Lover Revealed (11 page)

He went to the terrace's edge. Bracing his arms against the railing, he looked over the lip of the skyscraper, down to the streets below. There were cars. People going into the lobby. Someone reaching into a cab, paying the driver. So normal. So very normal…

Meanwhile, he was up here dying.

Butch was not going to make it. The Omega had been inside him; that was the only explanation for what had been done to him. And although the evil had been taken out, its infection was beyond deadly and the harm was done.

V rubbed his face. What the hell was he going to do without that smart-ass, tough-talking, Scotch-sucking SOB? The rough bastard somehow smoothed the edges of life, probably because he was like sandpaper, a scratchy, persistent wrong-way-rub-that left everything more even.

V turned away from the three-hundred-foot drop to the pavement. Going over to a door, he took a gold key out of his pocket and pushed it into the lock. The penthouse beyond was his private space, for his private… endeavors. And the scent of the female he'd had the night before lingered in the darkness.

At his will, black candles flared. The walls and the ceilings and the floors were black and the chromatic void absorbed the light, sucking it in, eating it up. The only true piece of furniture was a king-sized bed that was likewise covered in black satin sheets. But he didn't spend a lot of time on the mattress.

The rack was what he relied on. The rack with its hard table-top and its restraints. And he also used the things hanging beside it: the leather straps, the lengths of cane, the ball gags, the collars and spikes, the whips—and always the masks. He had to have the females anonymous, had to cover their faces as he tied up their bodies. He didn't want to know them as anything more than the equipment for his deviant workouts.

Shit, he was depraved about sex and he knew it, but after trying out a lot of things, he'd finally found what worked for him. And fortunately there were females who liked what he did to them, craved it as he craved the release he got when he mastered them singly or in pairs.

Except… tonight as he looked at his equipment, his perversions made him feel dirty. Maybe because he never came here unless he was ready to use what he had, so he'd never given the place a look-see when his head was clear.

His cell phone's ring startled him. As he glanced at the number, he numbed out. Havers. "Is he dead?"

Havers's voice was all professional-doctor sensitive. Which was the tip-off that Butch was hanging by a spider's thread. "He coded, sire. He pulled the IV out and his vitals dipped. We brought him back, but I don't know how long he can keep going."

"Can you restrain him?"

"I did. But I want you to be prepared. He's just a human—"

"No, he is
not
."

"Oh… of course, sire, but I didn't mean it like—"

"Shit. Look, I'm coming back. I want to be with him."

"I would prefer you didn't. He gets agitated whenever anyone's in the room and that doesn't help things. Right now he's as stable as I can make him and as comfortable as possible."

"I don't want him dying alone."

There was a pause. "Sire, we all die alone. Even if you were in the room with him, he would still leave unto the Fade… alone. He needs to be kept calm so his body can decide whether it's going to revive. We're doing everything we can for him."

V put a hand over his eyes. In a small voice that he didn't recognize, he said, "I don't… I don't want to lose him. I, ah… yeah, don't know what I would do if he—" V coughed a little. "Fuck."

"I shall care for him as mine own. Give him a day to try and stabilize."

"Nightfall tomorrow, then. And you will call me if his condition gets worse."

V hung up the phone and found himself staring at one of the lit candlewicks. Over its black wax torso, the captured little head of light weaved in the currents of the room.

The flame got him thinking. The bright yellow of it was… well, it was kind of like the color of blond hair, wasn't it.

He whipped out his cell, deciding that Havers was wrong about the no-visitors thing. It just depended on who the visitor was.

As he dialed, he resented the only option he had. And knew that what he was doing probably wasn't fair. Probably would cause a helluva lot of trouble, too. But when your best friend was doing the tombstone two-step with the Reaper, you kind of didn't give a shit about a lot of things.

"Mistress?"

Marissa looked up from her brother's desk. The seating chart for the
Princeps
dinner was in front of her, but she couldn't concentrate. All that searching of the clinic and the house and she'd come up with nothing. Meanwhile, her senses were screaming that something was wrong.

She forced a smile for the
doggen
in the doorway, "Yes, Karolyn?"

The servant bowed. "A call for you. On line one."

"Thank you." The
doggen
inclined her head and left as Marissa picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"He's in the room down by your brother's lab."

"Vishous?" She jumped to her feet. "What—?"

"Go through the door marked housekeeping. There's a panel to the right that you push open. Make sure you put on a hazmat suit before you go in to see him—"

Butch… dear God,
Butch
. "What—"

"Do you hear me? Put the suit on and keep it on."

"What ha—"

"Car accident. Go. Now. He's dying."

Marissa dropped the phone and ran from Havers's study, nearly mowing down Karolyn out in the hall.

"Mistress! What's wrong?"

