Blood Kiss (13 page)

S
t. Patrick's Cathedral in Caldwell was a grand old lady, rising up from the pavement as a testament to both God's mercy and man's ability to glue blocks of stones together. As Butch pulled up in his new Lexus and parallel-parked, he thought it was pretty damn funny that of all the human traits to have survived his transition into a vampire, the one that had stuck the most was his faith.

He was a better Catholic now than he had been when he'd been a Homo sapiens.

Tugging his Boston Red Sox cap down low, he went in through the front portal that was bigger than the house he'd grown up in, in Southie.

The cathedral was always open, a Starbucks of spirituality, ready to serve up what was needed when souls were lost and fumbling.

Monsignor, I'd like a venti of forgiveness tonight, thanks so much. And a scone that will magically tell me what the fuck is wrong with my wife.

The security guard sitting in an armchair in the vestibule looked up from his
Sports Illustrated
and nodded at him. The guy was used to him coming in before dawn.

“Evenin',” the guard said.

“You good?”

“Yup. You?”

“Yup.”

Always the same conversation, and the six-word exchange was now part of the ritual.

Crossing over the thick red carpet, Butch breathed in deep and caught a contact calm from the familiar smell
of incense, beeswax candles, lemon floor polish, and real flowers. And as he pushed through the carved double doors to the majestic sanctuary, he didn't like keeping his hat on, but he had to stay on the DL.

His mother would have had a fit, though—assuming her dementia lifted long enough for her to track anything.

The fact that she had lost her mind had made leaving the human world so much easier—and from time to time, he and Marissa went to see her, materializing into her room at the nursing home up in Massachusetts and visiting with her because they knew that no memories of them would stay—

Butch stopped and inhaled deep, his blood surging, his skin tingling. Pivoting in a jerk, he frowned as he saw a lone figure seated in the rear pews.

“Marissa?”

Even though his voice didn't carry far, his mate looked up, his presence registering to her.

Rushing over the stone pavers, he went sideways and shuffled down the row she was in, trying not to trip over the needlepoint prayer stools.

“What are you doing here?” he said as he caught the scent of her tears.

Her eyes were watering as he came up to her, and she tried to smile, but didn't get far with that. “I'm fine, really, I'm . . .”

He sat down next to her—collapsed, was more like it—and took her cool hands. She still had her Burberry wool coat on, and her hair was tangled at the ends, as if she had been out in the wind.

Butch shook his head, his heart going trip-time on him. “Marissa, you gotta talk to me. You're scaring the ever-loving shit out of your man.”

“I'm sorry.”

She didn't say anything else, but she leaned into him, allowing his body to support her weight—and that was
an explanation in and of itself: Whatever it was, he wasn't at fault.

Butch closed his eyes and held her, rubbing her back. “What's going on.”

The story came out in fits and starts: a young female . . . lawn of Safe Place . . . brutalized . . . Havers operated . . . died anyway . . . no name, no information, no family.

God, he hated that his precious
shellan
had to be exposed to all that ugliness. Oh, and P.S., fuck her brother for real.

“And now I don't know what to do for her.” Marissa let out a shuddering breath. “I just . . . I feel like I didn't do enough when she was alive to save her and now she's gone . . . and I know she was a stranger, but that doesn't matter.”

Butch stayed quiet because he wanted to give his mate every chance to keep going—and as he waited, he thought, Shit, he knew that feeling of untethered accountability. Back when he'd been working homicide for the CPD, he'd felt the same way about every victim in his case load. Amazing how strangers could become a sort of kin.

“It's just so unfair to her. The whole thing.” Marissa turned away to her purse, took out a Kleenex, and blew her nose. “And I didn't want to say anything to you because I know you're really busy—”

“Wrong,” he cut in. “There is nothing more important than you.”

“Still . . .”

He tilted her face toward him. “Nothing.”

As she teared up again, he brushed her cheeks clear. “How can you doubt that?”

“I don't know. I'm not thinking right.” She pressed the tissue wad to her nose. “And I came here because this is where you always go.”

Okay, that warmed the crap out of his heart. “Has it helped?”

She smiled a little. “Well, it brought us together, didn't it.”

Arranging her into his side, he put his arm around her and stared up the rows of glowing wood to the magnificent altar with its golden cross and its twenty-foot-tall statue of Jesus on the crucifix. Thanks to external security lights, stained glass glowed in the great arched windows that stretched up to the Gothic flying buttresses high above. And the chapels that honored saints flickered with votive candles lit by midnight visitors, the marble statues representing the Virgin Mary, and John the Baptist, and the archangels Gabriel and Michael offering grace to whomever needed it.

He didn't want his mate to suffer, but he was so damned relieved she was turning to him. As a bonded male, his first instinct was always to protect his
shellan
, and that withdrawal thing of hers, even though it had lasted for only a day, had been a kind of amputation.

“AndIdidn'twanttotellyoubecauseofyoursister.”

“What?” he murmured, kissing the top of her head.

“Your sister . . .”

Butch stiffened, he couldn't help it. But then, any mention of that slice of his past was enough to make him feel like someone had juiced him with a car battery.

“It's okay,” he said.

Marissa straightened. “I didn't want to upset you. I mean, you never speak of . . . well, what happened to her.”

He looked down at his female's hands. They were twisting and turning in her lap, trading off the tissue that was now a ball.

“You don't have to worry about me.” He moved her hair back over her shoulder, stroking the fine, smooth strands. “That's the last thing you need to do.”

“May I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

When she didn't immediately come back at him with something, he moved his face into her line of vision. “What?”

“Why don't you ever talk about your life before you met me? I mean, I know some details . . . but you never speak about any of it.”

“You're my life now.”

“Hmm.”

