Chapter Twelve When Jane came to again, it was out of a terrifying dream, one in which something that didn't exist was in fact alive and well and in the same room with her: She saw her patient's sharp canine teeth and his mouth at the wrist of a woman and him drinking from a vein. The hazy, off-kilter images lingered and panicked her like a tarp that moved because there was something under it. Something that would hurt you. Something that would bite you. Vampire. She did not get afraid all that often, but she was scared as she sat up slowly. Looking around the spartan bedroom, she realized with dread that the kidnapping part of things hadn't been a dream. The rest of it, though? She wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't, because her memory had so many holes in it. She remembered operating on the patient. Remembered admitting him to the SICU. Remembered the men abducting her. But after that? Everything was spotty. Chapter Twelve When Jane came to again, it was out of a terrifying dream, one in which something that didn't exist was in fact alive and well and in the same room with her: She saw her patient's sharp canine teeth and his mouth at the wrist of a woman and him drinking from a vein. The hazy, off-kilter images lingered and panicked her like a tarp that moved because there was something under it. Something that would hurt you. Something that would bite you. Vampire. She did not get afraid all that often, but she was scared as she sat up slowly. Looking around the spartan bedroom, she realized with dread that the kidnapping part of things hadn't been a dream. The rest of it, though? She wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't, because her memory had so many holes in it. She remembered operating on the patient. Remembered admitting him to the SICU. Remembered the men abducting her. But after that? Everything was spotty. As she took a deep breath, she smelled food and saw there was a tray set up next to her chair. Lifting a silver lid off the... Jesus, that was a really nice plate. Imari, like her mother's had been. Frowning, she noted the meal was gourmet: lamb with baby new potatoes and summer squash. A slice of chocolate cake and a pitcher and a glass were off to the side. Had they kidnapped Wolfgang Puck as well, for kicks and giggles? She looked over at her patient. In the glow from a lamp on the bedside table, he was lying still on black sheets, his eyes closed, his black hair against the pillow, his heavy shoulders showing just above the covers. His respiration was slow and even, his face had color in it, and there was no sheen of fever sweat on him. Although his brows were drawn and his mouth was nothing more than a slash, he looked... revived. Which was impossible, unless she'd been out cold for a week straight. Jane stood up stiffly, stretched her arms over her head, and arched to crack her spine back into place. Moving silently, she went over and took the man's pulse. Even. Strong. Shit. None of this was logical. None of it. Patients who had been shot and stabbed and who had crashed twice, who then had had open-heart surgery, did not rebound like this. Ever. Vampire. Oh, shut up with that. She glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table and saw the date. Friday.Friday ? Christ, it was Friday and ten o'clock in the morning. She'd operated on him a mere eight hours ago, and he looked as if he'd had weeks of healing time. Maybe this was all a dream. Maybe she'd fallen asleep on the train down to Manhattan and would wake up as they pulled into Perm Station. She'd have an awkward laugh, get a cup of coffee, and go to her interview at Columbia as planned blaming it all on vending cuisine. She waited. Hoped a bump in the tracks would lurch her into waking up. Instead, the digital clock just kept churning through the minutes. Right. Back to the shit-this-is-reality idea. Feeling utterly alone and scared to death, Jane walked over to the door, tried the knob, and found it locked.Surprise, surprise . She was tempted to bang on the thing, but why bother? No one on the other side was going to let her free, and besides, she didn't want any of them to know she was awake. Casing the place was the directive: The windows were covered by some kind of barrier on the far side of the glass, the panel so thick there wasn't even a glow of day coming through it. Door was obviously a no-go. Walls were solid. No phone. No computer. Closet was nothing but black clothes, big boots, and a fireproof cabinet. With a lock on it. The bathroom didn't offer any escape. There was no window and no vent big enough for her to squeeze through. She came back out. Man, this wasn't a bedroom. It was a cell with a mattress. And this was not a dream. Her adrenal glands got kicking, her heart going gidda-wild in her chest. She told herself that the police must be looking for her. Had to be. With all the security cameras and personnel at the hospital, someone must have seen them take her and the patient out of there. Plus, if she missed her interview, questions would start rolling. Trying to get a grip, Jane closed herself in the bathroom, the lock of which had been removed, natch. After using the facilities, she washed her face and grabbed a towel that was hanging off the back of the door. As she put her nose into the folds, she caught an amazing scent that stopped her dead. It was the smell of the patient. He must have used this, probably before he went out and took that bullet in the chest. She closed her eyes and breathed in deep. Sex was the first and only thing that came to her mind. God, if they could bottle this, these boys could feed their gambling and drug habits by going legit. Disgust with herself, she dropped the towel like it was