Chapter 37
“Look, I’ll do my best, I just don’t know how.
” Bea stayed very still, the spring inside her coiling tighter and tighter.
Could she get going fast enough to burst through whatever they had walling this office?
She couldn’t tell if it was more than drywall.
“You can put the gun down, okay? We can figure this out together.”
“Oh, I think I’ll be keeping it.” Wren was getting more worked up the longer conversation went on, and that was a very bad sign. “Jimmy, lad, bring out your needles. I think we’ll get the red stuff early, just in case.”
“Sure thing.” But the ginger guy hesitated. “Guess that means I’m going first, since you’re holding the gun. Right?”
From the crackling silence which ensued, Bea got the idea they hadn’t quite thought out this part of the plan. Which was kind of stupid—but then again, she’d only shown up a few days ago, unless this Wren guy had already known she was some kind of bloodsucker sex kitten?
No, probably not. They had Lukas’s murder planned to a T, this felt like extra credit.
Don’t worry about that, worry about getting out of this room without being shot.
Wren visibly made up his mind. “Age before beauty, Jimmy-boy. There’s a pistol in the kitchen, get it. Then she can bite me.”
I really would rather not. Bea forced herself not to grimace, to keep that steady, neutral expression.
“I dunno.” Hardison didn’t move. “Maybe we just need her to bite, since we already have some of his red stuff, you know? So I should go first, to check.”
That’s interesting. Lukas had definitely given both of these guys monster blood. Was it a regular thing? Did they get high off it, and that was how bloodsuckers controlled their daylight hires? She just didn’t know enough, but that probably wouldn’t matter.
“Jimmy, for fuck’s sake.” Wren’s cheek was back to twitching, tiny plucking motions now regular and constant instead of random. “Do what I fuckin’ tell you.”
“Don’t I always? I’m just asking, Thomas, you don’t have to be so—”
It happened fast. The gun’s nozzle swung away from her, an eye-scouring flash and the roar was massive, world-ending. Bea cried out, clapping her hands over her ears, her body instinctively throwing itself aside, but before she landed on blue carpet Jimmy Hardison’s entire head was vaporized.
OhGod, Jesus Christ, oh no...Blinking furiously, her ears ringing, Bea peered through her hair.
Wren’s ribs heaved. A fine, sparkling mist of blood hung in the air as Hardison’s body folded, landing with a wet thump, and Bea discovered that even if she hadn’t eaten for days and might be entirely on a liquid diet from now on she could still be nauseated enough to retch.
A heavy, coppery reek mixed with the acrid smokiness of gunfire, accompanied by a distinct tang of shit; her new vision was acute enough that even half-blinded by muzzleflash she could clearly distinguish white bone-chips and greyish brain spread in a blotch on the cabinet doors, all over the countertop and its medical paraphernalia.
Shouldn’t the blood smell better? The thought provoked another flare of nausea.
“Fucking kid,” Wren muttered. Faint vapor lifted from the gun’s barrel, its single eye very big and dark indeed. “But I guess it works, eh? Look at that.”
No, thanks. Bea decided the nearest wall was good enough to try. If there was rebar or something she couldn’t break through—
“Get up off the floor,” he continued. ‘And by God and Mother Mary, ya bint, if you don’t stop stalling and do what I—”
A shimmer in the air, a warm breeze ruffling her hair.
A small scream of stretching, overstressed metal; the rifle, twisted into an unusable hoop, was flung across the room, landing on the slumped mess which used to be Hardison.
A blurred streak resolved into the shreds of a black wool coat, thin curls of smoke rising from the fabric.
Underneath, a three-piece suit, torn and peppered with holes; atop the tatterdemalion a sandy-dark head, damp hair bearing a frosting of rapidly melting snow-crystals.
The wall next to the desk shuddered like a drumhead, dust rising from the table-surface. Wren hit hard, leaving a dent in drywall before sliding down.
Another burst of warm air caressed Bea’s cheek, stirring tangled curls. She stared at the shadow looming over her, still blinking away afterimages, and the immediate flood of hot, bone-deep relief was so intense she flinched. Her hip banged the futon couch’s base, and Lukas’s hand halted in midair.
He was soaked almost clear through and oddly gaunt, stubbled cheeks hollow and his jaw working.
His eyes were no longer dark but red, a wet vivid glow spreading in tiny droplets which winked out on invisible updrafts; he smelled of cold night wind, burning, and a clear colorless scent she recognized.
Pure, unfiltered rage. Her own anger was a single droplet to that ocean.
He crouched easily, regarding her, head slightly tilted. His largest fangs touched his lower lip, pressing gently; the truly scary thing, she realized afresh, was how controlled he was.
Lukas grimaced slightly, and the fangs receded. “All is well, Beatrice.” His hand didn’t move, palm-up, offering.
Oh, God. She reached for him, almost blindly, and let out a sobbing breath when her fingers met his.
* * *
He steadied her, clearly unworried about Wren’s presence; Bea couldn’t decide whether to keep an eye on the gasping heap who had just been holding a gun on her or stare at the monster who brushed at her shoulders, peered at her with those strange crimson eyes, and finally leaned close to inhale deeply.
