Touch of Darkness (14 page)

“I want you to take it easy for the next couple of days. Get plenty of rest. You’re going to want to set an appointment to follow up with your regular physician, make sure there are no lingering effects. There don’t appear to be, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

I agreed wholeheartedly. For one thing, I still felt like crap: physically, mentally, and emotionally. The sad part was, I was probably going to be pushing myself anyway. I needed to find out the status of the claim on the building collapse, find a place to stay, deal with the mess with Bryan, avoid the press, figure out what the hell the vampires were up to. It made me exhausted just thinking about it.

“Rest, Ms. Reilly. I know you were a professional athlete. Your physical condition is still impressive—especially considering you didn’t even rip out your stitches under the cast. But the human body can only go so far before it collapses and suffers permanent damage. You’re coming perilously near that point.”

“Yes, doctor.” I said the words, but I didn’t really mean them.

“Fine. Don’t listen to me.” He actually snarled. It startled me, let me know that he was dead serious. Scary.

“I am listening. I just don’t know if I can do what you’re telling me to. It’s not like I’ve gone out looking for these things. I’m not that stupid.”

He gave me a long, significant look that started with meeting my eyes, then moved, slowly, to the cast on my arm, to my shoulder, then to the scars that decorated my knees. Not one word was said, but he’d made his point. I shuddered, and gave him the best answer I could. “I promise that I will do my absolute best to take it easy over the next few days. Barring disaster—” He interrupted me.

“I don’t care if there is a disaster. Sit it out. Let someone else handle it.” He looked at me over the top of his glasses. It wasn’t a friendly look. “If you don’t, you’ll wind up back here. And when you do, I’ll see to it that you’re admitted, with no visitors, and you will rest, like it or not. Even if it has to be in the psych ward.”

He was exaggerating. He had to be. He couldn’t do that. But the threat did drive home the point nicely. He viciously tore the patient orders off of the sheet and shoved them at me. “Go.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

With a sound that was a cross between a growl and a snort he ducked out between the curtains and was gone. I rose carefully: very carefully. As soon as I stood I saw my clothes, folded neatly in a stack on the counter, between the box of plastic gloves and the tongue depressors. It was all there, and hallelujah, not even damaged. Dressing was a challenge. My coordination still wasn’t up to par and the fingers weren’t working very well with the cast restricting my forearm muscles. It’s surprising to most people how much a person needs those muscles. Fortunately, and sadly, I was pretty accustomed to doing things with vital muscles not working right. Still, this time it was as though my body couldn’t quite remember how it was supposed to work. When I tried to stand on one foot to step into my trousers I fell over into the wall. In the end, I wound up having to sit down and put both legs in before standing to pull them up. Even that was tricky. The bra and top weren’t much easier. But the worst, tying the shoes—that was a real challenge. It was ridiculous. I was just glad nobody was around to watch. By the time I was done I was exhausted and grumpy.

“Can I come in?” Tom’s voice came clearly through the thin cotton “walls.”

Just four words and my irritation disappeared. Magic. “Absolutely.”

He stepped in, wearing loose-fitting black jeans and a black tee-shirt that was just a little too tight to be comfortable, but showing off every rippling muscle. I wasn’t sure where the clothes had come from, but they looked good on him. He answered my question with a shrug, without my having to voice it out loud. “Dusty made some calls. One of the pack members came out with clothes for Rob and me and formula and diapers for the baby.” He crossed the room as he spoke, took me in his arms for a long hug, then pushed me back to take a good look at me.

“You look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks.” I put as much sarcasm into the words as I could. Humor as a defense mechanism. There’s nothing like it. And usually, for Tom and me, it works. We can face almost anything if we can laugh. When he didn’t even smile, I knew we were in trouble.

He shook his head, his expression so very serious. “Kate, don’t. Don’t joke about this.” He moved his right hand up to cup my cheek, his thumb gently stroking a sore spot that was probably a bruise. I hadn’t seen a mirror yet, so I couldn’t be sure.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.” He dropped his hand and started to turn away, but stopped when I reached out to touch his arm.

“I couldn’t protect you, couldn’t protect Dusty or the baby. Mary warned us to be careful, but they took him without any trouble at all. They could’ve killed him—could’ve killed us all.”

