Deadworld (22 page)

Chapter 36

“She has a piano, Nick,” Shelby said, giving him a little smirk. “I wonder if she’s any good?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you wake her up and see if she’ll play something for us?”

She ignored him and began to play something, her touch soft upon the keys. Nick had always found her playing quiet and sad, which held considerable appeal to his general state of being. The remains of Indian takeout were still scattered on the coffee table, and Nick picked absently at them, unsure about what to think or do with himself. Shelby had slept on the same couch for three hours earlier in the evening, but he had not been able to. It was not his bed, and no amount of wrangling or shifting around could make it comfortable enough.

Shelby had insisted on staying, and her reasons were sound. Jackie likely wasn’t safe by herself. He had seen nervous breakdowns before, and been on the edge himself more than once in his lifetime, so he could not say no. Despite the uncomfortable nature of hanging out in a near stranger’s house while that stranger slept, Nick wanted to stay. He felt part of the responsibility lay on his shoulders. More lives ruined on his account—on his failure to get the job done.

As if she were listening to his thoughts, Shelby asked while she continued to play, “Still beating yourself up over this, aren’t you?”

He declined to answer. “I want to know how we’re going to deal with a guy who can cross over and back at will.”

“Blood, babe. Lots of blood.”

The answer he did not want to face, and yet there seemed no other way except blind, dumb luck. He picked at the cold chicken curry for a minute before putting it back down. He was too tired to think clearly, and several hours of staring down the hall at Jackie’s bedroom door had helped little. The image of her naked body, rivulets of blood trailing down her arms, had burned into his brain. Shelby had bandaged her wrists and given her a little extra incentive to sleep. They would be lucky if she was awake before morning. For some reason, John Belgerman had been all right with them keeping an eye on her. Nick was not sure he would have trusted himself if the roles were reversed.

The piano went quiet. “Got it all figured out yet?”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “No. I haven’t.”

“Let me know when you do, okay? I’d like to get Drake soon.”

Nick sighed, annoyed with her flip attitude. “And I’d like it if you stopped being a bitch and cut me a little slack.” Wrong thing to say. He knew it as soon as the words left his mouth, but he had grown tired of her constant prodding over the course of the evening.

Shelby spun around on the bench and glared at him. “I’ve not even begun being a bitch to you, Nick, so get over yourself. And as far as slack goes,” she said, pausing long enough to grab the half-empty glass of wine on top of the piano and drain it, “I’ve been cutting you slack for far too long. You don’t deserve any. The dead don’t give a shit whether you have any slack or not. They want justice, and they deserve it.”

He stood up, pointing a finger at her to mark his words. “That’s hardly fair, and you know it. You don’t think I want justice?”

She got up and marched over to the couch, standing right up in his face, stabbing her own finger at his chest. “I think you want whatever will free you from the guilt on your overburdened conscience. You aren’t a sheriff anymore, cowboy. Quit trying to act like all those rules still apply.”

“I don’t think—”

“Yes, you do!” she yelled back. She tried to take a drink from her empty glass and slammed it down on the end table in frustration. “Shit. I want a cigarette now. Being around you drives me—”

“There’s some in the kitchen.” It was Jackie, her voice rough and quiet. “I’d like one, too.”

“Hey,” Shelby said, turning soft and friendly in a heartbeat. “How you feeling, Jackie?”

“Terrible in every way imaginable.” She looked it, too, huddled in the bedroom doorway, clutching at the robe wrapped around her. She eyed them suspiciously. “Why are you here?”

“Aspirin?” Shelby wondered, heading for the kitchen.

“By the sink. Cigs are on the fridge. I could really use a drink.”

Shelby gave Jackie a disarming smile. “Coffee, juice, or water?”

“Coffee, I guess.” She walked out, surveying the remnants of dinner, and stepped around the coffee table to sit on the end of the couch opposite where Nick stood, watching in silence. She curled her feet under herself, crossing her arms over her chest, watching Nick and Shelby with puffy, bloodshot eyes. A moment later, Bickerstaff appeared, hopping into her lap, and the tension abruptly melted away as she let her arms enfold the great mass of orange fur.

This was not a situation 176 years of living gave much familiarity with. Nick could only shift back and forth on his feet uncomfortably.

