LEGIONS OF THE DARK (VAMPIRE NATIONS CHRONICLES) (18 page)

Perhaps he could broach the subject. "We could use a good hematologist in Houston. They have labs there, too, you know."

All right, it wasn't exactly a proposal, but he would have to work up to it. After all, he'd had no practice.

She laughed a little, her breath warm against his chest, where she lay curled like a soft kitten. "I have my house here, Alan."

"I'll get you another house." There. Couldn't she see what he was driving at? He would even buy her a home, for Pete's sake. "What I'm saying is . . .” Hell, why didn't he just say what he meant instead of talking all around the bush like a school kid? "I just think we're good together. I'd like you to be where I am. I'd like you to . . ." He was screwing up. He couldn't propose worth a damn.

Bette rose up on an elbow and looked into his face. He knew he was conflicted and that it showed on his features. He was frowning when he meant to smile, but damnit, couldn't she see what he was getting at?

"I don't want to get married," she said simply. To soften the blow, she added, "I love you, Alan. I don't sleep with anyone else but you."

"That's just it. Neither do I. Then why don't we . . .?"

"It's too perfect the way it is," she said, tracing a finger over his lips to keep him quiet. "I'm happy here. I've made this my home. It's where my parents are and my work. And you . . . Houston is where you belong. It's your home. It's where you find the most satisfaction in your work. Besides, we don't need to be married to be in love."

She swooped over him and kissed his lips.

He sighed into her mouth and pulled her on top of him, running his hands down the small of her back to the graceful swell of her hips. "All right," he murmured, "if that's what you want."

One day, he told himself, he would talk her into it. He would give up his place in Houston, which meant nothing to him, the way her home did to her. He would build his research clinic here, maybe, instead of in Houston. He'd speak to Charles Upton right away, telling him his change of plans. It was ridiculous that they only met like this once in a while when they could be together every single night for the rest of their lives. But he'd keep it a secret and when he made the move, then he'd see what she had to say. He loved her little house, which to him was as charming as a doll house, and she would have him move in. It would all work out beautifully, she'd see.

Once they had made love again, she pulled him from the bed by the hand and together they showered, washing one another's bodies playfully. As they were drying off, he said, "I didn't tell you why I came to see you."

"It's because of my call?" She wrapped an oversized towel around her petite body and slipped on dainty pink satin slippers.

"How do you do that? Read my mind that way? Yes, it's about your call. I'm doing some . . . uh . . . research for a man. He's . . . uh . . . interested in blood supplies. I thought I'd check out what you said about one of the banks in town sending out large shipments across the state when there's no reason for it."

"What kind of research are you doing? It's not exactly your field. What about your patients?"

He shrugged, wondering how much to tell her. Believing in spirits that showed up in your kitchen was slightly different from hunting down vampires for a disillusioned old man who was dying. Or maybe it wasn't?

"I have someone filling in for me at the hospital. This other thing is important."

"It must be for you to leave the hospital."

"Oh, I haven't, not for good or anything. I'm just taking some leave time now and then. So tell me about the blood bank. Maybe you can show me the records."

She eyed him. "Well, maybe with your help we can figure it out. Like I said when I called, I'm completely dumbfounded. I called the Strand-Catel people and they gave me some nonsense about how my records must be wrong, they don't send out shipments that way. And I know that's a lie. I have to track every pint of blood in this state, and my records aren't wrong. They're hiding something, Alan. I just don't know why.”

"I'll go with you to the lab today. Maybe I can visit the bank afterward and get some answers."

She hugged him in all his nakedness and smiled when she stepped back. "I'm so glad you were at my door," she said. "For more reasons than one, that's for sure."

~*~

Alan had spent the morning going over Bette's records and being convinced something was foul in Dallas. He could see how she had gone without noticing the discrepancy for so long. Her office was inundated with reams of printouts and faxes, stacks of government forms and file cabinets of computer documents.