I raised my arms, resting then on his chest. Bending my elbows, I stepped in close, until the full length of our bodies was only a fraction of an inch from touching.

“Tom, you can’t blame yourself. There’s nothing anyone could have done. They were ready for us. It was an ambush.” I wasn’t convincing him. I could feel it in the tightness of the muscles under my hands, the way he stood so close, and yet may as well have been a million miles away. “And you did help.”

“How? Name one thing I did.” His voice was so bitter it hurt me to hear it; his hands balled in fists at his sides.

“When I touched you, it blocked their psychic attack. You gave me a link to the pack. You gave me the strength to make the 9-1-1 call and run. Dusty was still out cold. I would’ve been, too, if not for you.”

“Don’t lie to me, Katie.” There was a dangerous thread of anger in his voice.

I looked up, deliberately meeting the anger in those chocolate-brown eyes. I put everything I had into that look, willing him to believe me. “I’m not lying. I swear. You can smell it when I do. Bring in Brooks if you want. I’ll tell him the same thing.” Detective John Brooks was the only other “Not Prey” living here in Denver. The rules set down by the vampires put “Not Prey” as being equivalent to a Thrall queen or werewolf Acca. We weren’t allowed to lie to each other. If we did, we’d lose our status, and that status offered some (not a lot, but some) protection from the predation of the vampires. I couldn’t lie to Brooks, and I wouldn’t lie to Tom.

He stared at me for a long, silent moment. Finally, he unclenched his fists and slowly moved to take me into his arms. His head fell forward, so that our foreheads touched. In a whisper that was barely more than a brush of air I heard him say “I was so fucking helpless. That’s never happened to me before … not even in a fire.”

It broke my heart to hear the pain in his voice. I’d have done anything to take it from him. But I couldn’t. He had been helpless. So had I. I’d just recovered from it sooner. I think I hated the vampires more at that moment than I had at any time since they’d kidnapped Bryan almost two years ago.

When he spoke, his voice was breaking with emotions too strong for him to control. “The worst part is, I keep thinking. What did they do to him? Why did they take him? Why did they give him back? Because, Katie, they could’ve kept him if they wanted. They had that whole crowd of people getting on the train enthralled. They had you and Dusty down, Rob and me out. There’s no way the vanilla humans could’ve stopped them, cops or no. So why give him back? Why take him at all if they weren’t going to keep him? It doesn’t make any sense.”

I didn’t know what to say. There really wasn’t anything to say. He was right. It didn’t make sense. I know the parasites intimately from years of forced psychic contact with them. Everything they do has cold logic behind it. They make plans and execute them with ruthless efficiency. The hive mindset makes them more than willing to sacrifice the individual for the good of the whole.

The kidnapping made no sense—particularly coming in the middle of their very successful positive PR campaign.

“You two ‘bout ready? They’re needing the room.” Joe shoved the curtain aside and stepped through into a well of tense silence. I don’t know if he’d heard us. We’d been fairly quiet, especially compared with the chaos that was going on in other parts of the ER, but you never knew.

“As we’ll ever be.” Tom answered for both of us. He shifted positions so that he was standing next to me with his arm around my waist. A smart move on his part as I was still unsteady on my feet.

“Then let’s go.”

It took a little sneaking around, but we made it out of the hospital and to the vehicle without incident. The fact that it had become unusual says something sad about my life. Still, I was glad. Just walking that far had exhausted me. I sank gratefully into the heated leather seats of Joe’s SUV. Normally, I’d have considered heated seats frivolous, but I was dressed for Vegas, not snowbound Denver, so it felt awful good. After the shivers subsided, I watched the sun set out the side window. It was gorgeous… the clouds tinted crimson, orange, and purple behind the ridge of the western mountains. I’ve been all over the globe, but Denver’s home, and I really don’t think there’s anywhere more beautiful. As soon as the car doors were shut, and we had as much privacy as we were going to, I turned to Joe. I had to let him know what I’d seen about Bryan. He might still be in danger, but he was alive, and Joe needed to know that. Assuming, of course, he believed me. He’s always been a little skeptical about the psychic stuff. It’s ridiculous considering there’s empirical proof—in the form of Bryan’s recovery, the Thrall’s hive communication, and God knows how many case studies. But it’s not quantifiable, and it’s not controllable so he has a very, very hard time dealing with it. Joe is, after all, all about control.

