by Jenna Barwin
“All right,” he said. “I guess she can stay here.”
Chapter 18
Guilt hung heavy in Henry’s chest. Foisting responsibility for the injured woman onto someone else was selfish. She deserved better hospitality from him than that.
“You’ll be all right,” he said softly to her. “I’ll be right back.”
With those words, she let go. He walked to the door and glanced over his shoulder at her, meeting her eyes. His guilt seemed to drain from his body, his chest relaxing. A sense of tranquility burrowed inside him and the warmth spread out to his fingertips.
He was making the right decision, letting her stay.
He left the dining room and stopped in the entryway, rubbing his eyes with the fingers of one hand. That peaceful feeling—the same thing happened at the casino. How did she do it?
“Henry?” Tig said.
“Coming.” There would be time later to figure out what just happened. He followed Tig, his riding boots clacking on the burnt-orange tiles, the sound echoing off the smooth plaster walls.
Zeke leaned against the doorway of the drawing room. “How’s she doing?” he asked.
Henry swept past Zeke without answering him, the sound of his boots deepening when he stepped onto the hardwood floor. Rolf and the other riders, with the exception of Jayden, were gathered in his drawing room. All heads turned toward him. He stood there in front of them shirtless and covered in dried blood—he felt like the star of a bad slasher movie.
Karen sat on the edge of his leather couch, biting a fingernail. “Will she be okay?”
“Dr. Clarke thinks she will be,” he replied, crossing his arms to cover his bare chest. “But she can’t be moved back to Gaea’s.”
Zeke stepped closer to Henry. “No offense to Doc, but I’d feel a mite better if we got her to a hospital. They’d be able to tend to her there.”
“I’m with Zeke on this,” Karen said.
Make that three of us, Henry thought. He didn’t want Cerissa here, but it wasn’t his choice to make.
“Dr. Clarke believes she’ll be all right if someone stays with her during the day,” Tig said.
Zeke gestured toward the dining room with his cowboy hat. “I know Dr. Clarke’s a smart fella and all, but this just don’t seem right.”
Henry shrugged. “The doctor and Cerissa have agreed she will remain here. Karen, would you stay with her tomorrow?”
“Of course I will,” she replied. “But if she gets worse, I’m calling the paramedics, and I don’t want any noise about it.”
“Understood. We will trust your judgment.” He wouldn’t have much choice in the matter—he’d be asleep and unable to protest. “I’ll carry her upstairs to Erin’s old room, but I’m sure she would prefer your help getting into bed.”
He gestured for Karen to go ahead of him. Before she could, Rolf grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “I don’t agree. Karen is my mate and I won’t have it.”
“This is not the time,” Henry said.
“She doesn’t belong in your home.”
“Rolf, you have nothing to fear. Karen is safe—”
“I’m talking about Cerissa! Cerissa doesn’t belong in your home. She’s Leopold’s agent. Now we have a chance to get her off the Hill. Send her to a hospital.”
“Rolf, she’s staying here,” Tig said.
Karen extracted her arm from Rolf’s grasp. “If she isn’t going to the hospital, then I’ll take care of her tomorrow.”
“You are my mate, Fraulein, and you will do what I say.”
Tig stepped between Rolf and Karen. “Rolf, this is for the good of the community. We don’t want Mordida police butting in. Karen will stay here with Cerissa.”
“Ach! Pfui!” Rolf scoffed in German, and stormed off, pushing past Henry.
Henry started to follow him. “Rolf, there is no need—”
The sound of the front door slamming reverberated to where he was, making further comments futile. He’d talk to Rolf later. Even if he didn’t want Cerissa in his home, his sense of honor demanded he let her stay.
He escorted Karen to the entryway, the rest of them following. Karen climbed the stairs to the guest room on the second floor alone. The last time she’d climbed those stairs was to help Erin move out over a year ago.
He pushed those memories away. They didn’t lead anywhere good.
