by J. R. Ward
As losing the diary would make him bereft, he kept it in the one place where not a soul tarried. Before the camp settled herein, the cave had been inhabited by some manner of ancient human, and the prior inhabitants had left crude drawings on the walls. The hazy representations of bison and horses and palm prints and single eyes were considered curses by the soldiers and were avoided by all and sundry. A partition had been erected in front of that portion of the walls, and though the artistry might have been painted over in its entirety, Vishous knew why his father didn’t do away with them. The Bloodletter wanted the camp off balance and edgy, and he taunted soldiers and females alike with threats that the spirits of those animals would possess them or that the eye images and handprints would come to life with fire and fury.
V wasn’t afraid of the drawings. He loved them. The animals’ simplicity of design had power and grace, and he liked to place his own hands up against the palm prints. Indeed, it was of comfort to know that there were those who had lived here before him. Perhaps they had had it better.
V hid the diary between two of the larger depictions of bison, in a crevice that provided an accommodation just wide and deep enough. During the day, when all were reposed, he would sneak behind the partition and set his eyes aglow and read until his loneliness was eased.
It was a mere year after he found them that Vishous’s books were destroyed. His only joys were burned, as he had always feared they would be. And it was no surprise by whom.
He had been feeling ill for weeks, approaching his transition, though he knew it not at the time. Unable to sleep, he had risen and ghosted to the hide pile, settling in with a volume of fairy tales. It was with the book in his lap that he fell asleep.
When he awoke, a pretrans was standing over him. The boy was one of the more aggressive ones, hard of eye and wiry of body.
“How you laze whilst the rest of us work,” the boy sneered. “And is that a book in your hand? Mayhap it should be turned in, as it keeps you from chores. I could get more for my stomach by doing so.”
Vishous pushed his stack farther behind the hides and got to his feet, saying nothing. He would fight for his books, just as he fought for the scraps of food to fill his belly or the castoff clothing that covered his skin. And the pretrans before him would fight for the privilege of exposing the books. It was always thus.
The boy came in fast, shoving V back against the cave wall. Though his head hit hard and his breath rushed out, he struck back, slamming his opponent in the face with the book. As the other pretrans rushed over and watched, V hit his opponent over and over again. He had been taught to use any weapon at his disposal, but as he forced the other male to the ground, he wanted to cry that he was using this most precious thing to hurt someone else. He had to keep going, though. If he lost the advantage, he might well be beaten and lose the books before he could move them to another hiding place.
At last, the other boy lay still, his face a swollen mess, his breath gurgling as V held him down by the throat. The volume of fairy tales was dripping blood, the leather cover loose on the spine.
It was in the ragged aftermath that it happened. A strange tingling shot down V’s arm and tunneled into the hand that held his opponent to the cave floor. Then an eerie shadow was suddenly thrown, created by a glow coming from V’s palm. At once, the pretrans under him began to thrash around, his arms and legs flapping against the stone as if his whole body were in pain.
V let go and stared at his hand in horror.
When he looked back at the male, a vision struck like a fist, rendering V stunned and sightless. In a hazy mirage he saw the boy’s face in a stiff wind, his hair blown back, his eyes fixed on some distant point. Behind him there were rocks of the kind found on the mountain, and sunlight shone upon both them and the pretrans’s motionless body.
Dead. The boy was dead.
The pretrans suddenly whispered. “Your eye…your eye…what has been done?”
The words came out of V’s mouth before he could stop them: “Death will find you on the mountain, and as the wind comes upon you, so shall you be carried away.”
A gasp brought V’s head up. One of the females was close by, her face drawn in horror as if he had spoken to her.
“What goes on herein?” came a booming voice.
V leaped off the pretrans so he could get back a ways from his father and keep the male in view. The Bloodletter was standing with his breeches undone, having clearly just taken one of the kitchen females. Which explained why he was in this part of the camp.
“What have you in your hand?” the Bloodletter demanded, stepping closer to V. “Give it unto me this moment.”
In the face of his father’s wrath, V had no choice but to proffer the book. It was snatched up with a curse.
“You used this wisely only when you beat him with it.” Shrewd dark eyes narrowed on the indention in the hides whereupon V laid his back. “You have been lazing off against these skins, have you not? You have passed time here.”
When V didn’t reply, his father took another step nearer. “What do you do back here? Read other tomes? I think yes, and I think you shall give them to me. Perhaps I shall like to read instead of being about my useful endeavors.”
V hesitated…and received a slap so hearty it knocked him over onto the hides. As he slid down and rolled off the back of the pile, he landed on his knees in front of his three other books. Blood from his nose dropped onto one of the covers.
“Shall I strike you anew? Or will you give me what I asked for?” The Bloodletter’s tone was bored, as if either outcome were acceptable, as both would hurt V and thus bring satisfaction.
V put his hand out and stroked a soft leather cover. His chest roared with pain at the good-bye, but the emotion was such a waste, wasn’t it. These things he cared about were about to be destroyed in some fashion, and it was going to happen now, regardless of what he might do. They were as good as gone already.
