Touch of Madness

by C. T. Adams

  Kate:

  Paul caught the chicken pox from one of his kids. I have to cover the last day of his shift at the station. I’m sorry! I really wanted to be at the trial for you! Call me on my cell and let me know how it goes.

  See you soon.

  Tom

  I let out my breath in a relieved sigh. He was all right. The note didn’t say anything about the pack meeting though. I had no idea whether that was a good or bad thing.

  I fervently wished Dusty would just get pregnant. She wanted the baby, after all. With at least one of the surrogates expecting a lot of the pressure on Tom would let up. Oh, the pack still wouldn’t be thrilled that he was with me. They’d prefer he hooked up with some sweet little werewolf, or a fertile human woman who could bear more children for the pack. I’m not fertile. In fact, like Mary and the others, I’m sterile—a heartbreaking effect of all the Thrall yolk running in my veins. But they might at least tolerate the idea. I wasn’t sure I wanted to live without Tom.

  Would he choose me over the pack? I didn’t know. Werewolves are people, but the wolf traits are part of them, too. They crave pack, family. I didn’t want being with me to cost Tom something that was integral to who he was. But I wasn’t willing to give him up either. I couldn’t change my genetics. There has never been a werewolf in the Reilly family tree. Not one. Nor could I make myself fertile, no matter how much I might have wanted to.

  I sighed. Think about something else, Reilly. You’ll just depress yourself worrying about things that you have no control over. Tom hasn’t had to choose. He may never have to choose. He hasn’t left you. He’s just working.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten called in to work unexpectedly. He was single, and had a flexible schedule.

  When things went wrong at work he was one of the first to get called to cover for an absent coworker. Still, the little, suspicious corner of my mind wondered at how convenient it was that it came up right when the pack was trying to get him to keep his distance from me.

  I shook my head. I was being unfair. I’d let a simple nightmare get under my skin. I shuddered. It had seemed so real. I’d felt the breeze against my skin, smelled the metallic scent of the spilled blood.

  I shivered with cold that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature. I needed to clear my head. Exercise would be good. But I didn’t want to go for my run until after I did my meditation.

  I went to the closet and retrieved the kit I’d set up for myself. It consists of a large box, a gray floor mat, white pillar candle, incense and burner, and matches. I carried the box to my usual spot, underneath the plants, with a clear view of the scene outside my windows.

  It took only a minute or two to roll out the mat, turn the box over to use as a table, and set up and light the incense and candles. I sat Indian style on the mat, my forearms resting on my knees, palms up, and began deliberately relaxing each muscle in turn.

  The sweet spicy scent of sandalwood filled the room. I let my mind float, relaxing the barriers that I normally fought so hard to keep in place. Slowly, the muscles in my back and shoulders began to unclench. I took deep, slow breaths, watching the flickering blue and yellow of the candle flame. I felt light-headed, suffused with warmth and power. I was ready. It was time. I closed my eyes and sent my mind outward, thinking of Henri Tané, his voice, his face as it was the last time I saw him.

  A crowd of people stood in a cemetery, all wearing white. The priest stood in front of the casket, speaking in a language I couldn’t understand. It wasn’t French. Perhaps Creole. They were the two national languages.

  A beautiful young black woman wept, her arms wrapped around a small boy with Henri’s features. She looked up, and for a moment it was as though she saw me. Her eyes burned with pain and rage.

  A feminine voice filled my mind, the English heavily accented. “Find the thing that murdered my man. Find it and kill it.”

  I was back in my body so suddenly it startled me. I was shaking, cold. Tears streamed down my face. The candle had blown out, the incense was ashes. My mind reeled, as though from a blow. I knew, knew that Henri was dead, murdered. I hadn’t known him long, but he had been my friend. He alone of the people I knew actually understood what being Not Prey meant. He’d been the one who brought me relief by teaching me how to shield and block out the hive most of the time. Thanks to Henri I have another way to be alone in my mind. The queens would have to launch a full attack to break through my shields now.