Tig withdrew a plastic evidence bag from her pocket. It contained a piece of paper, the edges torn. “Before I go back to the police station, I wanted to show you this.”
He accepted the small bag, flipping it over to see both sides. “Where did you find it?”
“In the shooter’s pocket. It looks like part of an email, but the sender’s name was torn off.”
Zeke, Blanche, and Frédéric leaned in close to read it over his shoulder, so he read it out loud. “‘Male Hispanic. Tall, thin. Long black hair, ponytail.’” He stared at it, reading it a second time. “The shooter was targeting me, not Zeke.”
“That’s my guess.”
“And the envoy was shot because of me.” He scrubbed his hand across his face. Why had she ever come here in the first place? Now he owed her a debt he’d never agreed to and didn’t want. “The shooter was an idiot to try. Rolf’s floodlights along the trail aren’t strong. No wonder he missed me and hit Cerissa.”
“Actually, his rifle was fitted with an infrared laser sight,” Tig replied. “The targeting beam it projects isn’t visible to the naked eye—infrared light is invisible; even the vampire eye can’t see it, not without infrared goggles. He shouldn’t have missed you with that setup.”
“Invisible? In the movies, isn’t it visible light?” He’d seen those scenes before, where the red light danced on the chest of the bad guy just before the trigger was pulled.
Tig rolled her eyes. “Sometimes police will use visible light lasers so the perp knows he’s been targeted, as a means of intimidation, to get him to surrender, just like in the movies. But the sniper had military-grade equipment. The laser projected a tightly focused infrared dot. The dot can only be seen with special goggles, which is why no one saw it. How he got his hands on equipment restricted for military use is a good question.”
A good question indeed—why would someone with access to military technology come after him? He took one last look at the email and handed the evidence bag back to Tig. “Did the sniper say anything before he died?”
“He never regained consciousness. Jayden took the body back to the station. I’m going there to help him process it.”
“I would like to hear if you learn anything else.”
“Certainly, Founder.” Tig returned the plastic bag to her pocket. “If you had to guess, who wants you dead?”
Now he understood how Yacov must have felt. “I have no idea.”
“Who knew you’d be part of the group tonight?”
“Rolf posted our route on the community’s website, with a list of invitees. Anyone on the Hill who looked at the posting would have seen it.”
“Why would he post the list?”
“Off-road bikers frequently use our trails. We allow it, subject to our permission. When Rolf or I want the trails to ourselves, we post it.”
“The horses,” Tig said. “You do it so the horses aren’t spooked by the bikes.”
“Precisely.” He had other reasons for wanting complete privacy, none worth mentioning to Tig. When he was still with Erin, she had indulged him in an occasional game of chase to appease his desire to hunt. No one need know about that.
“What about Yacov’s committee?” Tig asked. “Are you working with him on it?”
“Committee?”
“Yeah, the voting rights committee—for mortals.”
A hot rush of anger shot through him. “He’s doing what?”
“I guess you aren’t.” Tig gave a wry grin. “The mayor appointed a small committee to meet with some of the mates to discuss their concerns.”
Were they insane? He looked
toward the front door. Why hadn’t Rolf told him about this? Why hadn’t Yacov? He was a founder. They couldn’t change the rules. Damn. They could. He was no longer on the council, part of the deal struck when the treaty was signed—stupid of him to give up so much power in exchange for peace.
“Rolf told me there was some mild discontent among the mates,” he said, keeping his anger in check. “But I was unaware a committee had been formed.”
“Okay, that helps.” Tig’s phone beeped, and she glanced at it. “Once I’m done with the body, I’ll come back to take your statement.”
“Please email me first. I should be available, once Cerissa is settled into the guest room.”
Frédéric twisted the ends of his long mustache. “If you don’t need me, I’ll head home.”
“I want to question you first—and Blanche, too,” Tig said. “Are you coming with us, Blanche?”
