Why didn’t he move?
“Do it, boy!”
Johnathan froze. His body shivered with sobs, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, shove the blade further. Sir Harry didn’t so much as flinch in his sleep.
“I can’t. I can’t do this,” he sobbed.
Blackened fingers curled around his. The memory fractured, wavered. He could hear the crackle of fire in Dr. Evans’ voice. “Do it now!”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Mary Elizabeth. She stood on the other side of Sir Harry’s coffin; a twin spill of tears painted her mournful face. But her ghost couldn’t erase what happened next, or excuse it.
Johnathan looked up into Dr. Evans’ face, pleaded for him to stop. His vision flickered. Dr. Evans morphed into the skull-masked creature of the wood, though the cold black eyes remained the same, glowering down at him, full of hunger.
“You will do this.” Evans’ voice echoed with shadows. He bore down, his breath tinged with sulfur. The vision snapped back as Dr. Evans wrapped his hands around Johnathan’s and shoved the blade up through Sir Harry’s rib cage.
Johnathan cried out at the gush of fluid, shocked by the sensation of the blade piercing through tissue and muscle. Sir Harry never opened his eyes. Johnathan never saw that last look of betrayal, though he imagined it a thousand times.
“He was already dead, sweet Johnny,” said Mary Elizabeth.
The truth of her words rang through him, far too late for the guilt and shame he’d carried deep in his heart for so many years.
“That will do, boy,” said Dr. Evans.
The blade slid from his blood-coated fingers. Johnathan stared as his hands, unable to take a breath. Dr. Evans’ hand collared the nape of his neck once again. “Welcome to the Society, Prospective Newman.”
The man’s fingers were sharp, like teeth as they dug into Johnathan’s bruised neck.
The fire crackled overhead, a lick of heat, the breath of an expectant, waiting beast. It spilled down onto him, wrapped him in a blanket of blazing agony. It singed his veins. There was a furnace in his chest, his breath a bellows that fanned the intensity with each drag of his lungs, hot coals stuffed inside his skin. He looked down, watched the flesh of his chest blister and crack. The glow of fire blazed through the seams.
“I’m dying,” he said.
“Don’t.” Mary Elizabeth grasped his hands. “Don’t give in.”
Her cold hands were a relief against his fevered flesh, a balm to the raging heat. Her smile so sad until she crumbled to ash at his feet, but the cold pressure of her grip remained.
“I don’t know if you can hear me.” Vic’s voice.
Johnathan wanted to turn to it, longed to clasp the man to him and follow through on all the little gestures that had budded between them.
The flames roared all around him, but he clung to Vic’s voice, their bond an intangible line as the fire consumed him.
“You owe me nothing, John, but please, please live. This isn’t fair.” Vic’s voice broke. “We aren’t finished, you and I.”
Johnathan’s blood boiled and steamed into a crimson haze. His nerves crisped and dissolved, nothing more than black soot.
“This is my fault. I didn’t see—I didn’t realize until it was too late. They warned me, and I couldn’t piece it together in time.” Vic’s words tethered Johnathan, but the fire continued to eat him alive.
His flesh peeled away from bone, charred flakes swept up in the rush of the inferno.
“Come on, come on. Don’t succumb, John. Come on!” That beautiful voice was so insistent.
The flames coalesced, funneled into a torrent that poured into his chest, soaked into the struggling muscle of his heart. His pulse fluttered, battered by the heat. It sputtered and skipped, the fire wrapping around his bones, melting the marrow. Heat seeped into every pore. His heart stopped.
The pressure shifted, blanketed him, a cool darkness, but it did little to smother the fire.
“LIVE, DAMN YOU!”
Vic’s shout pierced him, drove through the burnt remains of his being until they chained him to the physical plane. Each syllable rippled through him, an anchor he clutched in desperation, a scared boy who only wanted to survive.
His heart shuddered. The fire bloomed up from his bones, through the sizzling construction of muscles and tendons. New nerves and blood vessels crackled and snapped into place, bled up through his skin, baked from within. Johnathan exhaled a breath full of sparks and steam.