Once sure she was right, that the Strand-Catel blood bank was shipping masses of blood all across the Southwest, he left her office and drove to the squat white brick building that housed the Strand-Catel complex. Inside, he asked to speak to the manager, and was taken down a long bare hall to a door that might have opened on a broom closet, for there was no sign to indicate it was an office. On the other side was a small waiting room with out-of-date and rumpled magazines, a cranberry tweed sofa nubby from use, and a desk for a bored secretary. "He's not in," she announced as Alan and the receptionist entered.

"I'll wait," Alan said, making for the sofa and wishing he'd brought a novel along to read.

"He may be a while," the secretary said.

"That's all right, I'll wait." He was not to be outdone. Someone needed to account for the blood bank's strange actions, and the manager was the one to do it.

It took more than two hours, but finally a man hurried through the unmarked door, a briefcase in his hand. The secretary flicked her eyes from the man to Alan. Alan stood, sore from sitting for so long.

"Hello," he said. "I'm from the Bartok Laboratories. I'd like to speak to you if I may?"

"Of course." The manager, Harold Kreeg, ushered him through another unmarked door into an office nearly as messy as Bette's.

Alan found a chair across from the desk piled with papers, and sat down. He would rather have stood, to get the kinks out of his legs, but it would have been impolite.

"What can I do for you?" Kreeg asked. He placed the briefcase on top of a pile of paper and sank into his chair. He seemed to be a harried man, overcome with schedules and paperwork.

"We have records showing that your blood bank has been shipping untested blood all over the state for many years. It was only discovered by accident, but Bartok Laboratories has a mandate to test blood supplies before shipping and they're wondering what's going on here." He paused and then added, "It would be unfortunate if the federal authorities had to be called in to straighten this out."

Kreeg blanched all the way from his receding hairline to his chin. He leaned forward and placed his arms on his desk, knotting his hands together. "I'm sorry, who did you say you were?"

Alan lied, "I'm a representative of Bartok. Bette Kinyo sent me. She called, but someone here told her that her records were incorrect."

The man sank back again, his hands coming unglued to grip the arms of his chair. "Ms. Kinyo was told the truth. I don't know how she has come up with this information about Strand-Catel. We never ship blood before testing. It's a monumental mistake, Mr. . . ."

"Star. Alan Star."

"Mr. Star. I can show you our own records, if you'd like. Not all of the place is run as . . . messily as my office." He smiled. "In fact, we can show you records going back as many years as you like. They all show quite different information than what Ms. Kinyo has been going on about."

Alan didn't like that. "Going on about" indeed. "It seems, then," he said, "that there is a difference of opinion. I have to tell you, Mr. Kreeg, that Bartok does not make mistakes either. And this being a serious allegation, it will have to be investigated thoroughly."

Kreeg spread out his hands in the air. "I don't know what to tell you. I am stating the facts as I know them as the manager of this institution. You're perfectly free to go over our own records. I can have my secretary take you . . ."

When Kreeg leaned forward to push a button on his intercom, Alan stood and shook his head. "I have no choice but to believe you. I don't have time to check today. However, be assured someone from Bartok will be coming to see you again soon."

Alan left the office, shutting the door behind him without saying a formal good-bye. He was being hoodwinked and he knew it. But it was obvious Kreeg had all the records on hand that would show the opposite of what Bette's records indicated and to get deeper into their true files, if they even existed, would take more than a cursory investigation. Bette would have to send someone from her department to put the heat on these people. They were not going to admit they'd been shipping out their blood supplies without any other organization double-checking their operations.

But what did all this have to do with hunting down vampires? Alan asked himself as he left the building. The idea had been a shot in the dark; he'd known that even when Bette had called with her discovery. Kreeg certainly didn't fit Alan's idea of a vampire. He was florid and heavyset, a middle management type of guy who bought his white shirts wholesale and wore brown wing-tip shoes to work. Besides, would vampires have need of a blood bank? Didn't they just grab people and suck out their blood?