V looked up over his shoulder at the Bloodletter, and saw a truth that changed his life: His father would destroy anything and anyone V cleaved to for comfort. The male had done so countless times and in countless ways before and would continue apace. These books and this episode were just one footprint along an endless trail that would be well trodden.
The realization made all V’s pain go away. Just like that. For him, there was now no utility in emotional connection, only an eventual agony when it was crushed. So he would no longer feel.
Vishous picked up the books he’d cradled in gentle hands for hours and hours and faced his father. He handed what had been a lifeline over without any care or kinship to the volumes at all. It was as if he had never seen his books before.
The Bloodletter didn’t take what was put before him. “Do you give these to me, my son?”
“I do.”
“Yes…hmm. You know, perhaps I shall not like to read after all. Perhaps I should prefer to fight as a male does. For my species and my honor.” His massive arm stretched out, and he pointed to one of the kitchen fires. “Take them there. Burn them there. As it is winter, the heat is of value.”
The Bloodletter’s eyes narrowed as V calmly went over and tossed the books into the flames. When he turned back around to his father, the male was studying him carefully.
“What said the boy about your eye?” the Bloodletter murmured. “I believe I heard a reference.”
“He said, ‘Your eye, your eye, what has been done?’” V replied without affect.
In the silence that followed, blood oozed from V’s nose, running warm and slow down his lips and off his chin. His arm was sore from the blows he’d thrown, and his head was in pain. None of it bothered him, though. The strangest strength was upon him.
“Do you know why the boy would say such a thing?”
“I do not.”
He and his father stared at each other as an audience of the curious gathered.
The Bloodletter said to no one in particular, “It appears as if my son likes
to read. As I wish to be well versed in my young’s interests, I should like to be apprised if anyone sees him doing so. I would consider it a personal favor to which a boon of note would be attached.” V’s father pivoted around, grabbed a female by the waist, and dragged her toward the main fire pit. “And now we shall have some sport, soldiers mine! To the pit!”
A rousing cheer rose from the knot of males and the crowd dispersed.
As V watched them all go, he realized he felt no hatred. Usually, when his father’s back turned, Vishous gave free rein to how much he despised the male. Now there was nothing. It was as when he had looked upon the books before holding them out. He felt…nothing.
V glanced down at the male whom he’d beaten. “If you ever come near me again, I shall break both your legs and your arms and make it so you shall never see right once more. Are we clear?”
The male smiled even though his mouth was swelling up as if bee-stung. “What if I transition first?”
V put his hands on his knees and leaned down. “I am my father’s son. Therefore I am capable of anything. No matter my size.”
The boy’s eyes widened, as the truth was no doubt obvious: Disconnected as Vishous was now, there was nothing he could not stomach, no deed he could not accomplish, no means he would not call forth to reach an end.
He was as his father had always been, naught but soulless calculation covered by skin. The son had learned his lesson.
Chapter Twelve
When Jane came to again, it was out of a terrifying dream, one in which something that didn’t exist was in fact alive and well and in the same room with her: She saw her patient’s sharp canine teeth and his mouth at the wrist of a woman and him drinking from a vein.
The hazy, off-kilter images lingered and panicked her like a tarp that moved because there was something under it. Something that would hurt you.
Something that would bite you.
Vampire.
She did not get afraid all that often, but she was scared as she sat up slowly. Looking around the spartan bedroom, she realized with dread that the kidnapping part of things hadn’t been a dream. The rest of it, though? She wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t, because her memory had so many holes in it. She remembered operating on the patient. Remembered admitting him to the SICU. Remembered the men abducting her. But after that? Everything was spotty.
As she took a deep breath, she smelled food and saw there was a tray set up next to her chair. Lifting a silver lid off the…Jesus, that was a really nice plate. Imari, like her mother’s had been. Frowning, she noted the meal was gourmet: lamb with baby new potatoes and summer squash. A slice of chocolate cake and a pitcher and a glass were off to the side.
Had they kidnapped Wolfgang Puck as well, for kicks and giggles?
She looked over at her patient.
In the glow from a lamp on the bedside table, he was lying still on black sheets, his eyes closed, his black hair against the pillow, his heavy shoulders showing just above the covers. His respiration was slow and even, his face had color in it, and there was no sheen of fever sweat on him. Although his brows were drawn and his mouth was nothing more than a slash, he looked…revived.
Which was impossible, unless she’d been out cold for a week straight.
Jane stood up stiffly, stretched her arms over her head, and arched to crack her spine back into place. Moving silently, she went over and took the man’s pulse. Even. Strong.
Shit. None of this was logical. None of it. Patients who had been shot and stabbed and who had crashed twice, who then had had open-heart surgery, did not rebound like this. Ever.
Vampire.
Oh, shut up with that.
She glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table and saw the date. Friday. Friday? Christ, it was Friday and ten o’clock in the morning. She’d operated on him a mere eight hours ago, and he looked as if he’d had weeks of healing time.
