Books by Maggie Shayne (84 page)

* * * * *

Roland moved in the night like a shadow, speeding over darkened streets, then stopping, listening and moving on. Ever closer to the boy. The faint sense of the boy had niggled at him since he'd arrived on Eric's doorstep. But it had been so faint he'd barely been aware of it, much less able to pinpoint the source. Naturally, he understood that the Chosen usually "connect" only with a single vampire. He was the only one who'd sensed Eric as a child. Others would have recognized him, had they encountered him, of course. But no others heard him calling. They didn't feel the pull. Just as with Tamara, Eric had been the one drawn. Roland felt her only through Eric.

This boy called out to someone. . . not to Roland. If he'd been summoning Roland the entire matter would have been so much simpler. As it was, with the faintest trace of a signal to go by, and the boy not even aware of transmitting it, he'd be lucky to find him in time.

That was the hell of it, Roland thought as he paused again to try to feel the signals the child was sending. They grew weaker with each passing moment. The knowledge that the child's life was ebbing overlapped the pull of him like an alarm sounding in Roland's head—like one of Eric's security contraptions. If only his sense of the boy was clearer! If only the boy was reaching those invisible fingers out to him instead of someone else—someone who apparently wasn't listening. Roland hadn't known it was possible for one of his kind to ignore the desperate cries of a child, a child likely to expire before this night's end.

* * * * *

Eric opened his eyes and found himself strapped to the same table Tamara had previously occupied. His hands, feet and head were bound just as hers had been. Unlike her, he was still fully clothed. No doubt the bastard had been uncertain how long his drug would be effective, and was unwilling to risk personal injury. He hadn't wanted Eric waking until he was fully restrained. . . as if these measly straps would make a difference. Eric pulled against them, shocked when the effort left him limp and even dizzy.

He's drawn vials of blood from you, Eric. It's why you 're so weak.

The explanation came to his mind from Tamara's, and with it a lingering pain, a weak, shaken feeling and utter desolation. He wanted to see her, but couldn't turn his head. He tried to attune his groggy senses to hers and they finally began to sharpen. He knew Curtis was still in the room. It was why she hadn't spoken aloud.

What has the bastard done to you?

Nothing so terrible,
came the weak reply
. I'll be all right.

I feel your pain, Tamara. I cannot see you, and keeping things from me only frightens me further. Tell me. Tell me all of it.

He felt her shudder, as if it had passed through his own body
. He. . . took little patches of skin. It burns, but the scrapes aren't deep. He drew blood from me, too.

Eric sensed her pain, certain there was more. The jolts of pain he'd felt earlier hadn't been caused by superficial abrasions.
He had an instrument when I arrived—a rod shaped device he brandished over you. What was it?

She hesitated for a long moment.
It is. . . charged. . . with electricity
.

Rage flooded through Eric. He would kill Curtis Rogers for this, he vowed silently, even as Tamara continued.
He killed Daniel. He wanted me to believe it was you, but I could never believe that. He's taken Jamey, Eric. I don't know what he's done with him—

Her thoughts ceased abruptly with Curtis's approaching footsteps. He leaned over Eric. "Finally awake? Drug didn't last quite as long as I'd hoped, but then, it's still experimental."

"You push me too far, Rogers."

"Not a hell of a lot you can do about it at the moment, is there? I am going to need some samples from you, too, you know. A little bone marrow, some cerebral fluid. Then we'll see just how much sunlight is bearable."

Eric felt the terror Tamara experienced as Rogers described his plans in explicit detail. He also felt the weakening effects of the drug waning. His strength began to seep back into his limbs.

"Curt, you can't do this to him. Please, for God's sake, if you ever cared about me, let him go."

Rogers stepped away from the table. Eric couldn't turn to look, but he knew the bastard was touching her. He felt her shiver of revulsion, and he heard the chilling words. "You haven't figured it out yet? I never did care about you. . . except as a research subject. A half-breed vampire, Tam. That's what you are. The only thing you're good for is scientific study. Oh, maybe you're good for a few other things, too. I intend to find out before I'm finished with you."

