Danville Horror: A Pat Wyatt Novel (The Pat Wyatt Series Book 3)

by Laura Del

  “Mike,” I told him, and his eyes grew dark.

  He shook his head, examining the wounds carefully. “Samuel told me it was bad, but not dis bad. Did he even offer ta fix it fur ye?”

  That statement confused me. “Who would offer to fix what?”

  He cocked his head at me. “Yer serious, aren’t ye?” I nodded. “Samuel didn’t offer ta fix the wounds fur ye?” he clarified, and I shook my head, becoming increasingly aware that he was looking up my shirt and I had no bra on. “He’s a feckin’ Cúl Tóna.”

  I tried to squirm away from him, but he held my waist still. “A what?”

  “Dickhead,” he explained and then looked at the wound closer. “I can fix these fur ye no problem. Do ye want me ta?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Mortimer smiled up at me then grimaced. “It might be a little awkward.”

  I cocked a brow at him. “Why?”

  “I’ve gotta lick ‘em.”

  “What?” I squeaked out, hoping that I heard him wrong.

  “I’ve gotta lick ‘em,” he repeated as if it was no big deal.

  “How does that do anything?”

  “We have a coagulate in our saliva that’ll help heal the wounds faster. Dat’s why when ye get bitten by one of us, it usually goes away in a matter of ‘ours.”

  I blinked, stunned that I hadn’t known that and I was married to one of them. “Are you saying that he could have fixed these by just spitting on them?” He nodded, and my jaw clenched. “You’re absolutely right, Samuel is a cool tuna.”

  Mortimer laughed. “Cúl Tóna. And dat ‘e is, darlin’. Dat ‘e is.” He grew silent for a second, looking at the wounds again. “These look simple enough. It’ll tickle a little, but it won’t hurt.”

  I shrugged. “Pain is a part of life, right?”

  He nodded. “Right. But dis won’t hurt.”

  Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and nodded. As if on cue, I felt something wet on the wounds. I didn’t want to look at what he was doing because when he was doing it, my stomach began to churn. Just the feeling of his tongue sliding along my stomach, cold and wet, sent shivers through me. And not in a good way, in an “I’m going to throw up all over the place” way. He hands grasped my stomach a little tighter and as he got to above my hip there was slurping sound. The bile threatened to come out of my mouth, but as he relaxed his cool touch, he began to rub my back ever so gently, which made me feel better. After another minute of licking, he stopped touching me, and I felt his tongue retract from my body. When I opened my eyes, he was standing in front of me with my blood all over his lower lip.

  Looking down at my stomach, I began to see the wounds close and the bleeding stop. The pain was better too. “Thanks,” I told him, and he smiled, teeth filled with blood. “You might want to rinse your mouth out, you look kind of scary.”

  He stopped smiling, turning around to rinse his mouth out in the sink, and when he stood up to look in the mirror, there was no reflection staring back at him.

  “Holy shit,” I hissed as I pushed my shirt down carefully over the still tender wounds, and I walked up to the mirror beside him. “What the hell?” I touched Mortimer’s solid form, but there was no reflection to show that he even existed.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” he asked, and I nodded. “‘Tis probably ‘cause we have no souls. But who knows really? Dat’s just one theory.”

  “It’s just weird.”

  He nodded. “Bit of a nasty shock when I found out too.”

  “How do you do your hair?” I asked, and he laughed.

  “We never really change, so it’s easy.”

  “You mean…” I paused, trying to figure out what to say, “you wake up that way?”

  “Yeah,” he answered with a smile, “pretty neat, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “Very.”

  “Well, I’ll leave ye alone ta do what ye need ta do.”

  Before he left, I pulled him into a hug and it didn’t hurt. “Thank you so much, Mortimer.”

  He pulled away from me, kissing me on the forehead. “Yer welcome, darlin’.”

  I got a whiff of him, but he didn’t smell like anything. “That’s interesting,” I mused aloud.

  “What is it?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “You don’t smell like anything,” I answered, trying not to offend him.

  “We don’t usually,” he explained. “Some of us, Samuel included, wear cologne. But I don’t bother.”