“What are you getting at?”

She glanced over at him and shrugged. “I don't know what I'm saying. I think I'm babbling.”

Her purse let out a
bing!
and she pulled the thing over into her lap. As she took out her phone, he studied her from a distance even though she was right next to him.

“It's a text from Havers,” she said. “The remains are ready to be picked up.”

Butch got to his feet. “I'm going with you.”

Marissa stared up at him. “Are you sure you have time?”

All he could do was shake his head at that one. “Come on. I'll drive you across the river. We still have a good hour of darkness left.”

•   •   •

As Craeg sat in a relatively comfortable chair with a padded back and padded arms, everything hurt so badly he might as well have taken a load off on a set of fireplace pokers. Part of it was his own fault. After he'd been brought in from the field on a stretcher, he'd refused the OTC pain meds he'd been offered following his physical exam. He had, however, taken advantage of the food, the bathroom, and the drinks.

That was about it, though. Ever since the six of them had been shown into this cafeteria/hangout room, with its college dorm, concrete-and-throw-rug-style decor, TV, and galley kitchen, he'd been staying away from the others. Short of learning their names, he'd kept on the
outside of the group, listening to their stories without offering any details of his own.

Wasn't like he had much to share. He was the only one of his family left, and he was not about to air his personal memories of the raids.

What he did pay attention to was the back-and-forthing of that Peyton guy. The SOB was up and off his couch, checking the bunk room every ten seconds.

Why the guy didn't just stay in—

This time, when Peyton poked his head through the door, there was some conversation. Then he went in and shut the door solidly. When the male came back out after a little while, he went over to the Anslam guy and whispered something. Whatever it was, Anslam agreed with a shrug and a nod.

And then Peyton went back to sitting in the middle of the room.

Not long thereafter, Paradise came out— and the instant she was through the doorway, everyone looked over at her, the conversating about
Tosh.0
stopping.

Craeg turned away from her, mostly because he resented like hell the fact that his blood pressure rose and his heart rate increased just at the sight of the female.

Damn it, none of these people were his business. Especially not her.

“Lady and gentlemales,” Peyton said. “We have our
Primus
.”

“Don't call me that,” she gritted before any kind of applause could happen. “Ever.”

“Why?” Novo challenged. “You beat all of us. You lasted the longest. You should be fucking proud of it.”

Okay, now
there
was the female he should have been going for—not that he was interested in anything sexual from anybody at the moment. Still, Novo was his kind of “lady”—one who knew her way around an obstacle course and was clearly the type to clock an offender first and ask questions only after the jaw she'd broken had been reset.

Novo also looked damned good in that loose Hanes T-shirt and those surgical scrubs she'd traded her trashed clothes in for.

He wasn't the only one who'd noticed, either. Anslam, Axe, and even that Peyton fucker had been checking her out surreptitiously—not that she'd seemed to care, or even notice.

The receptionist, on the other hand, was no doubt very used to everyone looking at her. Blondes like her never failed to get attention.

It could make them targets, too.

And yeah, that was what he'd been thinking when he'd stood over her desk and suggested she enter the program. Sure, a female such as herself was protected by the males in her family, but that didn't always work, did it.

His own sister would have been alive today if that had been true.

“. . . with us?”

Craeg looked up at Novo. “What?”

“We're going to go find someone to get us more to eat. We've finished everything in the fridge and the cupboards here. You want to come?”

“No.”

“Then I'll get more of those double-stuffed Oreos for you. You ate them all.”

“You don't have to.”

“I know,” she said as she turned away.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he winced as he shoved his ass further down in the chair and kicked out his legs. Shut-eye. That was what he needed—and as he heard the door close, he exhaled.

“You aren't hungry?”

His lids popped open and he shifted his head. Paradise was still by the door of the bunk room, and she looked about as relaxed as he no longer felt, standing there with her arms around her middle and her robe lapels tight to her throat.

“No,” he snapped.

Shit, there was no reason to bite her head off.

“I mean . . . no.” Great, he sounded like a total idiot.

“How are your feet?”

“Fine.” There was a pause, as if she were waiting for him to ask the same of her. “Look, why don't you go with the others—”

“You can't kick me out of here, you know.”

He lowered his lids. “You've got to get over this thing about trying to talk to me.”

“Why? What did I ever do to—”

Craeg sprang up out of his chair and crossed the distance between them. Getting all into her space, he made sure she had plenty of time to measure exactly how big he was.

“You were saying?” he said in a low voice. “Or are you leaving.”

Her blue eyes stretched wide. “Are you threatening me?”

“Just suggesting a relocation that will be better for both of us.”

“Why don't
you
leave?”

“I got here first.”

“Because you failed . . . riiiiiight. You lost to a girl . . . riiiiiiiiiiiight.”

Craeg ground his molars. “Don't push me, okay. I've had as long a night as you have.”

“You were the one who came over here like a charging bull. And I would leave—because I really don't like you as much as I thought I would. The truth is, though, my feet hurt so badly I can't really walk, and I have too much pride to ask for a wheelchair.”

Total.

Fucking.

Asshole.

Yeah, that was pretty much how he felt as he dropped his stare further and saw her shoeless, sockless feet in all their gory non-glory: Angry red welts had sprung up on the sides and across the tops, and the right one was so swollen, it looked like it didn't belong at the end of her slender ankle.

He closed his lids for a moment. Walk away. Just go back to your little chair, buddy, sit down again, and let her limp on over to the sofa and stretch out or . . . head back into the bunk room . . . or sprout wings and fly away from your sorry, nasty ass.

Instead, he found himself sinking to the floor. Both of his knees cracked so loudly, it was like snapping a pair of branches in the quiet room, and his thighs and calves screamed at the change in position.