Blanche gently grasped Henry’s arm. “If you need my help, I can stay.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
She gave him the sultry look she was so good at. “I hope you’ll call. You smell so yummy.” She ran a finger down his blood-smeared chest. “I could just lick you all over.”
Repulsed, he jerked away from her. He needed to shower, and soon. “Go with Tig. I will call you when things are settled down.”
Blanche pouted at him, but followed Tig out, along with Frédéric.
Zeke pointed at the staircase. “If ya don’t mind, I’ll wait upstairs for Cerissa. I’d like to see her once Karen gets her settled into bed.”
Henry nodded his reply. “I’ll carry her up once the doctor says she may be moved.”
He returned to the dining room and took a tentative breath. The savory smell of blood still permeated the room.
To avoid temptation, he had held his breath during surgery. How could Dr. Clarke work around so much fresh blood without succumbing and taking a small taste? No wonder Blanche acted out.
The doctor reached into his bag. “The local anesthetic will wear off shortly. I’ve given her a shot of morphine.” He pulled out a container of pills and handed it to Henry. “She can have one of these every four hours for the pain. I’ll check on her once she’s upstairs—I want to make sure the bleeding doesn’t start after you move her.”
Dr. Clarke picked up his bags, and when he cleared the door, Cerissa mumbled, “Butcher.”
Henry stuffed the pill container into his pocket. “I am going to pick you up now and carry you upstairs,” he told her. “You’ll spend the night here and Karen will watch over you tomorrow.”
Her arm was in a sling, immobilized. He carefully lifted her, leaning her uninjured side against his chest.
“Thank you,” she said weakly, “for not telling the doctor.”
“We can discuss this tomorrow night. Right now, save your strength.”
Chapter 19
Cerissa felt strangely protected by the way Henry held her when he carried her upstairs. She rested her head on his bare shoulder, the light scent of his cologne mixing with the odors of Betadine antiseptic and dried blood—a memorable olfactory combination.
When they reached the landing, Zeke stood there. “She looks so pale. Is she gonna be okay?”
“She’ll be fine,” Henry replied, and took another few steps. “Karen, please turn down the bed.”
“Just lay her on the bedspread. Once I have her cleaned up, she can get under the covers.”
Cerissa’s blurry gaze took in random details. Blue and yellow flowers covered the wallpaper, the furniture was maple, and a couple of chairs sat in one corner. The room felt empty, devoid of any personal touches.
Henry gently laid her on the bed and slid his arms away, walking off without saying anything. He seemed in a hurry to turn her over to Karen’s care. Was the smell of blood bothering him, or was it something else? She closed her eyes and sank back into the soft pillows, too drugged and exhausted to care.
“Can you bring me something for Cerissa to wear?” Karen called after him.
“I will see what I can find.”
The door latch clicked shut and Karen began peeling away the rest of Cerissa’s shirt. The cloth stuck to her skin, then broke free. At least the painkiller was still working.
A knock at the door and Karen cracked it open, accepting something. “Thanks, Henry,” she said, and closed the door again. “This should work.” She held up a man’s tank top from a jazz festival, a green bathrobe draped over her arm. “The tank top armhole should be big enough to allow the bandages to pass through.”
“Uh-huh,” Cerissa agreed, growing drowsier from the painkiller.
Karen unhooked the sling and helped her undress. Her shirt was ruined; her beige bra and undershirt were now splotched a rusty red. Using a wet cloth from the adjoining bathroom, Karen washed the sticky blood from Cerissa’s skin and then worked the tank top over her head, refastening the sling. With help, Cerissa slipped under the covers.
“The robe is here,” Karen said, hanging it on a hook by the closet. “Do you need anything?”
“Water,” Cerissa croaked.
Karen returned with a glass of water. Cerissa drained it. “What happened…to the shooter?” she asked.
“Dead.”
Cerissa closed her eyes for a moment, gathering strength to continue, and then looked up at Karen. “Can you…can you please bring me something to eat?”
“You’re hungry?”
“Uh-huh. Please.”