trash and caught a flash behind the toilet. Bending down to the marble tile, she found a straight-edged razor, the oldfashioned kind that made her think of Western movies. As she picked it up, she stared at the shiny blade. Now, this was a fine weapon, she thought. A damn fine weapon. She slipped it in her white coat just as she heard the bedroom door open. Leaving the bathroom, she kept her hand in her pocket and her eyes sharp. Red Sox was back, and he had a pair of duffels with him. The load didn't seem substantial, at least not for someone as big as him, but he struggled under it. "This should be a good enough start," he said in a raspy, tired voice, the wordstart pronouncedstaht in classic Bostonian fashion. Start what?" "Treating him." "Excuse me?" Red Sox bent down and opened one of the bags. Inside were boxes of bandages and gauze wraps. Latex gloves. Plastic mauve bedpans. Bottles of pills. "He told us what you'd need." "Did he."Damn it . She had no interest in playing doc. It was a big enough job being Kidnap Victim, thank you very much. The guy straightened carefully, like he was lightheaded. "You're going to take care of him." "Am I?" "Yeah. And before you ask, yes, you're going to make it out of here alive." "Assuming I do the medical thing, right?" "Pretty much. But I'm not worried. You'd do it anyway, wouldn't you." Jane stared at the guy. Not much showed of his face underneath the baseball cap, but his jaw had a curve to it she recognized. And there was that Boston accent. "Do I know you?" she asked. "Not anymore." In the silence she ran a clinical eye over him. His skin was gray and pasty, his cheeks hollow, his hands shaking. He looked like he'd been on a two-week bender, weaving on his feet, his breathing off. And what was that smell? God, he reminded her of her grandmother: all denatured perfume and facial powder. Or... maybe it was something else, something that took her back to medical school... Yeah, that was more like it. He reeked of formaldehyde from Gross Human Anatomy. He certainly had the pallor of a corpse. And ill as he was, she wondered if she might be able to take him down. Feeling the razor in her pocket, she measured the distance between them and decided to hang tight. Even though he was weak, the door was shut and relocked. If she attacked him, she'd just risk getting hurt or killed and wouldn't be any closer to getting out. Her best bet was to wait next to the jamb until one of them came in. She was going to need the element of surprise, because sure as hell they would overpower her otherwise. Except what did she do once she was on the other side? Was she in a big house? A little one? She had a feeling that the Fort Knox routine on the windows was standard-issue everywhere else. "I want out," she said. Red Sox exhaled like he was exhausted. "In a couple of days you'll go back to your life without remembering any of this." "Yeah, right. Being kidnapped has a way of sticking with a person." "You'll see. Or not, as the case will be." As Red Sox went to the bedside, he used the bureau, then the wall to steady himself. "He looks better." She wanted to shout at him to get away from her patient. "V?" Red Sox sat down carefully on the bed. "V?" The patient's eyes opened after a moment, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Cop." The two men reached for each other's hands at exactly the same moment, and as she watched them, she decided the two of them had to be brothers-except their coloring was so different. Maybe they were just tight friends? Or lovers? The patient's eyes slid over to her and ran up and down her body as if he was checking that she was unharmed. Then he looked at the food she hadn't touched and frowned like he disapproved. "Didn't we just do this?" Red Sox murmured to the patient. " 'Cept I was the guy in the bed? How about we call it even now and not pull this wounded shit anymore." Those icy bright eyes left her and shifted to his buddy. The frown didn't leave his face. "You look like hell." "And you're Miss America." The patient brought his other arm out of the sheets like the thing weighed as much as a piano. "Help me get my glove off-" "Forget it. You're not ready." "You're getting worse." Tomorrow-" "Now. We do it now." The patient's voice lowered to a whisper. "In another day you won't be able to stand. You know what happens." Red Sox dropped his head until it hung like a bag of flour off his neck. Then he cursed softly and reached for the patient's gloved hand. Jane backed away until she hit the chair she'd been passed out in. That hand had put her nurse flat on the floor with a seizure, and yet the two men were both going about their business like contact with that thing was no big deal. Red Sox gently worked the black leather free, revealing a hand covered with tattoos. Good God, the skin seemed to glow. "Come here," the patient said, opening his arms wide to the other man. "Lay with me." Jane's breath stopped in her chest. Cormia walked the halls of the adytum, her bare feet silent, her white robe making no sound, her very breath passing in and out of her lungs with nary a sigh to note its travels. It was thus that she ambulated as a Chosen should, casting no shadow to eye nor whisper to ear. Except she had a personal purpose, and that was wrong. As a Chosen you were to serve the Scribe Virgin at all times, your intentions always for Her. Cormia's own need was such as to be undeniable, however. The Temple of Books was at the end of a long colonnade and its double doors were always open. Of all the sanctuary's buildings, even the one that contained the gems, this held the most prized lot: Herein rested the Scribe Virgin's records of the race, a diary that was of incomprehensible scope, spanning thousands of years. Dictated by Her Holiness to specially trained Chosen, the labor of love was a testament of both history and faith. Inside the ivory wall, in the glow of white candles Cormia padded over the marble floor, passing countless stacks, walking faster and faster as she got more anxious. The diary's volumes were arranged chronologically, and within each year by social class, but what she was after wouldn't be in this general section. Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was around, she ducked down a corridor and came up to a glossy red door. In the middle of the panels was a depiction of two black daggers crossed at the blade, handles down. Around the hilts in gold leaf was a sacred motto in the Old Language: TheBlackDaggerBrotherhood ToDefend andProtect OurMother,Ourrace,OurBrothers Her hand shook as she put it on the golden handle. This area was restricted, and if she was caught she would be punished, but she cared naught. Even as she feared the quest she was on, she could no longer bear her lack of knowledge. The room was of stately size and proportion, its high ceiling gold leafed, its stacks not white but shiny black. The books ringing the walls were bound in black leather, their spines marked in gold that reflected the light from candles the color of shadows. The carpet on the floor was bloodred and soft as a pelt. The air had a smell here that was not usual, the scent recalling certain spices. She had a feeling it was because the Brothers had actually come to this room on occasion and had lingered among their history, taking books out, perhaps about themselves, perhaps about their forebears. She tried to imagine them here and couldn't, as she'd never seen one of them. She had never seen a male in person, actually. Cormia worked fast to discover the order of the volumes. It appeared that they were arranged by year-Oh, wait. There was a biography section, as well. She knelt down. Each set of these volumes was marked with a number and the name of the Brother, along with his paternal lineage. The first of them was an ancient tome bearing symbols with an archaic variation she recalled from some of the oldest parts of the Scribe Virgin's diary. This initial warrior had several books to his name and number, and the next two Brothers bore him as their sire. Farther down the line, she randomly took out a book and opened it. The title page was resplendent, a painted portrait of the Brother surrounded by script detailing his name and birth date and induction into the Brotherhood as well as his prowess on the field by weapon and tactic. The next page was the warrior's lineage for generations, followed by a listing of the females he'd mated and the young he'd sired. Then chapter by chapter his life was detailed, both on the field and off. This Brother, Tohrture, had evidently lived long and fought well. There were three books on him, and one of the last notations was the male's joy when his one surviving son, Rhage, joined the Brotherhood. Cormia put the book back and kept going, trailing her forefinger over the bindings, touching the names. These males had fought to keep her safe; they were the ones who had come when the Chosen were attacked those decades ago. They were also the ones who kept civilians protected from thelessers . Mayhap this Primale arrangement would be well after all. Surely one whose mission was to shield the innocent would not hurt her? As she had no idea how old her promised was or when he had joined the Brotherhood, she looked at each book. There were so many of them, whole stacks... Her finger stopped on a spine of a thick volume, one of four. TheBloodletter 356 The name of the Primale's sire made her go cold. She had read about him as part of the history of the race, and dear Virgin, perhaps she was wrong. If the stories about that male were true, even those who fought nobly could be cruel. Odd that his paternal line wasn't listed. She kept going, tracing over more spines and more names. VISHOUS Son of theBloodletter 428 There was only one volume, and it was thinner than her finger. As she slid it free, she smoothed her palm over the cover, her heart pounding. The binding was stiff as she opened it, as if the book had been rarely breached. Which indeed it had not been. There was no portrait nor carefully penned tribute to his fighting skills, only a birth date that indicated he'd be three hundred and three years old soon, and a notation of when he was inducted into the Brotherhood. She turned the page. There was no mention of his lineage save for the Bloodletter, and the rest of the book was blank. Replacing it, she returned to the father's volumes and pulled out the third in the set. She read about the sire in hopes of learning something about the son that might allay her fears, but what she found was a level of cruelty that made her pray the Primale took after his mother, whoever that might be. The Bloodletter was indeed the right name for the warrior for he was brutal on vampires andlessers alike. Flipping to the back, she found on the last page a recording of his death date, though no mention of the manner. She took out the first volume and opened it to see the portrait. The father had had jet-black hair and a full beard and eyes that made her want to put the book away and never open it again. After replacing the tome, she sat down on the floor. At the conclusion of the Scribe Virgin's sequester the Bloodletter's son would come for Cormia, and he would take her body as his rightful possession. She couldn't imagine what the act entailed or what the male did, and dreaded the sexual lessons. At least as Primale he would lay with others, she told herself. Many others, some of whom who had been trained to pleasure