  I stood shakily and made my way to the bathroom. Using toilet paper to blow my nose, I tried to think who to contact to find out what had happened. I didn’t know. From what I’d read there’d been unrest in Haiti for years. According to the news I’d read, UN peacekeeping forces had clashed with local gangs and the unrest made everything more complicated.

  I could talk to Miles when I saw him at the courthouse, see if I could get him to retrieve contact information for me from the hospital files. He might refuse, but it was worth a try. Because, while a part of me absolutely believed in my vision, another part held out hope: maybe what I’d seen was simply the product of an overactive imagination. Or maybe it was a premonition that could be avoided if I gave Henri warning. I was new at this. I didn’t control it very well yet. Other things I’d seen had been from the past, or the future. Not everything I saw was in real time no matter how urgent it felt.

  I told myself all those things and more. I didn’t believe any of it. With a heavy heart I tossed the tissue in the trash and went back in the living room to put away the meditation gear. Normally I put nearly a full hour into the exercises. Today I’d barely done fifteen minutes. But I couldn’t bring myself to try again. Not right now. So I repacked the box, loaded it into the closet, and went upstairs.

  I wrapped my knee and then pulled on a sports bra, followed by a navy sweat suit with white stripes down the jacket sleeves that matched the stripes on the outside of the pants. Thick socks and comfortable running shoes completed the outfit except for the accessories. I clipped one of my favorite knives onto the waistband of my pants, tucked my iPod into the pocket of my jacket, and strapped on the man’s sports watch I wear when I run. A quick glance at the watch let me know I could run for a half hour, but that was all. I tucked my house keys in my jacket pocket and rode the freight elevator down to street level. I exited the parking garage through the gate. It was chilly, but not really cold. Still, I did a couple of quick stretches to limber up, touching my fingertips to the tops of my Nikes and stretching until the bones in my spine popped and the handle of the knife I’d clipped into the waistband of my pants dug painfully into my waist. I rolled my body upward, clasping my hands together and reaching toward the sky, then bent from one side to the other.

  It felt good, really good, to be moving my upper body without pain. My shoulder had finally healed, as had my elbow. Oh, I’d be doing physical therapy for months yet to get full strength back, but I had mobility, and function, so I wasn’t complaining. The stitches on my forearm were gone, replaced by a really interesting pattern of scars. I shivered at the memory of sharp fangs digging into the vein, and the throbbing pain of twelve, individual eggs absorbing the blood from my body.

  I closed my eyes, saying a quick prayer of thanks for my survival and the survival of my loved ones and another prayer for Henri. Then I slipped my iPod on, cranked up the tunes, and started off at a slow jog, my feet moving in time with the music coming through the headphones. Yeah, I’d promised to wait until spring, but what Joe didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt me.

  I’d run less than half a block when I started to sweat through the fabric of the sports bra. The calendar might say January, but the weather didn’t believe it.

  Rather than take my usual route on the trail that runs next to Cherry Creek, along Speer Boulevard I ran down Fifteenth Street past the underpass, until I came to the park and trails that had been put in between an entire development of high-end apartments and condominiums. The prices advertised on the billboard outside the bui
lding that housed the management offices took my breath away. They’d taken the price I originally paid for my building, and added a one on the front—per unit! I couldn’t believe anyone would pay that much, but they obviously were. The sign in front read “Only four units left.”

  Amazing. If I ever did decide to go condo with the building, it was good to know that the sky was the limit as far as pricing. But despite my current financial woes, I just wasn’t ready to parcel out my building. For one thing it was my building, and I liked it that way. Still—

  I felt, then saw, movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head to see a huge shape emerging from the doorway of one of the condos. It was Carlton. He’d covered his head with a Rockies baseball cap, and wore dark sunglasses, but there was no mistaking him.