“Let me check with Dr. Clarke.” Karen opened the bedroom door and Zeke pushed past her before the door was half open. “Wait a minute, bub,” Karen said, grabbing his arm.
“It’s okay…he can come in.”
Karen gave Zeke a warning look. “All right, but I’ll be right back,” she said, leaving the door wide open as she left.
“Howdy, Cerissa,” Zeke said. He stopped at the foot of her bed, his hat in his hands, rolling the brim back and forth. “How are you feeling?”
“Sleepy. Hungry.” She slowly let her eyes shut.
“The doc thinks you’ll be laid up for a week.” The mattress moved, and she peeked at him from under heavy lids. He sat on the bed next to her. “Are you in much pain?” he asked.
“Gave me a shot,” she said, slightly slurring her speech.
“That’s good.”
She raised her arm, trying to find a comfortable position. With her arm lower than her shoulder, the stitches tugged, stretching her skin. It wasn’t painful yet, just an icky feeling.
“Do you need somethin’, Cerissa?”
“Ah, a pillow.”
He dropped his hat on the end of the bed, retrieved a decorative pillow from the corner chair, and gently slid it under her bandaged arm. “I’m so sorry this happened,” he said.
“It’s okay.”
The mattress moved again when he sat down next to her. He looked shaken, his hair mussed from the ride. What did her hair look like? Her braid had come partly undone when she fell, and Karen had finished unwinding.
He took her good hand in his and wrapped his other hand around it. She closed her eyes and drifted off for a moment, too tired to object.
“Ah, I wanted to talk with you,” he said, and she opened her eyes again. “’Cause I have to leave right away. Ya see, my work’s takin’ me away for a few weeks.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, it’s unexpected, but that happens in my line of work.”
“What work?”
“I’ll tell you all ’bout it when I get back.”
“Okay.” She started to drift away again.
“If you need anything, call my cell phone. Even if you just wanna talk.”
“Uh-huh.”
He leaned over and kissed her softly, too fast for her to stop him. His kiss felt different from the time at the casino. With no one else watching, she supposed he was doing it because he wanted to, not to mark her as his. Still, he needed to learn to ask first.
“I wish I didn’t have to leav
e,” he said, grabbing his hat off the bed and backing away toward the door. “Truly I do. I’ll be back just as soon as I can. I promise.”
Chapter 20
Henry recognized Rolf’s impatient knock and opened the front door without checking the security cameras. His business partner’s moods could be volatile, but over the years, he had learned to live with it.
Why didn’t I insist everyone leave and not come back? He still hadn’t showered, and disliked being half-naked when everyone else was clothed. He’d been talking to Dr. Clarke in the entryway, discussing Cerissa’s care. Rolf joined them without comment.
At the sound of Karen walking downstairs, Henry looked up. Seeing her there, it seemed so natural, as if Erin would follow her down any minute. He shook off the feeling.
“How is Cerissa doing?” he asked.
“Zeke’s with her now. She’s out of it, but she doesn’t seem in much pain.”
Dr. Clarke picked up his medical bag from a nearby chair. “That will change when the morphine wears off in a few hours. I should go up and check on her.”
Karen stopped him. “She’s asking for food.”
“I don’t recommend it. The shock and blood loss might upset her stomach.”
“Are you sure? She seems insistent.”
“Hmm. A good sign—I gave her an anti-nausea drug with the morphine. It must be working. Start with something light. Soup or broth. If she can keep that down, she can have something more substantial.”
Henry gave a slight nod to acknowledge Dr. Clarke’s directions and walked down the short hallway to the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what he had—he hadn’t restocked after Erin left. Rummaging through the pantry, he found a can of chicken broth. He opened the can and heated the soup. Karen joined him and set out a bowl, spoon, and napkin. She popped the lid on the cracker tin, took out one, and broke it in half. The snap told him it wasn’t too stale. She shoved the cracker into her mouth and nodded it was okay. He poured the soup, and she placed crackers on a small plate.