males. No doubt he would prefer them. If she had any luck at all, she would be rarely visited. Chapter Thirteen As Butch stretched out on Vishous's bed, V was ashamed to admit it, but he'd spent a lot of days wondering what this would belike . Feel like. Smell like. Now that it was reality, he was glad he had to concentrate on healing Butch. Otherwise he had a feeling it would be too intense and he'd have to pull away. As his chest brushed against Butch's, he tried to tell himself he didn't need this. He tried to pretend that he didn't need this feel of someone beside him, that he wasn't eased as he lay head-to-toe with another person, that he didn't care about the warmth and the weight against his body. That the healing of the cop didn't heal him. But that was, of course, all bullshit. As V wrapped his arms around Butch and opened himself up to take in the Omega's evil, he needed it all. With the visit from his mother and the shooting, he craved the closeness of another, needed to feel arms that returned his embrace. He to have the beat of a heart against his own. He spent so much time keeping his hand away from others, keeping himself apart from others. To let down his guard with the one person he truly trusted made his eyes sting. Good thing he never cried or his cheeks would be wet as stones in a river. As Butch shuddered in relief, Vishous felt the trembling in the male's shoulders and hips. Knowing it was illicit, but unable to stop himself, V took his tattooed hand and buried it deep in Butch's thick hair. While the cop let out another groan and moved closer, V shifted his eyes over to his surgeon. She was over by the chair, watching them, her eyes wide, her mouth open slightly. The only reason V didn't feel awkward as hell was because he knew that when she left she would have no memories of this private moment. Otherwise he couldn't have handled it. Shit like this didn't happen often in his life-mostly because he didn't let it. And he was damned if he'd have some stranger remembering his private biz. Except... she didn't really feel like a stranger. His surgeon's hand went to her throat, and as she sank down into the seat of the chair. As time stretched out languidly, uncurling like a lazy dog on a hazy summer night, her eyes never left his, and he didn't look away either. That word came back to him:Mine . Except which one was he thinking of? Butch or her? Her, he realized. It was the female across the room who was bringing that word out of him. Butch shifted, his legs brushing against V's through the blankets. With a stab of guilt, V recalled the times he'd imagined himself with Butch, imagined the two of them lying as they were now, imagined them... well, healing wasn't the half of it. Strange, though. Now that it was happening, V wasn't thinking anything sexual toward Butch. No... the sexual drive and the bonding word were directed toward the silent human woman across the room, the one who was clearly shocked. Maybe she couldn't handle two men being together? Not that he and Butch were ever going to be. For some ridiculous fucking reason, V said to her, "He is my best friend." She seemed surprised that he'd offered any explanation. Which made two of them. Jane couldn't take her eyes off the bed. The patient and Red Sox were glowing together, a soft light emanating from their bodies, and something was happening between them, some kind of exchange. Jesus, that sweet smell was fading, wasn't it. And best friends? She looked at the patient's hand buried in Red Sox's hair and the way those heavy arms held the man close. Sure they were buddies, but how much further than that did it go? After God only knew how long, Red Sox let out a long sigh and lifted his head. With their faces separated by a mere matter of inches, Jane braced herself. She had no problem with men being together, but for some insane reason she didn't want to see her patient kiss his friend. Or anybody else. "Are you okay?" Red Sox asked. The patient's voice was low and soft. "Yeah. Tired." "I'll bet." Red Sox got up off the bed in a lithe move. Holy hell, he looked as if he'd spent a month at a spa. His color was back to normal, and his eyes were unclouded and alert. And that air of malevolence was gone. The patient repositioned himself on his back. Then rolled to his side with a wince. Then tried his back again. His legs scissored under the covers the whole time, as if he were trying to outrun whatever feeling was in his body. "You in pain?" Red Sox asked. When there was no response, the guy looked over his shoulder at her. "Can you help him, Doc?" She wanted to say no. She wanted to throw out a couple of curse words and demand to be released again. And she wanted kick this member of the Red Sox Nation in the balls for making her patient sicker by whatever just happened. The Hippocratic oath got her up and moving to the duffels. "Depends on what you brought me." She dug around and found a Walgreens-load of just about every pain med available. And all of it was straight out of Big Pharma packages, so they clearly had sources on the inside of a hospital: The drugs were sealed up in such a way that they hadn't passed very far through the black market. Hell, these guys probably were the black market. To make sure she hadn't missed any options, she looked in the second bag... and found her favorite pair of yoga sweats... and the rest of the things she'd packed to go down to Manhattan for the Columbia interview. They'd been to her home. These bastards had been in her home. "We had to take your car back," Red Sox explained. "And figured you'd appreciate some fresh clothes. These were ready to go." They'd driven her Audi, walked through her rooms, been through her shit. Jane stood up and kicked the