She sobbed involuntarily, and Eric jerked against his restraints. The movement brought Rogers back quickly. "Hmm, you're still a little too lively for my tastes," he drawled,rattling instruments on a tray. A moment later Eric flinched as a needle was driven into his arm. He felt the life force slowly leaving his body with every pulse of blood that rushed into the waiting receptacle. In moments he was sickeningly dizzy, and too weak even to flex his fingers. He felt himself slipping from consciousness. His heavy lids fell, and vaguely he heard Tamara crying, "Stop it, Curtis, please. My God, you're killing him. . . ."

* * * * *

Tamara struggled against the straps he'd tied around her, but it was useless. Her hands were bound behind the chair, her ankles tied to the chair legs. Her entire body pulsed with pain, due to the dozens of scrapings he'd taken from her skin. She was dizzy from the loss of the blood he'd drawn, and weak and shaken from the jolts of electricity he'd sent through her to try to force her to summon Eric. She'd refused, but it had done no good. Eric had felt her pain and rushed to her side. She should have known he would. He'd come to help her, and now all she could do was sit and watch while Curt drained the blood from him. Eric grew whiter and perfectly limp. Finally Curt removed the needle. He lifted Eric's eyelids and flicked a penlight at them, then nodded, satisfied.

She was surprised when Curt glanced at his watch, and then moved to close the shutters. "I think it will be safer to work on him during the day, don't you, Tam?" He brushed away the broken glass, seemingly unconcerned about the bar Eric had wrenched free. He turned to a cupboard, pulled out a fresh bottle and syringe, and Tamara flinched automatically. "Easy, now," he said softly. "I want to get a few hours' sleep. I know he isn't going anywhere, but I have to make sure you stay put, too, don't I?" He gripped her arm and sank the needle, far more deeply than was necessary, into her flesh. She stiffened, trying to resist the drowsiness that began creeping up on her. Curt let his hand move over her breasts before he drew away. She would have pulled her tattered blouse together if she'd been able to move her arms. His touch made her want to vomit.

"I hate you. . . for this," she managed, before she was unable to resist the lure of sleep any longer. Her head fell forward.

She had no idea how much time had passed when she lifted it again. The dark spaces between the shutters showed gray now, rather than black as before, so she feared dawn was approaching. Her arms ached from being pulled behind her, and her head throbbed so forcefully she could barely focus her vision.

When she did, she saw Eric lying exactly as he had been earlier, as pale and still as. No. She wouldn't complete the thought. He was all right. He had to be. She mustered all of her strength and hopped her chair toward him. "Eric. Wake up, Eric, we have to get out of here." That he didn't respond in the slightest did not deter her. She reached the table, and turned so her back was at his side. She bent almost double and strained her legs until she managed to lift the chair on her back. She groped with her fingers, felt his at last and gripped them. "Do you feel me touching you? Wake up, Eric. Untie me. Come on, I know you can do it. You wake enough to push your damned hidden button, you can wake enough to loosen a simple knot. Our lives depend on it, Eric. Please." She sucked in a breath when she felt his fingers flex. "Good. That's it." She angled her hand so the knot touched his fingertips, and continued speaking to him softly as she felt his fingers move. She knew it was a terrible effort. She felt the energy he forced into just moving his fingers. And then she felt the strap fall away from her hands, and she heard him exhale.

Instantly she bent and freed her feet. She stood, turned to Eric and reached down to release the straps that bound his ankles, then his wrists. When she bent over his head, releasing the final strap, she stroked his cool face with her palm. "Tell me what to do, Eric." She wanted to help him, but wasn't certain how. Hot tears rolled down her face to drop onto his.

His eyes fluttered, then remained open. "Go," he whispered. "Leave me. . ." The lids fell closed again. "Too late," he finished.

"No, it isn't. It can't be. Don't do this, Eric, don't leave me."

She caught her breath as a memory surged like a flash flood in her mind. In her imagination it wasn't Eric lying on the table. It was Tamara, a very young Tamara, small and pale and afraid. Her wrists were bandaged and she knew that the bandages wouldn't help. She was going to die. She felt it.

