The Secret Night

by Rebecca York

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just sleep. You need to rest.”

  Nick stroked back a lock of Emma’s silky hair, sending her calming thoughts, even when his own emotions were in turmoil.

  Her eyes fluttered closed, and she relaxed into sleep. She needed that after the bloodletting. But he couldn’t give her much time. Only a few minutes. As he watched her, his stomach muscles clenched. Drinking from her had been his only option. He’d done it quickly, trying to focus on something besides the pleasure of it.

  But it had been pleasure, even in his weakened state.

  And now she was the weak one, because this was the second time in two days he had drawn from her. That was too much. But he had had no choice. She had come to him when he was hovering near death, and he had taken what she offered.

  Not that she had offered her blood freely, of course. But she had wanted to save him, just as she had when she’d come charging down his cellar stairs hours before. Both times, he acknowledged, he had taken advantage of her compassion.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered again.

  He was still way below his usual strength, but he had enough blood to function until he got home and could visit his deer herd.

  Easing away from Emma, he struggled out of his jacket and then his shirt. The leather showed obvious bullet holes, and the T-shirt was soaked with blood.

  He looked down, trying to inspect the wounds, but because of the angle he couldn’t really see them without a mirror. Lucky for him that the myth about a vampire’s not having a reflection was bunk. Instead, he ran his hands over the entry points. Though he had bled profusely, now that he had taken sustenance, the wounds were already healing. Soon all evidence of his near-fatal encounter would vanish entirely.

  Satisfied, he pulled the jacket back on and zipped it. He wanted to get rid of the bloody shirt so Emma wouldn’t see it, but leaving it here would be a bad move. If the police returned and found this cubbyhole, they would have DNA to analyze—and they would come up with some pretty strange conclusions.

  So he stuffed the shirt into his pocket, then looked down at Emma. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was deep and even. He hated to disturb her, but they had to get out of here.

  “Emma?” He stroked her cheek, then leaned down to replace his fingers with his lips.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. “Would you recite some more poetry to me?” she asked dreamily.

  “When we get home.”

  “You’re a very sensitive man,” she said softly.

  He snorted, and abruptly she looked confused, as if she was trying to make sense of what was going on. “What happened? Did I faint or something?”

  “Yes. I told you you needed to rest.”

  “How could I rest? You were in danger. We were in danger,” she added as her mind cleared. “We still are!”

  “We bought ourselves some time,” he answered, hoping it was true. “Where did you leave your car?”

  She thought for a moment. “Around the corner from the crack house.”

  Her vehicle was closer. “Okay. We’ll take your car.”

  “What do we do about yours?”

  “I’ll get it later.”

  She pushed herself up and looked toward the hole in the wall where he’d removed the wooden panel. “In this neighborhood, you’ll probably come back to find it stripped.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” he answered, not worried about a mere automobile. Investments over the years had made him rich, even by modern standards. “Let’s go, before the cops come back.”

  He eased himself out of the cubbyhole and stood, then bent to offer her his hand. She climbed out and stood, too, then swayed on her feet. “I’m dizzy,” she said in a puzzled voice.

  “Like I said, you should be in bed resting.”

  “Hah! Lucky for you I was up watching television.”

  “Yes. Very lucky.” He hugged her to him, feeling the knot of guilt in his stomach twist painfully. He’d taken too much blood from her in too short a time.

  “I’m okay now,” she said, straightening up. “Let’s go.”

  “We’ll take it slow.”

  But she remained still, staring at the front of his jacket; she’d spotted one of the bullet holes. “You said you weren’t hurt!”

  “I wasn’t. My jacket was unzipped and hanging open,” he improvised. “A bullet must have gone through it.”

  “I don’t believe you. I know you were hurt. Let me see.” She unzipped the jacket and bared his naked chest. “Where’s your shirt?”

  “I didn’t wear one,” he lied.

  She ran her fingers over his flesh and found the indentation of his rapidly healing bullet wound.

  “What’s this?”

  “An old scar,” he lied again, glad that the darkness prevented her from taking a closer look. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”

  Now that they were out of the hole in the ground, he could see how close it was to dawn. Not good. Still, he kept his voice even. “But once we get out of the backyard, it’s better if we don’t look like we’re in a tearing hurry.”

  They climbed the steps and reached the small patio, and he started toward the back gate.

  “Wait. There are two cops at the end of the alley.”

  With his renewed blood supply, he knew he could easily handle the pair, but he couldn’t let Emma see him do that.

  “We don’t have to go that way,” she said. “I got in here from the street. There’s a passageway to the front of the house.”

  She led him to it, and they emerged on the sidewalk.

  He could see that even that small exertion had left her winded. “Take it easy,” he said, steadying her against his side.

  “I’m…I’m fine.”

  “Which way is your car?”

  Turning, she started up the block, still leaning against him.

  He was starting to think they had gotten away clean. But when they had made it past half a dozen houses, a uniformed officer came out the front door and down the stairs of the seventh one.

  “Bloody hell,” Nick muttered.

  Emma tensed. “What?”