The flames receded at last, drawn back to the furnace inside his chest. The fire was still there but contained. His vision swam.
Vic’s face appeared in sharp relief above him. His hands still gripped Johnathan’s shoulders. He drew in a breath of surprise. “John?”
A haze of smoke wreathed the lens of his gaze. Through it he saw Mary Elizabeth, a hovering specter on the other side of a room, both familiar and strange in the diminishing grip of flame. “You survived,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” She shimmered and vanished, where she had never been.
Johnathan bolted upright, his body curiously light. Without a second thought, he pulled the vampire into his lap.
Chapter Twenty-Five
They stared at one another in arrested astonishment. Vic’s gaze flitted from Johnathan’s face to his torso, over and over. Johnathan could only imagine what sort of hell-spat survivor he presented, but there was an odd absence of pain. His bones were weightless, muscles loose and wobbly, though his skin was stretched, too small for his frame. His throat was dry roasted from the inside out. Bodily discomforts he dismissed. There were other issues at large. He was, for want of a better word, inexplicably alive.
Vic sat in his lap, not only alive but unshackled, which meant Dr. Evans’ men hadn’t intervened. Where was Alyse? What happened to the creature that bit him? Where were the Society Hunters?
He needed to know how the others fared but couldn’t staunch his utter relief at seeing Vic alive and whole, smoothing a shaky hand down the vampire’s chest. “What happened?”
His voice was a rusted croak. A miracle he could talk when the last thing he remembered was the snap of teeth on his throat. He blinked, the rush of air in his lungs hot and tight as he reached for his neck. Vic caught his hand, his expression shattered. He shook his head when Johnathan looked at him.
A weighted silence floated between them and a crackling awareness that Vic sat astride him. The press of his weight, the coolness of his hand, his proximity, all fired against Johnathan’s senses. He swore he could smell Vic, an intoxicating blend of spice and snow, a hint of old blood, and something floral that felt like an afterthought.
Johnathan inhaled again, teasing out the scent of water lilies and clean linens, not Vic’s scent, but somehow familiar. The scents were so sharp, so clean. He leaned forward, pressing his nose into the man’s neck where he drank his fill of that luscious scent.
“Oh,” Vic breathed, a slight tremor in his limbs that drew a smile from Johnathan before a wave of dizziness rolled over him, dampening his amorous mood.
Johnathan drew away and shook his head; the disorientation failed to abate. The world spun out of focus. He gulped air in an attempt to steady himself, shocked by the sense of heat that rose in his lungs. He pressed a hand against his sternum, his breath coming in shorter, frantic pants, each lungful a scrape of sand to the parched wasteland of his throat.
The pressure of Vic’s body disappeared. Johnathan gripped the mattress under him for purchase, certain if he didn’t hold onto something he would fall off the edge of the world. He flinched at the touch of cold metal to his lips.
“Drink,” Vic commanded.
There was no hesitation. Johnathan lost himself to the blessed relief of water. In seconds, he drained the cup Vic held to his mouth, barely conscious when he switched in another cup and another until Johnathan clasped the carafe in his hands and drank the contents down. It still wasn’t enough, but the horrid, dry emptiness inside eased.
Johnat
han recognized his surroundings now, ensconced in the relative safety of Vic’s house. He collapsed back against the headboard, aware that Vic watched him, his gaze wary, clutching the empty carafe in his hands.
“How do you feel?”
“What sort of question is that?” Johnathan frowned. His voice was…off. Rougher. Deeper. He reached for his throat. This time, Vic didn’t stop him.
He expected to meet another blood-stiff bandage, unnerved by the touch of unbroken skin. His eyes widened with alarm. “Why am I—”
Vic grabbed his hands, rubbing deep circles with his thumbs in an attempt to soothe Johnathan’s mounting panic. “Stop. Breathe.”
The expression on that angelic face could almost be called fear.
Johnathan’s stomach clenched. The water he’d guzzled soured until he wondered if it would all come back up. He was caught up in the moment, distracted, which is why it took him so long to notice the lack of pain from his previously infected shoulder. There were no bandages across his filthy, bare chest.