Alan wanted to slap his own face. This was the nuttiest thing he'd ever done—signing on with Upton and agreeing to find him a living vampire. Here he was harassing blood bank managers, for heaven sakes, and imagining they shipped blood surreptitiously around the state for vampires to drink! If he wasn't insane, he was teetering. He had taken on Upton's insanity, that's what must have happened. What was he doing here in Dallas when he was needed in the hospital in Houston? How had he thought he would even pretend to do what Upton wanted?

He chastised himself all the way to Landry's Restaurant, where he ordered shrimp salad and sat alone drinking a draft beer while his food was being prepared. Bette wouldn't be home from the lab until after six. He had told her he would come back and report on his meeting with Kreeg, but he had something else in mind before he did that. One more bit of insane detective work and then he'd stop this charade and go back to his normal life as a doctor and a healer.

He meant to stake out Bette's house. From the time she returned home from work, until around nine at night, he decided he would park at a distance and watch her place to see if the mysterious stranger came back to do her harm. He didn't buy that stuff Bette said about he wasn't human. How he'd just appeared and then disappeared. Why was it everyone around him had taken a slow train around the bend suddenly? First Upton, now Bette. Vampires. Apparitions.

He stabbed his fork into the shrimp salad, speared a mayonnaise-drenched shrimp, and popped it into his mouth. He had an hour to kill before he called Bette and told her he'd be late. And then he would drive over to the scary, tumbling-down neighborhood Bette loved so much and sit in his locked car to wait.

15

Dell had slept fitfully the night before, waking in sweats from dreams of pursuit. She would fall asleep again only for the dream to resume.

She had trouble concentrating in class all day. When Ryan Major stopped her in the hall outside their shared history class, she felt sluggish and inattentive. She was not tired, she realized, as much as she was just dim. She might as well be a tarnished mirror sitting in a dark attic, reflecting dust motes. "What?" she asked, unsure of what he'd said to her.

"I asked if you had a boyfriend."

She almost laughed in his face. Boyfriend! She had trouble keeping her best friends from childhood now. She hadn't talked to Cheyenne in days. How could she hope to interest the opposite sex?

Then she snapped to attention, and her eyes widened. Ryan had asked the question because he wanted to know if the field was open.

She looked into his dark eyes and wanted the same relationship he did, in fact, wanted it more. But Mentor had warned her. She should not let down her guard. She changed more and more each day, becoming a separate being, and what boy would understand her? If he did, how could he want to be with her?

"No," she said, carefully, "I don't have a boyfriend. I . . . I . . ."

"I know it was a dumb question, but I didn't know anyone else to ask about you. Listen, do you think we could go out this weekend? A movie? Dancing?"

The word yes was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't say it. Instead, she pushed past him, mumbling, "No, I couldn't." She knew how rudely she was behaving, and hoped it would discourage him. Yet, she felt him on her heels, his hand reaching out to touch her.

"Well, we could do something else . . ."

She whirled on him so fast kids in the hall turned and looked. "I said no!"

Hurt surprise covered his face as he turned away from her. She wanted to rush after him and take it back. She hadn't had to be so awful to him. It wasn't his fault. He thought she hated him. He didn't know the reason she was treating him so shabbily.

"Ryan," she called.

He turned warily. "Yes?"

"Look, I'm sorry. It's not you. It's me. I'm not . . . not myself lately." She adjusted the sunglasses on her nose as if to emphasize her words.

He shrugged, and she could still see the hurt lingering on his face. "It's okay." He turned and left her standing there, students milling around her as if she were a stone in a swiftly flowing stream.

She hung her head and moved into the crowd, heading for her next class. She imagined her misery was like a billboard hung around her neck. Despair came over her, bringing such a heaviness she thought she would have to run out of the school and all the way home.

He'd just asked her to a movie. She might have gone with him. It wasn't a crime to go to a movie with a friend, was it?

She turned back to see if she could find him in the crowd. She pushed against people, moving through them until she saw him ahead. She didn't know how she could take back the decision not to go out with him, but she was going to try. Looking stupid was preferable to being alone.