  “Do you smell to yourself?” I was doing that ‘too curious for my own good’ thing again, and I reminded myself that it was not a virtue.

  He shrugged. “Ta myself I smell a little like a corpse, but wolves say we smell rotten. I just t’ink they want us ta believe dat so we stay away from ‘em.”

  I nodded. “Good to know.”

  “Glad ta be of service.” And after another smile, he left me to fend for myself.

  The doctor in the hospital had given me some plastic bags, so I wrapped my cast in one, took off my clothes, and finally took a much-needed hot shower. It felt so good on my sore skin, and as I let the water pour over me, I looked down at the jagged wounds on my chest, watching them scab over before my very eyes. I washed as quickly as I could because I realized that I was hungry, and my hand was starting to hurt again, so it was definitely time for more pain meds.

  After I had dressed, which took me a lot longer than normal, I went downstairs and a smell hit me. Not a bad smell, the best smell that I had ever smelled. In fact, my stomach growled in response to the wonderful smell of… “Pasta?” I asked Mortimer, walking into the kitchen. There was no other sound in the house besides him cooking and before he could answer my first question, I asked, “Where is everyone?”

  He smiled over his shoulder at me. “They went out ta dinner, yer father said that ‘e wanted ta give ye some space. And yes,” he finally confirmed. “It’s ravioli. Hope ye like marinara.”

  I nodded. “It’s my favorite, so is ravioli. How did you know that?”

  He turned his face away from me as I stood on the other side of the median. “Just a guess.”

  “Uh-huh.” I didn’t buy that for a second. “Are you lying to me?”

  He laughed, and I knew that he was. “Whatever made ye t’ink dat?”

  “The fact that you won’t face me, and when I asked your body went rigid,” I explained.

  He sighed. “Yer just like yer mother. She could always see through me. And everyone else fur dat matter.”

  “How did you know?” I asked again.

  He turned around, looking me in the eyes. “I could taste it in yer blood. I know yer favorite foods and yer favorite drinks. I even know yer favorite deserts.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Bah,” was all that came out at first, then I shook myself and said, “Are you telling me that you basically know everything there is to know about me by my blood?”

  He shook his head. “No. I just know what ye like ta eat. Not what’s on yer mind.”

  “Why do I have a feeling that’s not entirely true?”

  “‘Cause it’s not,” he replied with a grimace. “I’m better at readin’ minds than most. Even Samuel.”

  “Speaking of,” I changed the subject, “what’s his problem? I mean, you’re not like him. You’re nice and cook food for me. He takes me down into basements and…” my voice trailed away as the dungeon came back to me again. Suddenly, I felt a twinge of pain in my wrist and that brought me back to reality. “Where did Cindy put my pills?” I asked, and he pointed right in front of me. I shook my head. If it was a snake it would have bit me. “Water?” I requested, and he placed a glass in front of me. I took a pill, closing my eyes as I swallowed it. Then I looked at him, waiting for an answer to my previous questions before pain got the better of me.

  “Feelin’ better?”
he inquired, sounding concerned.

  I shook my head. “No, it takes fifteen minutes for them to work. And don’t think I forgot my questions.”

  He smiled. “I didn’t. Ta tell ye the truth, I don’t know why ‘e does what ‘e does, and when I ‘eard about what ‘e did ta ye, I was gonna kill ‘em. If it wasn’t against the rules.”

  My brow furrowed. “Against the rules? Why is it against the rules?”

  “He didn’t tell ye, did ‘e?” he sounded a bit frustrated. Then again, Samuel could do that to the best of people.

  “Tell me what?”

  He turned back around to drain the ravioli and then he put them in the marinara. Once he let them sit for a minute, he went looking for a plate.

  I sighed. “They’re above you,” I told him, and he smiled at me again. “You’re avoiding the question. What didn’t he tell me, Mortimer?”

  “Dat ‘e made me,” he replied, and my mouth dropped open.

  “What?”

  “Samuel’s me maker,” he repeated, putting the plate of pasta in front of me.

  I blinked at him for a second because my brain couldn’t wrap around what he just said. How could this wonderful man have Samuel as a maker? It was impossible, yet he was telling me it was true. I shook my head and opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Then I tried again, but the only thing that came out was, “What?”