duffel across the room. As her clothes spilled out onto the floor, she shoved her hand into her pocket and gripped the razor, ready to go for Red Sox's throat. The patient's voice was strong. "Apologize." She wheeled around and glared at the bed. "Forwhat ? You take me against my w-" "Not you. Him." Red Sox's voice was contrite as he spoke up fast. "I'm sorry we went through your house. Just trying to make this easier on you." "Easier? No offense, but fuck off with your apology. You know, people are going to miss me. The police will be looking for me." "We took care of all that, even the appointment in Manhattan. We found the train tickets and the interview itinerary. They no longer expect you." Rage made her lose her voice for a moment. "Howdare you." "They were quite content to reschedule when they heard you were sick." As if this was supposed to make it right. Jane opened her mouth, ready to have at him, when it dawned on her that she was wholly at their mercy. So antagonizing her captors was probably not a smart move. With a curse, she looked at the patient. "When are you going to let me go?" "As soon as I'm on my feet." She studied his face, from the goatee to the diamond eyes to the tats at his temple. On instinct she said, "Give me your word. Swear on the life I gave back to you. You will let me go unharmed." He didn't hesitate. Not even to take a breath. "On my honor and the blood in my veins, you'll be free as soon as I'm well." Berating herself and them, she took her hand from her pocket, bent down, and grabbed a vial of Demerol out of the bigger duffel. "There aren't any syringes." "I've got some." Red Sox came over and held a sterile pack out. When she tried to take it from him, he kept a grip on the thing. "I know you'll use this wisely." "Wisely?" She snapped the syringe out of his hand. "No, I'm going to poke him in the eye with it. Because that's what they trained me to do in medical school." Bending down again, she fished around in the duffel and found a pair of latex gloves, an alcohol towelette packet, and some gauze and packing to change the chest dressing. Although she'd given the patient prophylactic antibiotics through his IV before surgery, so his risk of infection was low, she asked, "Can you get antibiotics as well?" "Anything you need." Yeah, they were definitely hooked up with a hospital. "I might want some Ciprofloxacin or maybe some Amoxicillin. Depends on what's going on under that surgical packing." She put the needle and the vial and the other supplies on the bedside table, snapped on the gloves, and tore open the foiled square. "Hold up for a second, Doc," Red Sox said. "Excuse me?" Red Sox's eyes fixed on her like a pair of gun sights. "With all due respect, I need to stress that if you harm him intentionally, I will kill you with my bare hands. In spite of the fact that you're a woman." As a shot of terror stiffened her spine, a growling sound filled the bedroom, the kind a mastiff made before it attacked. They both looked down at the patient in shock. His upper lip was peeled back and those sharp front teeth were twice the size they'd been before. "No one touches her. I don't care what she does or to whom." Red Sox frowned as if his buddy had lost his marbles. "You know our agreement, roommate. I keep you safe until you can do it yourself. You don't like it? Get your ass healed up and then you can worry about her." "No one." There was a moment of silence; then Red Sox looked back and forth between Jane and the patient like he was recalibrating a law of physics-and having trouble with the math. Jane jumped in, feeling the need to calm them down to a rolling boil. "Okay, okay. Let's cut the macho-shithead posturing, shall we?" The two of them looked at her in surprise and seemed even more astounded as she elbowed Red Sox out of the way. "If you're going to be here, unplug the aggression. You're not helping him." She glared at the patient. "And you-you just relax." After a moment of dead-fish silence, Red Sox cleared his throat, and the patient pulled on his glove and shut his eyes. "Thank you," she muttered. "Now, you boys mind if I do my job so I can get out of here?" She gave the patient a shot of Demerol, and within moments his tight eyebrows eased up like someone had loosened the screws on them. As the tension left his body, she stripped off the bandage on his chest and lifted the gauze and packing off. "Dear... God," she breathed. Red Sox looked over her shoulder. "What's wrong? It's healed up perfect." She gently prodded the row of metal staples and the pink seam beneath them. "I could remove these now." "You need help?" "This just isn't right." The patient's eyes opened, and it was obvious he knew exactly what she was thinking:Vampire . Without looking at Red Sox, she said, "Will you get me the surgical scissors and the grips in that duffel? Oh, and bring me the topical antibiotic spray." As she heard rustling from across the room, she whispered, "What are you?" "Alive," the patient replied. "Thanks to you." "Here you go." Jane jumped like a puppet. Red Sox was holding out two stainless-steel implements, but for the life of her she couldn't remember why she'd asked for them. "The staples," she murmured. "What?" Red Sox asked. "I'm taking out the staples." She took the scissors and the grips and hit the patient's chest with a mist of antibiotic. In spite of the fact that her brain was doing the twist in her skull, she managed to cut and remove each of the twenty or so metal clips, dropping them in the wastepaper basket next to the bed. When she was finished she swabbed up the tears of blood that welled at each entrance and exit hole, then hit his chest with some more antibacterial spray. As she met his brilliant eyes, she knew