  “A cop.” Nick knew he could have gotten away by sprinting in the other direction, but that wasn’t an option right now—not when he was holding Emma up.

  The officer reached the sidewalk and fixed his gaze on them, eyeing Nick’s leather jacket. Nick was profoundly glad that Emma’s body hid the bullet holes.

  “Good evening, officer,” he said politely.

  “Kinda late for a stroll, especially around here, don’t you think?” the cop asked suspiciously.

  “We heard about all the excitement down here earlier, and we thought we’d have a look-see,” Nick answered. “But the whole area was blocked off.”

  The officer, whose nametag identified him as Mur phy, said, “You don’t want to go rushing to a crime scene, you know. You could get hurt.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Nick agreed.

  Murphy stayed firmly in their path. Probably he’d had a frustrating night of knocking on doors and getting unhelpful responses.

  “You two sure you didn’t see anything?” the cop pressed, maybe hoping he had a couple of potential witnesses on hand.

  “Not a thing,” Nick replied.

  The officer turned to Emma, fixing her with a stern look. “What about you? See anybody leaving the area in a hurry? A tall guy on foot? Maybe wounded?”

  “No, sir.”

  The officer gave them another long look, lingering on Nick’s leather jacket, and he tensed. The cop had probably gotten a description of the elusive gunman—including his attire. But since Emma was still leaning against him like a woman in love, the officer couldn’t make the puzzle pieces fit together.

  Murphy gave them both one more long look, then reached into his breast pocket and produced a business card. “You see anything, you remember anything, you give me a call.”

  “Sure thing,” Nick answered
.

  As the cop started for the next house on the block, Nick let out a small sigh—and felt Emma sag against him.

  “He suspected something,” she whispered.

  “You think?” he said glibly. He held Emma tightly to his side as they made their way to her car.

  He wanted to hurry her along, but he knew she was exhausted from her recent bloodletting.

  After what felt like a century, they finally reached her car. She fumbled in the purse still slung over her shoulder and brought out the keys to the rental.

  Deftly, he lifted them out of her hand. “I’ll drive.”

  Once she was belted into the passenger seat, he started for home. He wanted to floor it but knew that was a bad idea. So he gritted his teeth and stayed just above the speed limit.

  Beside him, Emma dozed, then woke with a start. “Where are we?”

  “On the way to my place.”

  “Are you going to tell me what exactly happened back at that crack house?”

  “I was doing surveillance to determine how best to approach the job I’d been hired to do. Someone inside shot at me. I returned fire to get whoever it was to back off.”

  “And hit him?”

  He made a dismissive sound. “If I did, I’d say that was pure luck. I couldn’t see a thing.”

  “He could be dead,” she said in a fretful voice.

  He wanted to say it would serve the bastard right. Instead, he pressed his lips together, reached for the radio dial, and tuned in to an all-news station; undoubtedly it would be updating the local story with endless, breathless, pointless, speculative “commentary.” After a string of commercials, the reporter did, in fact, return to the shoot-out.

  “One occupant of the house was taken to Union Memorial Hospital and is in stable condition. The gunman from outside the house is still at large. He is described as a white male, six feet tall, wearing a black leather jacket, a black Stetson and black jeans. He may have been wounded.”

  “That’s a pretty good description,” he muttered.

  “Except you lost the hat. You’d think they would have spotted it by now. I did,” she said.

  He swung his gaze toward her. “Are you going to turn me in?” he asked.

  “Of course not!”

  “What if the guy had died?”

  He could see her considering her answer.

  “Well, if it was self-defense…”

  “It was.”

  He was silent for several moments, thinking. He owed Emma his life—and his liberty. He should be offering her something in return. But he knew what she would ask for, so he kept silent.

  As if she were following his thoughts, she said, “Take me to Caldwell’s compound.”

  His hands clenched on the wheel. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You can’t just go rushing back into the Refuge.”

  “My sister is there. I have to get her out.”

  “You already tried, didn’t you?”

  She made an angry sound. “Yes! And she wouldn’t go. But you could carry her out of there.”

  He wanted to explain to her all the reasons why rushing in would be a dangerous mistake. “I told you to let me think about it,” he said.

  “Well, don’t take too long.”

  His head whipped toward her. “Is that a threat?”

  Chapter Ten

  Nick waited for Emma’s answer.

  “Take it any way you like,” she muttered, folding her arms across her chest.

  Thankful that they were almost home, he turned onto his tree-shaded lane. He had felt sunlight begin seeping through the windows of the car, digging into his skin, biting his nerve endings like the teeth of a small, gnawing animal. If he didn’t get inside soon, he would start to burn.

  He dragged in a grateful breath when he pulled into his driveway and activated the secret garage door.

  Emma’s eyes widened when she saw the retaining wall open.

  “That’s a fake wall?”

  “Yeah.” He drove into the blessed darkness and cut the engine. If Emma hadn’t been there, he would have sat behind the wheel for several minutes, drinking in the cool dimness soothing his skin.