  He shrugged, still smiling. “I thought ‘e would’ve said somethin’.”

  I shook my head again. “Samuel doesn’t tell me anything. He usually just breaks something or tries to kill me.”

  “I know,” he huffed, his smile fading. “‘E’s like dat wit everyone.”

  “Oh good,” sarcasm, “it’s nice to know that I’m not the only one.”

  “Forks?” he asked, and I pointed to the drawer under the sink. Mortimer handed one to me, and I dug into the pasta. They were good, but all of this had me thinking. If he was this open about Samuel being his maker then maybe I could get more information out of him.

  He must have seen the wheels in my head turning, or he could read what was on my mind, because before I even said anything, he nodded. “Go ahead. Ask me anythin’.”

  I chewed very carefully, swallowing before I began. “Okay,” I said, taking a sip of water. I thought of all the things that bugged me about Samuel, and I started with a simple one. “Why do you guys not like crosses?” I remembered Samuel hissing and throwing mine on the floor several times, even now I noticed Mortimer was staring at my mother’s cross around my neck, which had slipped out of my shirt. I quickly put it back inside, and he blinked at me.

  “It’s not so much dat we don’t like ‘em, it’s dat they burn when we look at ‘em. I t’ink it’s ‘cause we don’t have souls. Not anymore, anyway,” he explained, and I nodded.

  I figured it was something like that, so I moved on. “What’s with the walking around in the daylight thing? I thought you burn. Yet Samuel and you were walking around outside in the middle of the day.”

  “The clouds prevent us from burnin’. The darker the cloud, the less it hurts. And Chloe knows how ta make clouds. It’s her specialty.”

  I shook my head. “Chloe. Of course, I should have known.” I went back to eating my food for a second and then I just had to know. Mortimer turned around, putting the dirty pot and pan in the sink when I blurted, “How is it that you can have sex?”

  The clatter of the dishes was so loud that I had to cover my ears. He turned on his heels and looked at me, half amused, half confused. “Ye don’t like ta tip-toe ‘round t’ings, do ye?”

  “I find it easier not to beat around the bush.”

  He nodded. “I see dat.” He paused for a second and then I could see in his face that he had decided to tell me, but it wasn’t going to be easy for him. “Blood pressure.”

  “Blood pressure?” I made his response a question. It was random, and very odd, so he needed to elaborate.

  “When we feed, it raises the temperature in our blood and it sorta creates a synthetic blood pressure. The more we feed the easier we become aroused. Before ye ask,” he interrupted my thoughts, “Samuel feeds every day, twice sometimes. As fur me, I only feed about once a week. It even amazes Kathryn how much self control I ‘ave.”

  I thought about that for a second. How could he have the same blood flowing through his veins as Samuel had? It seemed impossible. I pushed that thought aside and went on. “So you’re not as,” I paused, trying to be a little tactful this time, “active as Samuel?”

  He shrugged. “I sometimes get the urge, but it’s few and far between. I like it dat way. Much less complicated.” He winked at me, and I laughed. I finally saw what my mother had probably seen. A sweet and honest vampire that was easy to talk to, and easy on the eyes. It was not hard to see the attraction.

  “Is dat all?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Not even close.”

  He put the water on low and did the dishes while I ate another ravioli. “Go ahead then,” he prompted.

  “All right,” I said with my mouth full, then swallowed. “Why can all of you read thoughts? It’s kind of creepy.”

  He laughed. “True. But not all of us can read minds. Some are better than others. Like I’m better at it than Samuel. He can only read bits and pieces, and I can read full thoughts.” He looked at me, and I must have had a weird expression on my face because he quickly added, “Only when I focus on a particular person. Not all the time.”

  I could feel my shoulders relax, and I took a breath letting it out slowly, deciding on my next question. “Are you dead?” I went with.

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure what we are. I guess ye could say dat we’re undead.”

  “Like zombies?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. Zombies’re mindless, rottin’ corpses. We don’t rot. As fur the mindless t’ing…” he paused, laughing a little, “dat’s debatable.”

