck her tongue out.
Lucas mussed her hair and kissed her cheek. “You smell like strawberries.”
She nodded vigorously, her cheeks plump with a smile. “We picked them and ate them. But we saved a few for you.”
“Well, that was kind of you.”
“I know.” She giggled as Lucas strolled toward the woman waiting several yards away.
“Hello, Mother.” Lucas bent and kissed her cheek.
“I’m sorry about Rosalynn. She’s such a precocious child I don’t know what to do with her half the time.” Kathryn Maynard held out her arms, but the child held tight to Lucas.
“She’s not bothering anyone. I should have known not to turn around. Obviously, I need the distractions to help with practice.” He waved her arm away when she attempted to take her daughter a second time. “I’ll take her back to the house. I need something to eat before I challenge Marcus again.”
“You need to train while you’re hungry,” Marcus yelled over his shoulder as he picked up his armor and walked off.
“Yes, I know. In battle conditions, no one knows when their next meal will come.” Lucas stared after his brother, trying to remember when he’d become such a hard man. Being the oldest was never easy, especially with their father.
“Let me take her. Your father will be home soon.” She worried her hands as if they couldn’t settle unless she was holding something.
“Don’t worry so much. Let me spend time with my sister. I want to pick some apples from the orchard. How about a nice apple tart for dessert?”
His mother glanced around then nodded, giving a last look at her daughter. “That should temper your father’s mood. But don’t be too long.”
“Yes, Mother.” He kissed her cheek and turned away, Rosalynn’s head resting on his shoulder.
Once his brother and mother were out of sight, Rosalynn’s head popped up. “Can we play hide and find?”
“Can I hide first?”
“No, silly. I hide, and you try to find me.”
He chuckled. “Of course.” He’d barely set her down before she took off. “The orchard, remember?”
“I know.” Her voice filled with childish annoyance. She ran with abandon, stopping to pick up a wildflower here and there.
They spent an hour in the orchard, and he returned to the manor with a full basket of apples and a sleeping sister nestled in his other arm, her head on his shoulder. His father’s stallion was being led to the stables, and Lucas detoured through the kitchen, handing his basket to an excited cook.
He rubbed his hands together. “I thought I’d have to ask one of the gardeners to bring me a bushel. You’re too good to me.”
“Nonsense. But you better save me an extra tart.”
“For you, always.”
Lucas took the back stairs to the nursery and laid Rosalynn on her bed, covering her with a light summer quilt.
He heard the yelling before he reached his father’s study. Magnus Maynard was in another one of his foul moods. Nothing new there, and Lucas would catch hell for pampering his sister. He didn’t care. Sisters were meant to be pampered. At least, that was how young girls in the Houses of his friends were treated. But their House leaders weren’t as strict as his father, who always seemed to have something to prove.
“There you are. From what I hear of your training, you would do better with more time on the practice field than playing nursemaid to your sister.” Magnus poured wine into a goblet and drank half of it down.
Lucas glanced at Marcus, and though he caught a flinch from him, his brother showed no other emotion. Brian, his other brother, wouldn’t meet his eye. Lucas sighed. Being the youngest male in the manor seemed to be a curse. His brothers had almost thirty years of battle training over him, yet he was supposed to be their equal. Until he could best one of them, his father would never give him a rest.
“I can do both.”
“That’s the job of a governess. Is that where you’ve set your sights? To be a babysitter.”
“You know as well as my brothers my goal is to be cadre.”
His father laughed, and after taking another long drink of wine, he choked, beating his chest to clear his airway. “You might be useful to another House someday, but cadre? I can’t think of a House that would take on a bookworm.”
His brothers didn’t dare glance at him. He didn’t have to read minds to know they thought the same thing. It was the early nineteenth century, and knowledge in the art of war, politics, and the economy would be just as important if not more so than who had the strongest army. But his father would never see that.
“Spending time at the Renaud libraries is not wasted time. And a strong House leader will recognize the importance of knowledge as well as might for a strong cadre.” Lucas stood his ground as his father whirled on him.
The strike was expected, as was the power behind it, and while Lucas staggered back, he didn’t fall.
Though his face was red with anger, Magnus laughed. “Well, at least you can stand on your own two feet this time. I suppose that’s something.” He turned to Marcus. “Double his training until you’re satisfied he can defend the House with honor.” He flicked his fingers at Lucas.
“Go. Perhaps your mother needs your services in the drawing room.”
That got a chuckle from his brothers, and Lucas, his cheeks tinged with anger, bowed his head and made his escape. He was still fuming when he reached the library and stomped to the sideboard to grab the decanter of whiskey. He drained half the cup and welcomed the slow burn. After taking two deep breaths, he walked along the bookcases. For all his bluster, his father had read some of the books, but he preferred talk of the old days as he walked through battle scenarios with his brothers and cadre, all battle-hardened men.
Lucas found a book that fit his mood and dropped into his favorite chair. In front of the slow-burning fire, the late spring evenings still cool, and with drink in hand, he lost himself in the political intrigue of King Henry’s court. His father might not believe in him—and at one time his respect mattered—but Lucas had learned something more important than swordplay. It only mattered if you believed in yourself.