  Not for the first time I wished that vampires really were the evil undead of legends. If that were the case, he would be bursting into flame right about now, and fear wouldn’t be trying to claw its way out of my stomach like a trapped animal. Instead, as I watched he adjusted the drawstring at the waist of his pale blue satin warm-up suit and started heading my way at an easy lope.

  I am Not Prey. Prey run. I will not run. But oh God I wanted to.

  He came up next to me, his long legs making it easy for him to keep pace. “Morning, Buffy. How’s tricks?”

  “Buffy?” I didn’t break stride, just kept moving at a steady pace, my feet thudding in a steady rhythm against the pavement. “I’m Kate.”

  He grinned, flashing white teeth and fangs. A lot of new vamps try to be subtle about what they’ve become. Carlton wasn’t the subtle type.

  “What, you don’t like the nickname? I mean, hell, aren’t you just the heap big vampire slayer? You’re the one to beat, baby. I’ve done my homework. The rest of the Not Prey—they’ve taken maybe one minor vamp to earn their status. You’ve taken down two entire hives. I mean … damn, girl. You have those old broads shittin’ a brick every time you so much as say boo.”

  Somehow I doubted that. I glanced over at him. “You don’t look too intimidated.”

  His grin widened, but something in the set of his face made it look fake. “Like I said, I like a challenge. It’s why I accepted their offer to come out to Denver.”

  “And why you jog in broad daylight.”

  He laughed, a deep joyous sound, and flashed those oh-so-sharp teeth again. “It stings like a bad sunburn, and it’s hard on the eyes. But I don’t mind a little pain.”

  Why doesn’t that surprise me?

  I decided to ask Carlton the question that had been tugging at the back of my mind ever since Richards handed me the packet last night. He might choose not to answer, but it couldn’t hurt. Who knew, maybe I’d actually find out something.

  “Why can’t the queens track the eggs mentally? They had an awareness. I could feel it when I was in the hospital.”

  “Those were the incubated eggs. They had either hatched or were close to hatching. The ones that have been stolen were cryogenically preserved. They’ve never been connected to the hive, so the queens can’t find them.”

  “They’ve tried?”

  “Oh, hell yeah.” He shook his head. “Do you really think they’d deal with you if they didn’t have to? Get real, Reilly. They hate your ass. To them you’re a fucking mass murderer.”

  “Funny, I feel the same way about them.”

  We continued running in silence for several minutes, stride for stride. He could easily have outdistanced me if he’d wanted to, but seemed content to just keep pace, his breathing perfectly easy, expression calm.

  “Do they know anything about Henri Tané?”

  I could barely see his eyes behind the dark glasses, but I felt his consciousness shift. He didn’t break stride, but he did slow the pace a little. I matched my stride to his.

  After a long moment he said. “He’s dead. And before you ask, nobody connected to the hive did it. The queens didn’t want to risk it. They considered him almost as much of a pain in the ass as you.”

  “Only almost?”

  “Baby, nobody is more of a pain than you are.” His voice was hard.

  I looked over at him, deliberately keeping my expression neutral. “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

  “Don’t be.”

  We reached a fork in the sidewalk. I stayed on the main track. He turned off. In less than a minute he was gone.

  4

  I made it back to the apartment with plenty of time to shower and change. I didn’t dawdle. I didn’t want to be late.

  The 16th Street Mall has a set of shuttle buses that run from one end of downtown to the other, stopping every couple of blocks. They’re busy most of the day and night, but during peak times, when all the good little commuters are making their way to the high-rise office buildings, they run extra buses. Even so, people pack in like sardines.

  I had climbed on at the Union Station stop. It’s the start of the line, so I’d been able to snag a seat. It was more comfortable than swaying on my feet with somebody’s briefcase jabbing into my back, but only barely. If I hadn’t been due to testify this morning I’d have walked. But I didn’t want to take the stand in front of an entire courtroom full of people, including reporters, soaked in sweat and stinking to high heaven.