Marissa shot through the dining room, punched open the butler's door, and stumbled into the kitchen. As she made the corner to the back stairs, she lost one of her high heels, so she kicked off the other and kept going in her stocking feet. At the bottom of the steps, she entered the security code to the rear entrance of the clinic and burst into the ER's waiting room.

Nurses called out her name, but she ignored them as she raced for the lab's corridor. Tearing past Havers's laboratory, she found the door marked housekeeping and slammed it open.

As she panted, she looked around at… nothing. Just mops and empty buckets and smocks. But Vishous had said—

Wait
. There were faint marks on the floor, a little pattern of wear that suggested a hidden door opening and closing. She shoved the smocks out of the way and found a flat panel. Clawing with her nails, she forced it open and frowned. It was some kind of dimly lit monitoring room with a high-tech setup of computers and vitals readouts. Leaning in to the blue glow of one of the screens, she saw a hospital bed. On top of it, a male was lying spread-eagled and restrained with tubes and wires coming out of him.
Butch
.

She barged past the yellow hazmat suits and facial masks hanging next to the door and pushed into the room, the air lock breaking with a hiss.

"Virgin in the Fade…" Her hand went to her throat.

He was definitely dying. She could sense it. But there was something else—something frightening, something that set off her survival instincts sure as if she were confronted by an attacker with a gun. Her body screamed for her to run, get out, save herself.

But her heart brought her to his bedside. "Oh… God."

The hospital johnny left his arms and his legs bare, and it seemed as if he was bruised everywhere. And his face… good Lord, he was desperately battered.

As he made a groaning noise in the back of his throat, she reached out to take his hand—oh, no, not there, too. His blunt fingers were swollen at the tips, the skin purple, some of the nails missing.

She wanted to touch him, but there was no place that she could. "Butch?"

His body jerked at the sound of her voice and his eyes opened. Well, one of them did.

As he focused on her, a ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. "You're back. I just… saw you at the door." His voice was weak, a tinny echo of the bass it normally was. "I saw you then… lost… you. But here you are."

She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and wondered which nurse he thought she was. "Butch—"

"Where did… the yellow dress go?" His words were garbled, his mouth not moving much, as if his jaw were broken. "You were so beautiful… in that yellow dress…"

Definitely a nurse. Those suits hanging next to the door were yello—
shoot
. She hadn't put one on, had she? Holy hell, if his immune system was compromised, she needed to protect him.

"Butch, I'm going to go out and get a—"

"No—don't leave me… don't go…" His hands started twisting in the binds, the leather restraints creaking. "Please… dear God… don't leave me…"

"It's okay, I'll be right back."

"No… woman I love… yellow dress…
don't leave me .
, ."

Not knowing what else to do, she leaned down and softly laid her palm on his face. "I won't leave you."

He dragged his bruised cheek into her touch, his cracked lips brushing her skin as he whispered, "Promise me."

The air lock broke with a hiss and Marissa looked over her shoulder.

Havers burst into the room as if he'd been torpedoed inside. And through the yellow mask he wore, the horror in his stare was as obvious as a scream.

"
Marissa
!" He swayed in the protective suit he had on, his voice muffled and frantic. "Sweet Virgin in the Fade, what are you—
you should have a hazmat on
!"

Butch started to struggle on the bed, and she lightly stroked his forearm. "Shh… I'm right here." When he'd calmed a little, she said, "I'll put one on right now—"

"You have no idea—oh, God!" Havers's whole body shook. "You're compromised now. You could be contaminated."

"Contaminated?" She looked down at Butch.

"Surely you felt it when you came in!" Havers launched into all kinds of words, none of which she heard.

As her brother kept at it, her priorities realigned themselves, steel locking into steel. It didn't matter that Butch had no idea who she was. If the mistaken identity kept him alive and fighting, that was all that mattered.

"Marissa, are you hearing me? You're contam—"

She glanced over her shoulder. "Well, if I'm contaminated, then it looks like I'm staying with him, doesn't it."

Chapter Seven

John Matthew squared off at his target and tightened his grip on his blade. On the far side of the gym, across a sea of blue mats, there were three punching bags hanging from the bottom lip of the bleacher section. As he concentrated, the middle one became a
lesser
in his mind. He pictured the white hair and the pale eyes and the pasty skin that haunted his dreams, and he started to run, his bare feet slapping over thick plastic skin.

His little body had neither speed nor strength, but his will was enormous. And sometime in the next year or so, the rest of him would catch up to the power of his hatred.

He. Couldn't. Fucking.
Wait
. For his transition to hit.

Lifting his blade over his head, he opened his mouth to scream a war cry. Nothing came out, because he was a mute, but he imagined he was making a whole lot of noise.