Maybe this was all a dream. Maybe she’d fallen asleep on the train down to Manhattan and would wake up as they pulled into Penn Station. She’d have an awkward laugh, get a cup of coffee, and go to her interview at Columbia as planned, blaming it all on vending cuisine.
She waited. Hoped a bump in the tracks would lurch her into waking up.
Instead, the digital clock just kept churning through the minutes.
Right. Back to the shit-this-is-reality idea. Feeling utterly alone and scared to death, Jane walked over to the door, tried the knob, and found it locked. Surprise, surprise. She was tempted to bang on the thing, but why bother? No one on the other side was going to let her free, and besides, she didn’t want any of them to know she was awake.
Casing the place was the directive: The windows were covered by some kind of barrier on the far side of the glass, the panel so thick there wasn’t even a glow of day coming through it. Door was obviously a no-go. Walls were solid. No phone. No computer.
Closet was nothing but black clothes, big boots, and a fireproof cabinet. With a lock on it.
The bathroom didn’t offer any escape. There was no window and no vent big enough for her to squeeze through.
She came back out. Man, this wasn’t a bedroom. It was a cell with a mattress.
And this was not a dream.
Her adrenal glands got kicking, her heart going giddyap wild in her chest. She told herself that the police must be looking for her. Had to be. With all the security cameras and personnel at the hospital, someone must have seen them take her and the patient out of there. Plus, if she missed her interview, questions would start rolling.
Trying to get a grip, Jane closed herself in the bathroom, the lock of which had been removed, natch. After using the facilities, she washed her face and grabbed a towel that was hanging off the back of the door. As she put her nose into the folds, she caught an amazing scent that stopped her dead. It was the smell of the patient. He must have used this, probably before he went out and took that bullet in the chest.
She closed her eyes and breathed in deep. Sex was the first and only thing that came to her mind. God, if they could bottle this, these boys could feed their gambling and drug habits by going legit.
Disgusted with herself, she dropped the towel like it was trash and caught a flash behind the toilet. Bending down to the marble tile, she found a straight-edged razor, the old-fashioned kind that made her think of Western movies. As she picked it up, she stared at the shiny blade.
Now, this was a fine weapon, she thought. A damn fine weapon.
She slipped it in her white coat just as she heard the bedroom door open.
Leaving the bathroom, she kept her hand in her pocket and her eyes sharp. Red Sox was back, and he had a pair of duffels with him. The load didn’t seem substantial, at least not for someone as big as him, but he struggled under it.
“This should be a good enough start,” he said in a raspy, tired voice, the word start pronounced staht in classic Bostonian fashion.
“Start what?”
“Treating him.”
“Excuse me?”
Red Sox bent down and opened one of the bags. Inside were boxes of bandages and gauze wraps. Latex gloves. Plastic mauve bedpans. Bottles of pills.
“He told us what you’d need.”
“Did he.” Damn it. She had no interest in playing doc. It was a big enough job being Kidnap Victim, thank you very much.
The guy straightened carefully, like he was light-headed. “You’re going to take care of him.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah. And before you ask, yes, you’re going to make it out of here alive.”
“Assuming I do the medical thing, right?”
“Pretty much. But I’m not worried. You’d do it anyway, wouldn’t you.”
Jane stared at the guy. Not much showed of his face underneath the baseball cap, but his jaw had a curve to it she recognized. And there was that Boston accent.
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“Not anymore.”
In the silence
she ran a clinical eye over him. His skin was gray and pasty, his cheeks hollow, his hands shaking. He looked like he’d been on a two-week bender, weaving on his feet, his breathing off. And what was that smell? God, he reminded her of her grandmother: all denatured perfume and facial powder. Or…maybe it was something else, something that took her back to medical school…. Yeah, that was more like it. He reeked of the formaldehyde from Gross Human Anatomy.
He certainly had the pallor of a corpse. And ill as he was, she wondered if she might be able to take him down.
Feeling the razor in her pocket, she measured the distance between them and decided to hang tight. Even though he was weak, the door was shut and relocked. If she attacked him, she’d just risk getting hurt or killed and wouldn’t be any closer to getting out. Her best bet was to wait next to the jamb until one of them came in. She was going to need the element of surprise, because sure as hell they would overpower her otherwise.
Except what did she do once she was on the other side? Was she in a big house? A little one? She had a feeling that the Fort Knox routine on the windows was standard-issue everywhere else.
“I want out,” she said.
Red Sox exhaled like he was exhausted. “In a couple of days you’ll go back to your life without remembering any of this.”
“Yeah, right. Being kidnapped has a way of sticking with a person.”
“You’ll see. Or not, as the case will be.” As Red Sox went to the bedside, he used the bureau, then the wall to steady himself. “He looks better.”
She wanted to shout at him to get away from her patient.
“V?” Red Sox sat down carefully on the bed. “V?”
The patient’s eyes opened after a moment, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Cop.”
The two men reached for each other’s hands at exactly the same moment, and as she watched them, she decided the two of them had to be brothers—except their coloring was so different. Maybe they were just tight friends? Or lovers?