Until the tall, dark man had appeared beside her bed. She knew his face, even then. She didn't know his name, but it didn't matter. He was her friend. . . she'd seen him before, even though she'd pretended she hadn't. She sensed he, didn't want to be seen, and she didn't want to frighten him away. He used to come and look in on her at night. He made her feel safe, protected. She knew that he loved her. She felt it, the way you can feel heat from a candle if you hold your hand near the flame.

She was so glad to see him there with her. But sad, too, because he was crying. He stayed beside the bed for a long time, stroking her hair and feeling very sad. She wanted to talk to him, but she was so weak she could barely open her eyes. After a while he did something. He hurt himself. There was a cut on his wrist, and he pushed it to her lips.

At first she thought he wanted her to kiss it better, the way her mommy used to kiss her hurts sometimes. But as soon as the blood touched her tongue she felt something zap through her. . . just like when she'd touched the frayed wire on the lamp once. Except this didn't hurt and it didn't scare her the way that had. It zapped just the same, though, and all at once she knew he was giving her the medicine that would make her better, and she swallowed it.

She felt herself get stronger with every sip. A long time later he pulled it away, and wrapped a clean white handkerchief around his wrist. He slumped in the chair near the bed, and he was almost as white as the hanky. He felt weak and tired, and she felt strong and better. She knew she would be okay. And when she looked at him again, she knew his name. In fact she knew all about him, somehow. She sat up in bed, and listened as he told stories and sang lullabies. He was her hero and she adored him. It broke her heart when he finally had to go.

Tamara shook herself, and brushed at the tears. "I remember," she told him. "Oh, Eric, I remember."

His only response was a slight flicker of his eyes. His lips formed the word Go.

"Not without you," she told him.

"Too. . . weak." It cost him terribly just to utter the words. His face showed the strain. "Go on."

"Never," she whispered. "Not if I have to carry you on my back, not if I have to crawl, Eric. I'd sooner slit my own wrists than leave you here with—" She broke off there.

He forced his eyes open once more, and met her gaze. "No. You... too weak. . . could lose too. . . much." Ignoring him, Tamara brought her gaze to the tray, and snatched up a scalpel. "No. . ." He put as much force as he had behind the word. "Could. . . die—"

She grated her teeth and pulled the blade over her forearm. She forced the small cut to his mouth. Too weak to fight her, Eric had no choice but to swallow. Her blood flowed into him slowly, but with the samples Curt had already taken, she soon felt weak and dizzy. Her head swirled and the room slowly began to spin. Eric shoved her away from him, snatching up the strap that had bound her before, and jerking it tight around her arm, above the cut.

She vaguely heard the door open, just before she was jerked away from Eric. Curt spun her around and slammed a fist into her temple, sending her to her knees. Blinking slowly as the ceiling rotated above, she tried to see what was happening. Eric was on his feet. Curt was snatching a hypodermic from a shelf. He stood crouched and ready. Eric fell into a similar stance and they circled one another, wary, each ready for the other to spring.

She had to help Eric, she thought through a haze. He didn't stand a chance against Cult's new drug, and if Curt got the best of him this time, she didn't doubt he'd kill him. She couldn't just sit here and watch to see which of them was still breathing after this battle. Eric could not lose. It was that simple. If he did, they would both die here, in this chamber of horrors. And what would become of Jamey?

Unnoticed by either man, she slid backward across the floor toward the door Curtis had left wide. When she reached it she gripped the knob and hauled herself to her feet. Dizziness swamped her and she staggered, but with a desperate lunge she made it to the file cabinet, praying it was still unlocked. She heard something crash to the floor in the laboratory. She heard shattering glass and clanging metal. She yanked on the top drawer and it slid open. She reached inside, groping blindly as she looked over her shoulder, certain Curt would emerge at any second. Her hand closed on the smooth walnut grips and she slowly withdrew the handgun. Stumbling, she made her way back to the doorway. Curt's back was toward her. He stood between her and Eric, who was backed to the far wall, facing her. She thumbed the hammer back.

"That's enough, Curtis. Put the syringe down or— Curtis!" He lunged at Eric, making a sweeping attack with the syringe. Tamara's finger clenched on the trigger, and before she was aware of it, she'd shot twice.

Curt jerked like a marionette whose strings are tugged suddenly, then slumped slowly to the floor and lay still.