“Why are you here?” Jackie asked again, her fingers absently stroking the cat.

“We wanted to make sure you got through the night okay,” Shelby said. “After yesterday, we thought it best you didn’t wake up alone.”

Her face flushed a bit at that, and she looked at Nick for a brief second before glancing away. “Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that. I . . . It was a rough day, that’s all. Did anyone call?”

“The FBI knows we’re here,” Nick answered. “I talked to Belgerman. He seemed okay with us being here to offer any help that might be needed.”

Jackie only nodded, saying nothing, and they avoided looking at each other in silence for a few moments. Shelby appeared to be taking her sweet time making coffee and finding cigarettes. Nick guessed she was doing it on purpose. He had to wonder if Jackie even remembered much of the day before. Peering into her bedroom had provided a strong enough indication of alcohol that he knew she had been drunk off her rocker. Any luck, and the memories would be vague at best.

The sad thing was, he found himself wondering about just what the hell had happened. This went beyond being distraught over the loss of a friend. There was a wound here that went far deeper, and Nick struggled with the feeling of connection he found himself having. The words that came out of his mouth next defied the laws of tact or intelligence.

“Do you remember much about what happened last night?” The heat rising in her face as it turned away from him was all the answer he needed.

After a moment, she looked back at him, her eyes suddenly calculating. “How did you know to come over here when you did? That wasn’t coincidence, was it?”

Nick had not prepared himself for answering that question yet. She was in no state of mind to hear that sort of discussion. “Well, not exactly, no.”

“Nick,” Shelby said with venomous warning in her voice. “Quit being an ass.” She came in and set a tray down on the coffee table with a plate full of crackers, a glass of cranberry juice, and three cups of coffee. She had a cigarette in her mouth, lit it, and handed it over to Jackie before lighting one for herself. “Why don’t you tell Jackie your story.”

“Which story is that?”

She handed him the cup of coffee. “Your story. The whole thing. Besides, if you don’t, I will.”

“That’s cheating,” he said, mustering what little defense he could. “I don’t think she . . .” The look Shelby gave him said enough. “Fine. I’ll tell her.”

“The whole thing,” she insisted. “Jackie deserves no less.”

Nick shrugged. “Still don’t think this is the most appropriate moment for this.”

“Nick.”

“Fine! The whole damn thing it is.”

“Oh, goody,” Shelby said, a childish grin on her face. She plopped down on the couch next to Jackie, who watched them both with a curious gaze. “This is good. Trust me. Nick tells one hell of a story.”

“Funny,” he said. “You’re real funny.” He took a long sip from the coffee cup. “This may take a while.”

Jackie shrugged. “It’s two AM, and you should have told me this from the start.”

Nick winced at the barb. In retrospect she was right. Maybe it would have changed things.

Four AM chimed on the clock before he finished. Nick left out little. He didn’t want to. Part of him wanted to tell the story to someone who might not believe, might think he was utterly crazy, or worse, condemn him for his sins. The guilty conscience wanted that, wanted confirmation that what he had done was wrong, that everything he had done or tried to do had been a horrible, bloody mistake. He stopped the story when he got to Laurel. There was no need to bring that up now, and Jackie’s glassy-eyed look told him the wounds were far too fresh to endure any discussion of it.

“And that’s pretty much how it is,” Nick said, unsure how to finish. “No closer than I was a century ago.”

“Forever the optimist,” Shelby quipped. “So, Jackie, did that leave any stones unturned for you?”

She looked at each of them in silence, sipping at her cold coffee. “You realize how insane all this sounds. Even when we figured it had to be you involved in those old cases, I still could not quite believe it. Only . . . Laur really believed it.”

Shelby laid a comforting hand on Jackie’s leg. “She had a gift.”

Jackie looked for a moment like tears would fall, but she took a deep breath, and the moment passed. “How exactly did you get turned into a vampire? You explained how it works, why blood is needed, but . . . did Drake just open a vein and make you drink or something?”

Nick stared at her. That was the last question he expected her to have, and the last one he wanted to answer. Thankfully, Jackie opted out by waving him off.

“Never mind. That’s just too weird a question. I don’t really need to know.”

“Nick?” Shelby said, a rough edge to her voice.

“What?”

“I know that look.”

Shit. The woman had keener senses than a bloodhound. “What look are you referring to?”