  I smiled, placing the last of the ravioli in my mouth. I couldn’t remember eating all of them, and it had looked like a lot, but they went down easy. I hated when I forgot what I ate; it was a pain in the ass trying to stay on a diet, which was probably why I never successfully started one. Finally, I took another sip of water before I continued with my questions. “How did Samuel become your maker?”

  He picked up the plate, putting it in the sink and then gave me his full attention. His gray eyes were dark in contrast to his very white skin. Mortimer looked tired, actually tired, like he had told this story hundreds of times before and every time he did, he hated to relate it. “Well, I guess I should start from the beginnin’, eh?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Sure, why not?”

  “Ye go inta the livin’ room and relax a bit. I’ll be in after I finish the dishes and then I’ll tell ye.”

  “Okay.” I walked down the hall with my glass of water in my good hand, and I noticed it wasn’t as swollen as I thought it would be after punching my sister’s hard skull. Then I turned on the overhead lights and I sat down on the big, comfy couch, waiting for Mortimer to finish the stupid dishes. I hated being left in suspense, and he made me wait two minutes.

  “Ready?” he asked, and I could see he looked a lot less tired.

  I nodded. “Ready.”

  “Right then,” he said, sitting next to me on the couch. “I was born in Cork, Ireland, in the year eighteen-hundred-ninety-one, and was the son of a farmer. I was never meant ta be anythin’ but a farmer fur the whole of me life. Then I met a gerl. She was the prettiest gerl in all of Ireland. A real Galway gerl.”

  I smiled. “Like the song?”

  “Exactly like the song,” he went on. “Her hair was the deepest black, and ‘er eyes were as blue as the sky. She was so luv’ly. Like somethin’ out of a dream. And I luved ‘er. More than me own life. Her name was Lana. We were smitten, we were. Never went anywhere
without one another. But she was rich and I was poor. Still, I luved ‘er so much dat I felt like I would die without ‘er.

  “One day, Lana suggested we run away tagether and elope. Of course, I was right there with ‘er. I wanted ta be ‘er husband so badly dat I would’ve risked honor and pride fur ‘er hand. We picked a night, and we were all set ta do what we had ta in order ta be tagether. ‘Bout a week later, I went ta ‘er house ta meet ‘er in the back garden, and there she was. Just as beautiful in the moonlight as the daytime.

  “We ran as fast as we could but ‘er father ‘ad found out what we were doin’ somehow, and went chasin’ after us. Next t’ing I knew there was a loud explosion, and I felt dis pain in me back. When I woke up later me father was over me bed cryin’. I couldn’t breathe, and I knew I was dyin’. Lana’s father had shot me thinkin’ I was stealin’ his daughter from ‘em.”

  “Oh my good God,” I gasped, placing my hand over my mouth. “What happened after that?”

  “Well,” he continued, “the bullet hadn’t quite gotten round ta killin’ me. It was a very inaccurate shot. Hit me in the back and went through to me stomach. It took me a long time ta die. But before I did, there was dis doctor me father wanted me ta see. He t’aught ‘e was gonna save me life. When the doctor came inta the room, ‘e asked me a question.” He paused and I waited. Then he looked at me with a frown, which looked odd on his face. “He asked me if I wanted ta live. ‘Course I said yes. And dat is the last I remember of me life as a human bein’.

  “I awoke three days later, clawin’ me way out of me own coffin. Dat was not a nice feelin’, darlin’. Especially when d’are was a large, dark man, standin’ over me ta greet me a good night.” I noticed that when he was getting a little perturbed, his accent became very thick, and he dropped a lot more of his t’s and th’s. “He told me his name was Samuel Satan. I mean ‘ave ye ever ‘eard of a man bein’ named after the devil? I knew I was in trouble. When ‘e told me what I was, ‘course I was in shock and the only thing dat I really wanted was ta go back ta Lana. He warned me not ta, but I pushed past ‘em, and ran so quickly dat I couldn’t believe I was d’are dat fast and up on ‘er balcony in a second. I stood d’are and knocked on ‘er winda. It took ‘er all of a moment ta come runnin’. But as she opened the glass door ta me, she took one look at me and laughed.