A thread of dread suffused his system. “Tell me what happened?”
The question snapped out from between his teeth.
“You need to calm down first. I—,” Vic’s earnest voice was interrupted by a crash within the house. Tension whipped through his slim body as he rolled to the floor. “Stay here. Don’t make a sound.” He rushed from the room in a blur, or what would have been a blur. Johnathan caught his breath, tracking Vic with ease, every individual shift of his limbs visible as he ran from the room.
That crushing sense of suffocation returned with a vengeance. There was something terribly amiss.
Despite Vic’s warning, he rose from the bed, surprised that his limbs held him without protest, but his head swayed enough that he needed to grip the vanity table to anchor himself.
The vanity mirror wobbled on its fastenings, and his reflection rippled for a moment before the glass settled. A hell-spat survivor indeed, his blond hair in willy-nilly tufts, his unshaven cheeks stained with dried blood. In fact, his neck and the upper portion of his chest were still filthy, coated in the Lord-knew-what fluids. How could that be when…
Johnathan brushed his fingers over his throat. Teeth flashed through his memory, a visceral reminder of what he’d thought were his final moments, the hot breath of the beast like fire against his skin. He swallowed, transfixed by the movement of his unmarred throat.
Not a hint of a scar marked his flesh.
Not good. Not good at all.
His pulse ticked up a notch. His eyes strayed further, to his shoulder. The wood of the vanity whined under his grip. The bullet wound was gone, as if it had never been.
It was impossible to heal that fast, unless he didn’t, and that curious lighter-than-air sensation that plagued his muscles was the result of one gray-eyed idiot’s interference.
“Oh God, he wouldn’t.” Johnathan stumbled back a step and stared at his fingers. His hands shook, but his fingernails were a healthy, ruddy pink, without a hint of dead man’s tinge. “But…how?”
The sound of shattering wood broke through his panic. Johnathan seized his tattered shirt from the end of the bed, his senses reeling in fresh dismay. His sense of propriety warred with a gut reaction to the stiff, blood-saturated fabric. It was either this or enter the fray half naked.
The door slammed open with enough force to destroy the hinges. Startled, he dropped the shirt.
A familiar face, a face Johnathan did not want to see, stalked into the room, a pistol levered over his forearm. Sykes was a man Evans sent in to tie up loose ends. For a bare second, Johnathan thought there was surprise on the agent’s face to see him on his feet, though it only confirmed what he knew. Dr. Evans held back the others because he believed Johnathan about the demon. That he waited until after the encounter meant he thought Johnathan wouldn’t survive or would be too injured to interfere when his agents mopped up the aftermath.
Evans meant for him to die. One way or another.
The surprise vanished, offering Johnathan a neutral mask. “Good to see you alive, Prospective Newman.” The man’s voice was level despite the blood that poured from his nose, clearly broken.
A beat of fear ticked inside Johnathan’s chest. Where was Vic?
It suddenly didn’t matter that Vic was a faster, stronger creature. Society agents were cunning, nasty fighters. Sir Harry’s still form flickered in his memory.
“I'm afraid I don’t return the sentiment, Sykes.” Johnathan dropped into a crouch. A flicker of heat sparked in the pit of his stomach. “Where’s Vic—” He bit off the question with a curse. Idiot!
An unpleasant smile curled Sykes’s thin lips. “You always were keen on them bloodsuckers, eh, Newman? Odd little poof this one, all buttoned up in fine clothes, neat as you please. Tough too, though he still bleeds just fine. Now, why don’t you come quietly and maybe Dodd will end the dandy nice and quick.”
Johnathan’s pulse echoed in his ears, a rushing crash that drowned out the panicked circle of his thoughts until the realization finally dawned on him. It wasn’t his pulse that thundered in his ears. It was Sykes’.
The heat in his stomach went molten.
Johnathan surged forward. He seized Sykes’ wrist and pulled the man forward. The gun went off, the brief graze of pain along his side quickly forgotten as he rammed Sykes like an incensed wild boar.