for sure he was not human. She had seen the insides of too many bodies and witnessed the struggle to heal too many times to think otherwise. What she wasn't sure of was where that left her. Or the rest of the human race. How was this possible? That there was another species with so many human characteristics? Then again, that was probably how they stayed hidden. Jane covered the center of his chest with a light layer of gauze, which she then taped in place. As she finished up the patient grimaced, and his hand, the one with the glove, went to his stomach. "You all right?" Jane asked as his face drained of color. "Queasy." A line of sweat broke out over his upper lip. She looked at Red Sox. "I think you're going to want to take off." "Why?" "He's about to be sick." "I'm fine," the patient muttered, closing his eyes. Jane headed for the duffels for a bedpan and talked at Red Sox. "Go on, now. Let me see to him. We aren't going to need an audience for this." Goddamn Demerol. It worked great on pain, but sometimes the side effects were a real problem for patients. Red Sox hesitated until the patient groaned and started to swallow compulsively. "Umm, okay. Listen, before I go, can I get you something fresh to eat? Anything in particular you want?" "You're kidding me, right? Like I'm supposed to forget the abduction and the mortal threat and give you a drive thru order?" "No reason not to eat while you're here." He picked up the tray. God, that voice of his... that rough, hoarse voice with the Boston accent. "I know you. I definitely know you from somewhere. Take the hat off. I want to see your face." The guy went across the room with the wilted food. "I'll bring you something else to eat." As the door shut and locked she had a childish urge to run at the thing and pound on it. But the patient moaned and she looked at him. "You going to stop fighting the urge to throw up now?" "Fuck... me..." Curling over on his side, the patient began retching. No bedpan was needed, because he didn't have anything in his stomach, so Jane hauled herself into the bathroom, brought back a towel, and put it to his mouth. While he gagged miserably, he held on to the center of his chest as if he didn't want to pop his wound open. "It's okay," she said as she put her hand on his smooth back. "You're healed up enough. You're not going to tear that scar open." "Feels... like... I...Fuck -" God, he was suffering, his face strained and red, sweat all over him, body heaving. "It's okay, just let it roll through you. The less you fight it, the easier it will be. Yeah... there you go... breathe between them. Okay, now..." She stroked his spine and held the towel and couldn't help but keep murmuring to him. When it was over, the patient lay still, breathing through his mouth, his hand with the glove clenched around a tangle of sheets. "That was so not fun," he rasped. "We'll find you another painkiller," she murmured, brushing his hair from his eyes. "No more Dem for you. Listen, I want to check your wounds, okay?" He nodded and eased onto his back, the expanse of his chest seeming as big as the damn bed. She was careful with the adhesive tape, gentle as she lifted the gauze.Good lord ... The skin that had been perforated by the staples just fifteen minutes ago was completely healed. All that remained was a small pink line down his sternum. "What are you?" she blurted. Her patient rolled back toward her. "Tired." Without even thinking about it she started stroking him again, the sound of her hand smoothing up and down his skin making a hushed noise. It wasn't long before she noticed that his shoulders were all hard muscle... and that what she was touching was warm and very male. She took back her palm. Please." He caught her wrist with his unmarked hand-even though his eyes were closed. "Touch me or... shit, hold on to me, I'm... all adrift. Like I'm going to float away. I can't feel anything. Not the bed... not my body." She looked down at where he held on to her, then measured his biceps and the breadth of his chest. She had the passing thought that he could snap her arm in two, but she knew he wouldn't. He'd been ready to rip the throat out of one of his nearest and dearest a half hour ago to protect her- Stop it. Donotfeel safe with him. The Stockholm syndrome is not your friend . "Please," he said on a shaky breath, shame constricting his voice. God, she'd never understood how kidnapping victims developed relationships with their captors. It went against all logic as well as the laws of self-preservation: Your enemy cannot be your friend. But denying him warmth was unthinkable. "I'll need my hand back." "You have two. Use the other." With that he curled himself around the palm he held on to, the sheets getting pulled farther down his torso. "Let me switch sides then," she muttered as she slid her hand out of his grip, replaced it, then laid her newly freed palm on his shoulder. His skin was the golden brown of a summer tan and smooth... boy, it was smooth and supple. Following the curve of his spine she went up to his nape, and before she knew it she was stroking his glossy hair. Short in the back, long around his face-she wondered whether he wore it that way to hide the tattoos on his temple. Except they had to be for show-why else would he put them somewhere so noticeable? He made a noise in the back of his throat, a purr that rolled through his chest and upper back; then he moved away, the shift tugging her arm. Clearly he wanted her stretched out next to him, but as she resisted, he eased off. Staring at her arm in the tight clutch of his biceps, she thought about the last time she'd been entwined with a man. Long while. And it hadn't been that good, frankly. Manello's dark eyes came to