Watcher in the Darkness, Book 3: Imprisoned

Chapter 12

By the time I came down from the tower, the sun had broiled most of the skin from my face. My flesh stung like the bites of a thousand fire ants. Broken blisters seeped into my eyes, which were blinded by the dawn. I have nothing to say for myself, except that the pain was kind of a relief.

So, great. What was next on my growing list of personality defects? Was I about to start cutting myself?

I kept my right hand on the wall for guidance as I stumbled toward my room. I didn't recognize the shadowy figure that came to stand before me until the stench of Michael's cologne assaulted my senses.

"The baron gave me this business card to pass along to you," he said, then his voice sharpened with alarm. "Jesus Christ, Tobias, what the hell happened to you?"

I managed to snatch the card from Michael on the third swipe. "Anything else?" I said as I ripped it into tiny pieces.

"Yes. He asked what sort of priestly training I've received. When I told him, he informed me that I'm useless then walked out."

Michael's silhouette was broken by jagged flashes of light, but he was beginning to gel into focus. "That sounds like my father," I said. "Don't let him get to you. I'm going to bed." I didn't hold out hope that I'd actually sleep, but my aching body demanded that I try again.

"Hold on. Dr. Walters faxed this over for you this morning. She said you were asking her about it last night?" Michael thrust a thin stack of copy paper in my direction. There was shit written on it, but the words were a grey haze. "I thought you'd gone out, or I would've brought it by sooner."

My head felt strange, like an unholy cross between being sick and being drunk. I didn't have much experience with either sensation, so I wanted to lay down with my eyes closed until it passed. I pinched the bridge of my nose as I said, "It must be Justine's coroner report. Awesome." I was honestly glad to have it, yet my tone was flat and disinterested. "Can you read it to me? I can barely see. Besides, I doubt I'll understand all the technical medical stuff anyway."

I felt Michael look me over. "Sure," he said, a frown in his voice. He took me by the elbow to guide me, and the touch of his hand irked me to the bone.

The overhead lights in Michael's office were dim, but I could make out the outline of a wheelchair next to the tinted windows. Song stared at the Sanctuary's eastern wall, as stiff and still as a wooden statue. Her hair had finally grown back, and someone had brushed it as smooth as her newborn vampire skin. Her bathrobe was thick and pulled tight around her body, but only the profoundly unobservant would fail to notice she had only one arm and half a leg.

A growl rumbled up from my chest as I flopped onto the couch. "Don't you ever fucking sleep?" Like I had room to talk.

Song said nothing, not that I expected her to speak. If she wasn't hysterical, she was catatonic. In truth, I was grateful she was being quiet, for a change.

I heard Michael's desk chair squeak as he sat down, then a click as he turned on the lamp. "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"Just read it," I said, wishing I had a cold compress for my eyes.

"Yes, your highness." The papers rustled as Michael picked up the fax then tapped it against his desk. "Wow. I guess terrible handwriting must be a graduation requirement in medical school. Anyway. Name, Justine Anne Walters. Race, Caucasian. Sex, female. Age, twenty-five. Home address, blah-blah-blah. Marital status, single. Occupation, unemployed. Notified by police department, investigated by police depart—Toby, what are we looking for, here?"