“You’re not going to die!” His shout echoed, bouncing off the steel structure as she wiped her cheeks. The mop-up helped clear her vision. She scanned the walls and…found the keys.
Thank God.
She eyed the metal hooks. There were eleven of them, an equal number of keys hanging on the wooden board. She did a quick count, skimming over vintage cars until her gaze landed on an SUV. The Denali sat in the third spot, so logic—and Daimler’s tendency for extreme organization—told her the truck’s keys were on the hook number three.
Careful to stay in the sun, she kept her eyes on the back of the garage and hotfooted it toward the keys. Bastian was quick. He could pull a fast grab-and-go—haul her into the tunnel and the lair before she knew what hit her. With slow deliberation, she reached out and grabbed the set she needed. Metal rattled then settled in the palm of her hand.
“I won’t let you die,” he repeated, his tone as desperate as she felt.
“That’s crap and you know it. You can’t protect me…not from this.”
“Rikar thinks I can, because of our bond, and—”
“How many women survive?” Moving fast, she headed for the SUV’s driver-side door. “Tell me! How many?”
As her shout echoed, Bastian stood up. Protecting his eyes with his hand, he stayed deep in the shadows, following her movements, walking with her, marking her progress as she stepped up to the Denali. Her hand curled around the handle.
“Myst…”
“They all die, don’t they?” Her grip tightened on the door pull. God, she wanted to hit him so badly. Maybe then he’d hurt as much as she was right now. “Just like…”
Caroline.
Her mouth parted, and Myst went completely still.
“Oh, my God.” The test results. The ones with all the anomalies. Caroline’s blood work had been bang-on until the twenty-eighth week of her pregnancy. After that, something strange started to happen…a surge in dragon DNA maybe? A hormonal shift of some kind—maybe even a magical one—that protected the baby, but hurt the mother?
Her mind whirled as she stared at Bastian. Purpose grabbed hold, infusing her with hope. Okay, so it was a Hail Mary pass, but…
She needed to get to the hospital and access Caroline’s medical file. Instinct told her the clues lay in the blood work. Maybe the techies had isolated the platelet problem. Maybe the ME had noted something odd in the autopsy report. A small detail. A tiny clue. That’s all she needed to set her on the right path. The one that would help her find the answer that might save her life.
Myst cranked the SUV’s door open. “I have to go.”
“Stay…give me another chance.”
“No,” she whispered, fighting the compulsion to let him persuade her. Even now—pissed off and hurting—she wanted to touch him…to hold him close and be held in return. “Bastian, please. You need to let me go.”
“I can’t,” he said, eyes shimmering in the gloom. “I love you, Myst. I can’t let you leave knowing you won’t be safe out there.”
More tears fell. He loved her. No fair. It was all she ever wanted and, yet she couldn’t stay. Finding the truth—discovering what killed Caroline—was more important than pleasing him right now.
“You don’t have a choice,” she said, her voice raw with regret. “And neither do I.”
With a pitiful hiccup, she slid into the seat and slammed the door behind her. Jamming the key into the ignition, she cranked the engine. She heard Bastian roar, saw him lunge toward her in the side-view mirror and, with more desperation than will, threw the SUV into gear. Before he stopped her, she put her foot down, peeling out of the garage on squealing tires and a truckload of hurt.
As she shot into the sunshine where he would never be able to reach her, she whispered, “I love you, too.”
But she knew with certainty that it was too little, too late.
Plastic crinkled as Ivar stuck his hand into the bag and pulled out two pieces of bread. His stomach rumbled, running on empty after the realignment and a long night filled with pleasure. Well, at least, his own. The female hadn’t been so lucky.
He’d dumped her an hour before dawn. In an alley across town. Another dead body for the cops to find. Oh, goody.
With quick hands, he slapped together his sandwich. Mustard got slathered on first. The thinly sliced meat and cheddar went on next, then lettuce and tomato. He liked a little crunch with his ham and cheese. Pressing down on the protein-feast, he grabbed a knife and sliced the whole mess in half.
The first bite made him groan, the kaleidoscope of flavor hitting his tongue just right. Turning away from the kitchen island, he held the half sandwich in one hand and opened the fridge with the other. He went for the 3 percent and, cracking the top, drank right from the milk carton. As he chug-a-lugged, Lothair jogged into the room with a laptop under his arm.
Interesting.
His XO was usually on a slow roll: his pace always even, a never-in-a-hurry kind of male. Ivar took another bite. Lettuce crunched between his back molars, sounding loud in his ears. His mouth half full, he said, “What’s up?”
Lothair’s black eyes flashed. “Got something you should see.”
“Oh, yeah?”
He tipped his chin as Lothair set the Mac down on the granite countertop. With a flip, his XO opened the computer, waited a second for the thing to fire up, then tapped in a password. The inside of an apartment took shape on the screen. Loft-like, the space was open plan: kitchen, living, dining, and bedroom all in one. Three windows with arched tops set in a brick wall marched down the far side of the room. An old warehouse, probably. One with good bones and enough luck to be converted into condos instead of becoming landfill.
Ivar liked the idea. Recycle. Reuse. Refurbish instead of tearing down. Good move on the developer’s part. Way better than the ugly condo towers with which the humans ruined the skyline.