mind... "Don't think of him." Jane jerked. "How did you know who was on my mind?" The patient released his hold on her and slowly shifted around so he faced away from her. "Sorry. Not my biz." "How did you know?" "I'm going to try to sleep now, okay?" "Okay." Jane got up and went back to her chair, thinking of his six-chambered heart. His untypeable blood. Those fangs of his in that blonde's wrist. Glancing over to the window, she wondered if what covered the glass panes was not just for security but also to keep out daylight. Where did it all leave her? Locked in a room with a... vampire? The rational side of her rejected the thought out of hand, but at her core she was logic driven. With a shake of the head, she recalled her favorite quote from Sherlock Holmes, paraphrasing it: If you eliminate all possible explanations, then the impossible is the answer. Logic and biology didn't lie, did they? It was one of the reasons why she'd chosen to become a physician in the first place. She looked down at her patient, getting lost in the implications. The mind reeled at the evolutionary possibilities, but she also considered more practical matters. She thought about the drugs in that duffel bag and the fact that her patient had been out in a dangerous part of town when he'd been shot. And hello, they'd kidnapped her. How could she possibly trust him or his word? Jane put her hand in her pocket and felt for the razor. The answer to that one was easy. She couldn't. Chapter Fourteen Up in his bedroom at the big house, Phury sat with his back against his headboard and his blue velvet duvet over his legs. His prosthesis was off, and a blunt was smoldering in a heavy glass ashtray next to him. Mozart drifted out of a set of hidden Bose speakers. The book of firearms in front of him was being used as a lap easel instead of reading material. A thick sheet of white paper was laid out on top of the thing, but he hadn't made any marks on it with his Ticonderoga No. 2 for a while. The portrait was complete. He'd finished it about an hour ago and was working up the courage to wad it up and throw it out. Even though he was never satisfied with his drawings, he almost liked this one. From out of the blizzard-thick blankness of the page, a female's face and neck and hair had been revealed by strokes of lead. Bella was staring off to the left, a slight smile on her lips, a strand of her dark hair across her cheek. He'd caught sight of the pose at Last Meal this evening. She'd been looking at Zsadist, which explained the secret lift to her mouth. In all the poses he'd drawn her in, Phury always sketched her with her eyes elsewhere. If she were staring out of the page, at him, that just seemed inappropriate. Hell, drawing her at all was inappropriate. He flattened his hand over her face, prepared to crumple the paper. At the last moment he went for the blunt instead, craving some artificial ease as his heart beat too hard. He was smoking a lot lately. More than ever. And though relying on the chemical calm made him feel dirty, the idea of stopping never crossed his mind. He couldn't imagine getting through the day without help. As he took another hit and held on to the smoke with his lungs, he thought of his brush with heroin. Back in December the backflip off the H-cliff had been prevented not by his making a good choice, but because John Matthew happened to pick the right time to interrupt. Phury exhaled and stared at the tip of the blunt. The temptation to try something more hard-core was back. He could feel the urge to go to Rehv and ask the male for another Baggie full of deep nod. Maybe then he'd get some peace. A knock went off on his door and Z's voice said, "Can I come in?" Phury stuffed the drawing into the belly of the firearms book. "Yeah." Z walked in and didn't say another word. With his hands on his hips, he paced back and forth, back and forth, at the end of the bed. Phury waited, lighting up another blunt and tracking his identical twin as Z wore out the carpet. You didn't push Z to talk any more than you'd try to coerce a fish onto the business end of a hook with a lot of chatter. Silence was the only lure that worked. Finally the brother stopped. "She's bleeding." Phury's heart jumped, and he splayed his hand out over the cover of the book. "How much and for how long?" "She's been hiding it from me, so I don't know." How'd you find out?" "I found a thing of Always stuffed in the back of the cabinet right next to the toilet." "Maybe they're old." "Last time when I got my buzz razor out, they weren't there." Shit. "She has to go to Havers's, then." "Her next appointment isn't for a week." Z started up with the pacing again. "I know she's not telling me because she's afraid I'll freak out." "Maybe what you found is being used for another reason?" Z stopped. "Oh, yeah. Right. Because those things are multifunctional. Like Q-tips or some shit. Look, would you talk to her?" "What?" Phury quickly took a drag. "This is private. Between you and her." Z scrubbed the top of his skull-trimmed head. "You're better with shit like this than I am. The last thing she needs is for me to break down in front of her, or worse, yell at her because I'm scared to death and not being reasonable." Phury tried to take a deep breath, but he could barely get the air down his windpipe. He so wanted to get involved. He wanted to walk down the hall of statues to the pair's room and sit Bella down and get the story out of her. He wanted to be a hero. But it was not his place. "You're herhellren . You need to do the talking." Phury stabbed out the last half inch of the blunt, rolled up a new one, and flipped open his lighter. The flint wheel made a rasping noise as the flame jumped up. "You can do it." Zsadist