That seemed to help, because when he withdrew the red glow had shrunk to those almost-familiar pinpricks. He held her shoulders, gave her one more long examination.
Under a heavy layer of smoke and winter night, he smelled so very familiar—the dry almost-musk of a healthy sandy-haired male. The thirst dilated at the back of her throat, she had to swallow hard against it.
“I thought you were dead,” she managed.
“Hardly.” A ghost of a smile; the crimson pinpricks vanished. His eyes were dark again, and strangely warm. The change was so sudden it almost robbed her of breath. “I have not enjoyed your company nearly enough.”
Really? After being blown up and shot at? Her gaze skipped past him—Wren was moving, it looked like he’d gotten his breath back.
Lukas’s hands tightened fractionally on her shoulders, a brief, consoling squeeze. “Are you hurt? Tell me.”
She managed a headshake. But it sure looks like he is.
“Very well. Sit, if you like. This may take a moment.” He let go of her, though lingeringly, as if he didn’t quite trust she could keep herself upright without the help.
She found she could, and watched Wren try to push himself back against the wall as Lukas bore down on him. Even in rags, her monster strolled as if in complete charge of everything the room contained, and honestly she couldn’t say he wasn’t.
“M-m-master…” Wren’s teeth chattered, chopping the word into quivering pieces.
He had gone chalky, with a decided greenish undertone, and the black tactical breastplate creaked as he tried to scoot further.
An invisible rippling descended upon him, both like and unlike the seals.
He froze, though his ribs still heaved with deep panting breaths.
One of his arms hung at a peculiar angle—looked like a humerus fracture.
Bea winced in sympathy.
“Be still,” Lukas said, almost kindly. “I did not mind the money you embezzled; you earned more than that with hard work. I did not mind your contact with hunter cells either, for it saved me the trouble of tracking them.” He stopped, very close to the other man, and folded gracefully into a crouch once more, balancing easily.
“I cannot even blame you for covering up incursions for half a year hoping another sanguinant would topple me, for that is my own incompetence. I had calcified almost to the point of no return.”
“Master…” Wren’s mouth worked, spittle collecting at the corners, sliding down his chin. He trembled so hard the wall creaked like his body-armor, though the invisible weight forestalled any other movement. “I...I was misled.”
“Were you?” Lukas’s tone of gentle interest was downright chilling. “I suppose we might call it that. Still, all those things matter little. Even luring me away with months-old reports of an incursion was a good ruse, though a tired one. And yet.”
“I won’t ever do it again. P-p-please, Master.” It was jarring to hear such a big, brawny guy whine, mostly because Bea knew what it was like to plead with such overwhelming power. “I promise, I swear.”
“It is good to have a tool one knows the measure of,” Lukas said, softly. “But you attempted to break into a sealed saferoom where my leman rested.”
What? It took Bea a moment to realize what the hell he was talking about—the North Bluffs mansion, and the door unlocking itself.
So he had believed her about that. At the moment, she was just very, very glad he was occupied with something else. The rifle, bent nearly double, lay atop Hardison’s body; she hurriedly looked away. There was the door...but that was kind of useless, wasn’t it.
And really, why would she run? He was a monster, yes. He’d also come to get her, and Bea discovered it was incredibly comforting to be the person someone dropped everything and ran to help.
Had Jared felt this way when she showed up at the house on Noll Mountain? The loosening in the chest, the sudden sense of being able to breathe again, the oh, thank God, someone else, I don’t have to do everything alone?
Huge greasy drops of sweat stood out on Wren’s face, matching the shiny spit coating his chin. “Two hundred years,” he spat, suddenly. Looked like he’d gotten past fear and into defiance; Bea could absolutely relate. “You were never going to change me!”
Lukas was silent for a moment, leaning back slightly on his heels. “Of course not, Thomas. You do not have the temperament for the Gift.”
“It’s not bloody fair.” Wren’s lips skinned back, dark eyes now blazing. “You could have let me try.”
“My friend, I gave you all the life I could. Now you will die slowly, in agony, because you dared lay hands upon what is not yours to touch.” The scariest thing wasn’t what Lukas said, but how—level and emotionless, simply stating facts.
Oh, hell. Bea’s hands were fists. She could break for the door, hope to distract him, maybe? That might give Wren enough time to get away. Not that she liked the bastard; for God’s sake, he’d been holding a gun on her just a minute ago, and he was enough of a psychopath to want...what he wanted.
But looking at Hardison’s body was difficult enough, reminding her of Jared, of brutally detailed autopsy and crime-scene photos. She absolutely never wanted to see another corpse ever again.
“Lukas?” Her voice cracked, the thirst spreading. Now her entire throat was dry and scratchy, the craving intensifying since the source of what it wanted was right in the same room. “Please, don’t.”
He didn’t move, yet that invisible sense of his attention settling on her was undeniable. “No need for fear, kitten. You may simply look away.”
That’s not the point. She tested her legs, found out they would hold her, and took a step. Then another.