Sykes had fifty solid pounds of muscle over Johnathan and several more years of experience and training, but Johnathan’s rage took the man off his feet. The advantage didn’t last long when Sykes rolled him over and neatly pinned him face down on the floor.
The man had Johnathan’s arms locked behind him in seconds, dislocating the shoulder joint to emphasize his point. The noise that poured out of Johnathan’s mouth was closer to a feral snarl. He fought stupid and reckless; Sykes took full advantage.
“There we go, boyo, easy, easy,” Sykes murmured.
Johnathan heard the rustle of leather and the muted clink of glass. Dread flushed through his system. He realized Sykes’ aim as the needle pierced his neck.
Johnathan was a loose end, too dangerous to be left alive. That meant the Judas Choice, a dose of poison and dead man’s blood to ensure it killed him if he was human or in transition to something other.
“No, no, no!” The silken chill of liquid poison flooded into his veins from the point of puncture. Johnathan cried out, his senses balking while the dose went to work.
His vision wavered. He’d failed. Even now, Vic was likely dead. The Society wouldn’t spare Alyse either. They wouldn’t give her the Judas Choice they gave him, not that she would go down lightly. He knew she wouldn’t. The only consolation this gambit brought him was at least the Society would stop the demon and its servants.
Johnathan’s stomach rolled. He curled inward beneath Sykes’ hold. The fire in his gut didn’t subside. It burned hotter and hotter. He whimpered as it pushed into his veins.
“What the bleeding hell?” Sykes’ grip loosened a fraction. The fog of the drug evaporated.
A pop vibrated through his body, and his shoulder neatly sank back into the joint on its own. Johnathan straightened in a rush and shoved Sykes off balance. He spun on his knees and caught Sykes mid-scramble to his feet. Johnathan knew a grapple was futile with the larger man, but desperation spurned him onward.
The man outclassed him, but dumb luck was on Johnathan’s side when Sykes slid on his own gun, a second’s falter that allowed Johnathan to lock him in a choke hold.
“Come on, come on, go down, you big bastard,” Johnathan shouted. Sykes lifted him right off the ground. There were plenty of walls to slam him into; Sykes would have him off in a second. “Dammit!” He squeezed with everything he had.
The crack was deafening. Sykes dropped, a limp sack of meat, so fast he pinned Johnathan, who was too shocked to move, underneath him.
“Oh, God.” He unwrapped his arm from Sykes’ neck, unnerved by the crackle of bone beneath the skin. “Oh,
God.”
A gunshot roared through the house. Johnathan struggled to heave the dead man off him. Dead man, dead weight, like a sack of bricks.
“Johnathan!”
He sucked air into his lungs, torn between relief and fear at the sound of Alyse’s worried voice. “Here! I’m in here!”
She appeared a moment later, strands of hair framed her white face, a hunting rifle still clutched in her hands. Despite her disheveled state, grim determination bracketed the sides of her mouth. She set the gun down on the floor and grabbed Johnathan by the shoulders. Between the two of them, they managed to free his legs. Alyse snatched up her gun.
“Come quick,” she snapped. “Vic’s hurt.” She rushed from the room without a backward glance.
Johnathan climbed to his feet, itching to rush to the vampire’s side. Fear sat thick and heavy in his limbs. Did Alyse manage to kill Dodd? Sykes said the vampire bled just fine…
He braced himself as he emerged from the room.
The parlor looked like a brawl pit straight out of the dockyards, the floor littered with blood spatter and the shattered remnants of furniture and decor. He found Dodd first. It wasn’t difficult.
“Crazy bitch. Come back here! I’ll wear your guts for suspenders!” Dodd lay slumped against the wall. His legs bent at such an angle that Johnathan suspected he didn’t feel them anymore. The man sneered and jeered, clutching a gaping wound in his stomach. A gut shot, a nasty one, though he didn’t feel a flicker of guilt or remorse for the man’s fate.
“I think you should concern yourself with your own guts, Dodd,” said Johnathan. That sneer turned on him.
A Bargain of Blood and Gold Page 21