  Winter in Denver, you had to love it. Frigid one minute, hot the next. The old saw about “You don’t like the weather? Wait a few minutes. It’ll change” is actually true here. Since Tom hadn’t been on hand to choose an outfit, I’d gone for a more comfortable and practical look today. My jacket and slacks were light-weight wool in a deep, forest green that brought out the color of my eyes and made my hair look even more red than usual. I’d pulled all of that hair back into a tight French braid that hung down to the middle of my back. I left the jacket open to show off a soft cotton tee in a flattering shade of cream with a floral and leaf pattern embroidered around the scooped neck. Practical shoes with no heel in basic brown matched the bag I carried. It might not be a great outfit for fighting, but it would be a damned sight better than what I’d had on yesterday. Not that I was likely to have to fight any Thrall today. No, apparently for the moment I was on their side. Made me nauseous just thinking about it.

  I checked my watch as the shuttle bell rang. The doors were sliding closed, we were one block from Civic Center Station; only a couple blocks from the courthouse. I’d make good time by cutting through the park that takes up nearly the entire block between the Denver courthouse and the state capitol building. It has trees, gorgeous flowerbeds in the summer, fountains, Greek columns forming an open theater area and, at this time of day, more than a few homeless still huddled against the warm air exhaust grates in sleeping bags.

  I crossed Colfax with the light and began hurrying along the sidewalk, the heat from the concrete sidewalks seeping through the thin soles of my shoes.

  I had only gone about half-way across the park when I stopped cold. There had been about a dozen demonstrators yesterday. Today there had to be over a hundred, waving signs, chanting. It was a mess. There were police there to control the crowds, and vans from all of the local news affiliates.

  “Shirt.”

  The clock in the bell tower struck the quarter hour. Judging from the crowds by the front door, there was no way I was going to make it through security and up to the courtroom before eight going that way. Turning on my heel, I took one of the sidewalks that angled to the corner of the park. There was a visible line at the back entrance to the courthouse, too, but at least there wouldn’t be reporters and chanting demonstrators.

  I moved as quickly as I could, my purse slapping against the side of my leg, shoes clicking on the concrete.

  I reached the edge of the park across the street from the courthouse in less than two minutes. I’d missed the light, and was getting ready to jaywalk when someone spotted me.

  “It’s her!” someone in the crowd shouted.

  The demonstrators surged forward, knocking over the wooden barriers. I couldn�
�t tell if the police were holding the demonstrators or vice versa. There were screams of “Murderer!” and “Bitch!”

  Two teenage boys managed to break from the pack. They did an end-run around cops and the rest of the crowd, each running full out toward me. They ignored the squeal of traffic on Court Street, their eyes intent.

  I dropped my purse. Kicking it out of my way, I braced myself as well as I could for attackers approaching from opposite sides.

  The first boy, to my left, reached into the side pocket of his baggy jeans and pulled out what looked like a red water balloon. Time seemed to slow. As if from a distance I heard a booming voice shout “Put down the weapon!” I turned and saw the second boy pull a blue balloon out from his jacket. As the first boy cocked back his arm to throw, a dark-uniformed figure launched himself into a flying tackle, bringing the boy to the pavement with a bruising impact, the balloon smashing against the ground inches away from them.

  I spun, toward the second attacker, even as the smell of rotting meat hit me like a slap to the face. He’d let go of his balloon. I had all the time in the world to see it sailing toward me, and no time at all to avoid it. It hit me in the center of my chest and exploded, soaking me with red paint mixed with what smelled suspiciously like fly attractant.

  Police officers had cuffed both boys and were hauling them toward the squad cars. A third cop crossed the street to check on me, leaving his buddies to deal with the wildly cheering crowd of demonstrators.

  “Ma’am, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I reached down to grab my purse. I wasn’t hurt, but I was humiliated. My clothes were ruined, and I stank like road kill left in the mid-July sun for a couple of days. I was scheduled to be in the courtroom in less than five minutes to testify. Oh, and all of the local news cameras were aimed in my direction.