“Relief,” she replied, turning now to face him, her mouth drawn into a hard line. “You don’t want to tell her. Funny thing is, you never really explained that to me either.”

Damn the woman! “If it’s all the same, I’d rather not. It’s really not that important in the scheme of things.”

“Nicholas Anderson! You’d better fucking tell me.”

Jackie shifted up against the arm of the couch, trying to back away. “It’s okay,” she said. “Really. It’s not important.”

Shelby turned and patted her leg. “Yes. It is. Hon, you don’t know Nick. He wanted to tell you, but he won’t if he thinks it’s too painful for you . . . or him.” She glared back at Nick now, eyes alight with anger. “He won’t hardly lie about anything, but he’ll certainly refrain from telling you the truth. So spit it out, Mr. Anderson. I don’t give a shit how much the truth makes you squirm.”

“Now you’re just being a . . .” He stopped himself. She was right, of course, damn her, but could he tell them? Some things were rightfully kept in the dark.

“Bitch? You can say it. I’m going to be a bitch until you can stop being a prick by continuing to hide the truth.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Bullshit, Nick!”

He wanted to slap her now, make her shut up, but then all that would have done was give him a bloodied nose or lip in response. There would be no denying her, now that she had sniffed out something suspicious.

Jackie began to uncurl her legs. “You know, I can just step out for a minute.”

“No.” Shelby reached back and pushed Jackie back to the cushions. “Don’t you move an inch. You deserve to know every goddamn thing, and so you will.”

Nick slowly exhaled, trying to let the tension roll out of him, but it did no good. Instead he began to pace across the living room behind the sofa instead, needing to move. He could not stand still and say the words. “All right. Drake showed me what to do, what I
had
to do to become this . . . what I am, but I didn’t drink his blood to turn. He merely gave me a taste. No. That would have been far too easy for him.”

Shelby leaned on the back of the couch, watching Nick, thinking and remembering. He realized she would put the pieces together quickly enough. Jackie might not—she wasn’t familiar enough with the story—but he was wrong. Jackie opened her mouth to speak even as Shelby’s eyes grew wide with shock.

“It was Gwendolyn,” Jackie said matter-of-factly, as though it was just another point of interest in the case. “You said she was the last one to die.”

Shelby’s mouth was open, but it took her a moment to form any words. “Fuck, Nick. You drank Gwen’s blood to turn yourself?” Her cheeks were flushing red, and Nick couldn’t tell if it was anger for what he had done or the fact he had never told her.

But it was out there now. The grand albatross of shame had flown and landed in the middle of Jackie’s living room. Nick turned away, unable to look at them any longer. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I drank her blood.” He suddenly felt weak in the knees and light-headed and had to sit himself down on the piano bench.

Shelby was up and moving around, stopping every couple seconds to stare at him. “This! This . . . this is the thing, the ‘something I will never tell anyone.’” Nick nodded, and she rolled her head in dismay. “God, Nick. What gave you the right to keep that a secret from me? How could you?”

He tried to speak, but his heart had lodged somewhere up in his throat. He should have told her. She should have been the one person he could trust with the horrible deed, but in the end, he had been unable to let go of it, shackled as it was to his soul. He swallowed several times, trying to get some amount of moisture back in his mouth.

“Gwen did,” he answered.

She stopped, throwing up her hands. “What?

“Gwen gave me the right. She told me to do it.” The image regurgitated itself from the bowels of his brain, fresh as the day it had happened on that day, 144 years ago. Nick clenched his hands into fists to try to keep them from trembling.

“‘Do it,’ she said. I refused at first. I thought it better to die with her there, but she wouldn’t let me.” He looked up at Shelby now, his voice loud and shaky. “She said, ‘You will do it.’ Her voice was so strong for someone with her blood running out onto the floor. She held my hand so hard it actually hurt.” He smiled at the memory. Yes, Gwen had been strong, the strongest women he had ever known. “She said, ‘You will do this thing and get him for us, Nicholas.’” His voice began to falter now, the words coming out one at a time. “‘Get him for everyone he’s killed, because . . .’” He stopped for moment, wiping at the tear that finally spilled, a single drop filled with more than a century’s worth of sorrow and suffering. “‘Because you’re the goddamn sheriff.’”