But either the new wife was teaching an old dog new tricks, or I’d underestimated him, because I saw his breath catch in what was almost a sob of relief. “He’s alive. You’re sure?”

“He was alive a few hours ago, and relatively safe. They were after him, but he seemed more worried about getting word to Mike about what he’d found than about his safety.” Of course, that could’ve changed, but I didn’t say it. I didn’t need to. Joe’s seen firsthand what the vampires do to people they’re pissed at, and has the scars to prove it. I shuddered, deliberately pushing away a wave of useless guilt. Every time I look at Joe I wonder what if and wallow in guilt. Stupid, but I can’t help it.

“Can you find him again?” Joe’s question cut through my reverie like a scalpel.

I thought about it for a second before I answered. “If I get some rest, yeah. Right now I’m useless. I can’t even think clearly in the here and now.” I felt bad saying it, but I knew it was true. Instead of the background buzz of the Thrall hive that I’ve learned to live with over the years, there was silence. Maybe it was them blocking me out again. I didn’t know. It could be that, or just as easily, exhaustion. Because when I closed my eyes I couldn’t feel Tom’s presence, and he was right here in the SUV with me. It sucked, because I wanted to know Bryan was all right as much as Joe did, but trying now would just wear me out more, and make it take even longer before I was capable. It made me wonder if the ER doc had been right.

I sighed, and turned my attention out the window. We were driving down Speer, but we were headed toward Cherry Creek instead of downtown. That wasn’t right. I hadn’t even had a chance to stop by my old place, take a look at the damage, see if it was salvageable.

“We should go by the building.”

“No,” Tom and Joe both chorused.

“Really. No,” Tom repeated.

“I need to see it in the daylight.”

“Not today, Katie.” Joe spoke gently but didn’t take his eyes off the road. “It got worse after the second blizzard—

way worse, and you’ve had enough for today. You need to rest, and not just so you can find Bryan. It’ll still be there tomorrow, when you feel better. Tom, Mary, and I got a lot of your stuff out the other day when the guy from City allowed it. You haven’t lost everything.”

I sighed and dropped my head. “It’s that bad?”

Tom reached over the seat to squeeze my shoulder. When I lifted my eyes to meet his, I saw sympathy. It was that bad. Shit. I’d known, but I’d hoped … I felt my throat tighten, and tears threatened. I was not going to cry. I wasn’t. I cried. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. I don’t like it. For one thing, I don’t do it well. I know other women who have silent tears stream delicately down their perfect cheeks. Not me. I get blotchy, reddish purple and wrinkled, gasp for air like a fish out of water, and generally get as unattractive as it is possible for a human being to look. Thankfully, Tom didn’t care, and I knew Joe didn’t either. They let me cry it out. One of them, I don’t know which, handed me a box of tissues—those little ones that take two or three to make up a real one. I blew my nose noisily, took a few ragged breaths, and forced myself back under control.

I felt better. I don’t like crying, but this had been cathartic. It had been a rough week. We were nearly to the gated community in Cherry Creek that my brother currently calls home. It’s nice. Very nice, and not cheap. Personally, I’d hate it. It’s covenant controlled. And I do mean controlled. There are rules about everything. They dictate what colors you can paint your house and trim, how many vehicles you can park on the street, even the kind and color of flowers you can have in your four by four patch of “lawn.” But it gives the neighborhood an almost militaristic tidiness that would appeal to both Joe and Mary’s sense of order. Joe pulled the SUV up the concrete drive leading to a pretty brick and shingle colonial-style with attached garage that was one of the three style options offered. A popular choice; its appearance was echoed all up and down the street. I tried not to shudder. Conformity is so not me. Tom either for that matter. We shared one of those looks that couples sometimes get, where you know exactly what the other is thinking. A kind of nonverbal shorthand. If we could salvage the lofts we would. If not, we’d be looking for another place in the next few days, but it wouldn’t be here.

Joe struggled up the steps to the front door. Neither of us helped him, because he would feel insulted, so we hung back, taking baby steps for each of his. After a few seconds of fumbling with his key ring, he unlocked the dead bolt and let us inside.