  But he had more urgent business than his own singed hide. He had to help Emma regain her strength. Exiting the car, he strode to a switch beside the garage door and turned on a low-watt light. Not that he needed the illu mination, but Emma would. And the contractor certainly would have wondered about him if he’d refused to let him install it.

  Emma climbed wearily out of the car and shut the passenger door. She flexed her arm, then reached to touch her side.

  “You need more rest—and more treatment,” Nick said.

  “I’m fine,” she protested.

  “Obviously you’re not. I’ll give you something to help build you up.”

  She tipped her head to one side. “What—a tonic? Like one of our stepfathers used to give me?”

  “Something like that.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “His tonic tasted like stagnant water.”

  “Mine tastes like fine wine.”

  “A likely story.”

  “I’ll let you judge for yourself.”

  He led her through the tunnel into his private living quarters. From the linen closet he took out an old-fashioned green glass bottle containing a concoction mixed long ago by an herbalist in New Orleans; it was designed to build up the blood. He’d gotten it when he was involved with a woman named Theresa Emerson. He’d wanted to keep making love with her. And for a time, the tonic had kept her healthy. But only for a time.

  He felt a pang when he remembered that episode in his life. He’d thought he could love Theresa, and giving her up had created an ache deep inside him.

  The herbal elixir had prolonged their time together. But he’d known that the affair would have to end. If it didn’t, he’d ultimately take too much of her blood. Doing without it when he was emotionally involved with a partner was like having intercourse with her over and over and never reaching climax. He’d known his self-control would ultimately crack, rendering his attraction to Theresa a fatal one. Fatal to her.

  He poured a quarter cup of the burgundy-colored liquid into a crystal wineglass and handed it to Emma.

  She took a cautious whiff, then a sip. “It’s not too bad.”

  “Be honest. It’s good.”

  “Okay. It’s good.”

  “Drink up.”

  “Why don’t you join me?”

  “Because I don’t need any. My blood’s fine,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even.

  She did as he asked, then put the glass down.

  “You’ll take some more tonight.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “It’s a strong suggestion.” He gave her a look. “Now, both of us have had a long, long night. We should get some sleep.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, looking nearly asleep on her feet already.

  She started for his bedroom, and he felt his heart clench inside his chest. He opened his mouth to say that she should go upstairs. But he simply couldn’t make the words come out. And, he rationalized, if she was in his bed, at least he could keep an eye on her.

  When he’d first become a vampire, he’d slept through the day as though he were dead. Then he’d trained himself to wake up and stay up for short periods. Now he could awaken readily during the day if he needed to.

  His mouth turned dry as he watched Emma pull off her slacks and drape them over the back of a chair.

  “I’m going to shower. I smell like I’ve been hiding in a hole in the ground,” she murmured.

  “Yes.” He thought about joining her but decided that was a bad idea.

  “May I borrow a T-shirt?”

  “Sure,” he said, his mouth dry. “What’s your preference? Batman or plain black?”

  “You have a thing for Batman?”

  “I like his style.” He handed her the superhero shirt, then made himself scarce in his game room while she showered. Bu
t when he tried to play “Dragon Combat,” he was too uncoordinated to score. With a muttered curse, he conceded defeat to the opponent he’d picked up online, then withdrew from the game. But he stayed in the room, his ears tuned toward his houseguest.

  He waited until Emma had climbed into bed, then took a quick shower and pulled on a clean T-shirt and undershorts. He would have liked to sleep in absolute darkness, but because she was with him, he left the bathroom light on and closed the door most of the way before slipping in beside her.

  Her body heat radiated toward him, and it required effort to keep from gathering her into his arms.

  Then she spoke—and increased his tension a hundredfold.

  “Can we talk about the Refuge?”

  He knew then that he’d made a mistake in more ways than one by allowing her into his bed. He sighed. “When we wake up.”

  She huffed out a breath but didn’t argue. Which was good, because he was too worn out for sparring.

  “We’ve both had a tough night,” he pointed out. “We need to sleep. If you want to get something to eat later on, I left the alarm system off.”

  “Thanks.”

  He closed his eyes and felt unconsciousness take him.

  Some time later he woke up, knowing instantly that something was wrong.

  Light spilled from the bathroom into his eyes. His undershirt was rolled up around his armpits, and delicate fingers danced across his bare flesh.

  He was disoriented, but he reacted instantly. His hand shot out, catching a small, feminine wrist.

  Emma gasped.

  “Bloody hell!”

  When she tried to pull her hand away, he held her fast. “What are you doing?” he growled.

  She gulped. “I woke up from a dream where you’d been shot. I was scared, and…and I had to look at your chest…to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She took her lower lip between her teeth, then released it. “You said you had old scars on your chest. Before, when I opened your jacket, I felt them. Now they’re gone.”

  Feeling trapped, he wanted to curse again. Last night he’d still had small indentations where the bullets had entered his body. When he glanced down at his chest now, he saw that the marks were barely visible.

  With a small shrug, he let go of her wrist. “I do have old scars there. I guess they looked different in the light of that cellar.”