cursed, paced some more, then eventually headed for the door. "Talking about this whole pregnancy thing reminds me that if I lose her, I'm fucked. I feel so goddamned powerless." After his twin took off, Phury let his head fall back. As he smoked, he watched the blunt's lit tip flare and wondered idly if it was like an orgasm for the hand-rolled. Jesus. If Bella was lost, both he and Z were going to go into a tailspin the likes of which males didn't come out of. As the thought occurred to him, he felt guilty. He really shouldn't care that much about his twin's female. As anxiety made him feel like he'd swallowed a swarm of locusts, he smoked his way through the emotion until he caught sight of the clock.Shit . He had to teach a class on firearms in an hour. He'd better hit the shower and try to get sober. John woke up confused, vaguely aware that his face hurt and that there was some kind of bleating going off in his room. He lifted his head out of his notebook and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The spiral binding had left behind a pattern of dents that made him think of Warf fromStar Trek TNG . And the noise was the alarm clock. Three fifty in the afternoon. Classes started at four P.M. John got up from the desk, wobbled into the bathroom, and stood over the toilet. When that felt too much like work, he turned around and sat down. God, he was exhausted. He'd spent the last couple of months sleeping in Tohr's chair in the training center's office, but after Wrath had put his foot down and moved John up to the big house, he'd been back in a real bed. You'd think he'd be feeling great with all that legroom. Instead, he was whipped. After he flushed, he turned on the lights and winced in the glare.Damn . Bad idea to lose the darkness, and not just because his eyes were killing him. Standing beneath the recessed lighting his little body looked horrible, nothing but pale skin over evident bone. With a grimace, he covered up his thumb-sized sex with his hand so he didn't have to look at the thing and killed the lights. There was no time for a shower. Quick brush of the teeth, little splash action on the puss with some water, and he didn't bother with his hair. Out in his bedroom he just wanted to go back between the sheets, but he pulled on jeans that were junior-sized and frowned as he zipped up the fly. The things were loose on his hips, baggy though he'd been trying to eat. Great.Instead of going through the transition, he was shrinking. As another round of what-if-it-never-comes-for-me? rolled him over, his eyebrows started to pound.Crap . He felt like there was a little man with a hammer in each of his eye sockets, bashing the shit out of his optic nerve. Grabbing his books off his desk, he shoved them into his backpack and left. The instant he stepped into the hall he put his arm over his face. The sight of the brilliant foyer made his headache roar, and he stumbled back, bumping into a Greek kuroi. Which made him realize he hadn't put a shirt on. Cursing to hell and gone, he went back to his room, threw one on, and somehow made it downstairs without tripping over his own feet. Man, everything was getting on his nerves. The sound of his Nikes across the foyer was like a band of squeaky mice following him. The clicking of the hidden door into the tunnel seemed loud as a gunshot. His trip through the underground route to the training center went on forever. This wasnot going to be a great day. His temper was flaring already, and going by the last month or so, he knew that the earlier it kicked in, the harder it would be to hold. And as soon as he walked into the classroom, he knew he was really in for it. Sitting in the back row at the loner table John had called home before he got tight with his boys was... Lash. Who now came in the economy-size asshole package. The guy was big and filled out, built like a fighter. And he'd gone through a G.I. Joe makeover. Before he'd worn flashy couture clothes and a vault's worth of Jacob & Co. jewelry; now he was dressed in black cargo pants and a skintight black nylon shirt. His blond hair, which had been long enough to pull back into a ponytail, was now military short. It was as if all that pretension had been wiped clean because he knew he had the goods on the inside. One thing hadn't changed: His eyes were still sharkskin gray and focused on John-who knew without a doubt that if he got caught alone with the guy he was in for a world of hurt. He might have taken Lash down the last time, but it wouldn't happen again, and more than that, Lash was going to get him. The promise of payback was in both the set of those big shoulders and the half smile that hadfuck you written all over it. John took a seat next to Blay, feeling a dark-alley kind of dread. "Hey, buddy," his friend said softly. "Don't worry about that bastard, okay?" John didn't want to look as weak as he was feeling, so he just shrugged and unzipped his backpack. God, this headache was a killer. But then, the flight-or-fight response on an empty, rolling stomach was hardly a dose of Excedrin. Qhuinn leaned over and dropped a note in front of John.We gotchu , was all it said. John blinked quickly from gratitude as he got out his firearms book and thought about what they were going to cover today in class. How appropriate it was guns. He felt like one was leveled at the back of his skull. He looked to the rear of the room. As if Lash had been waiting for the eye contact, the guy leaned forward and put his forearms on the table. His hands slowly cranked into two fists that seemed big as John's head, and when he smiled, his new fangs were sharp as knives and white as the afterlife. Shit. John was a dead man if his transition didn't come soon.