“So,” Lothair said, fingers moving rapid-fire on the keyboard, “the cameras I planted fired up a minute ago. Thought you should see—”
“Bastian’s female.” His hand tightened around his snack, squishing the guts out of the thing. Tomato juice dripped onto his palm, and Ivar dragged in a breath, eyes riveted to the blonde female as she came into view. She said something to someone in the corridor then turned and closed the door. The lock snicked, and she leaned back against the wood panel, both hands covering her face. “She’s crying.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
No doubt. His best guess? Bastian had taken her when the Meridian realigned. Rough play always upset females of worth. Well, most of the time. Some of them were into BDSM. Which was okay for other males, but not him. Yeah, he enjoyed killing, but taking a female’s energy didn’t mean smacking her around. When he drained them, they always died peacefully…with pleasure, even.
Leaning closer to the screen, he watched her wipe her eyes and adjust the…“What’s she wearing? A blanket?”
“Looks like it.” Lothair leaned in, and together they watched Myst Munroe make a beeline for the bedroom. As she disappeared through the only interior door, his XO murmured, “Bastian had some fun last night.”
“Shit.” So much for plan A. Planting his own child deep in her womb wouldn’t work now. Not if she already carried Bastian’s son. But Ivar was nothing if not adaptive. A pregnant female was useful…especially as bait.
Ten minutes later, Myst came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her body, damp hair pulled away from her pretty face. She headed for a chest of drawers and…
“What is she—”
“Scrubs,” Ivar said as she dropped the towel. The terry cloth crumpled around her feet, and his breath hitched. Hmm…she was a beauty: all pale skin, slight curves, and high, tight breasts. He set his sandwich down on the plate, growing thick behind his fly. “Where does she work again?”
“Swedish Medical.”
Ivar glanced at the clock across the kitchen. Seven hours until darkness. Until he got his hands on Myst Munr
oe. “Brief everyone. I want them all up to speed and ready to go as soon as the sun sets.”
“Forge is still MIA.”
“I’ll keep trying him.” Not that the big male would answer. Forge had gone postal, completely off the grid.
“You think he’ll come around?” Lothair asked, eyeing his ham and cheese.
“No clue.”
Picking up the mangled half of his sandwich, he shoved the other half toward his XO. As they shared his snack, his mind turned inward, toward his plan and away from Forge. No sense crying over spilled milk. The warrior was of no use to Ivar in his present state of mind. Tonight’s plan required precision and control, not a male with suicidal tendencies on a paternal mission.
And if push came to shove? He’d take the warrior out along with Bastian. At least then he’d have a matching set of urns for his mantelpiece.
Ivar smiled. He loved it when a plan came together.
Chapter Thirty-two
The medical center smelled as it always did…like chemical soup and bad aftershave. The obnoxious mix clung, coating the back of Myst’s throat. She swallowed the toxic taste, wishing she was anywhere but here—back in a place where everything looked normal, but nothing was the same.
Bruised on the inside, she wanted to curl up for a while. Find a quiet place and, well…cry some more. But pride wouldn’t let her, refusing to allow her out of the pity park. A shame, really. She could’ve used a break from the I’m-pissed-at-Bastian merry-go-round she was riding.
God, she was sick of it. Tired of herself and him…of everything and everyone.
Even the potted palms in the lobby annoyed her. She glared at the collection as she passed. And if looks could kill? The stupid trees would be dead as doornails…horticultural examiner’s inquest pending.
Throwing the palms one last scowl, she skirted the backlit direction sign and crossed the lobby. Her nursing shoes squeaked on the polished floors, sounding louder than usual, raising her pulse, making her sweat.
“Relax.” Wiping her damp palms on her scrubs, she glanced around, trying to look calm. “Act normal. Just another day at the office.”
Uh-huh. Right. Like every day started with a surprise pregnancy and a quest to steal medical records. The entire thing was Bastian’s fault. “The big jerk.”
I love you, Myst.
His words floated through her mind and, against her will, she recalled the timbre of his voice, the look on his face…the pain in his eyes. Goddamn it.
“Focus,” she hissed at herself, getting rough with her bag as she adjusted the strap on her shoulder. “Stop thinking about him.”
The woman sitting at the U-shaped information desk threw her a strange look.
Skirting the receptionist’s command post, Myst shrugged by way of explanation and said, “Man trouble.”
Snapping her gum, the woman nodded. “I hear ya, honey. No good sons of guns most of the time.”
The Texas drawl made Myst smile and, strangely enough, settled her down. No sense being nervous. She’d made up her mind. Blatant law-breaking aside, she needed Caroline’s medical file, and the best place to get it was the fourth floor…where the doctors held court in corner offices.
Her plan? Find an empty one with a computer.
Fifteen minutes tops—a let-your-fingers-do-the-walking kind of deal, followed by a quick print job and…voilá. Instant information.
Mangling the fringe on her bag, she wound the small strip of leather around her finger and scanned the main corridor. She didn’t want to run into anyone she knew. Considering the mobile nature of her job, the chances were slim, but nurses worked shifts, rotating around the clock. A change in schedule might put her face-to-face with one of her colleagues.
And wouldn’t that be fun?
At best, those she worked with on a regular basis would know she was MIA. At worst? The police were looking for her, asking other nurses about her habits, digging into her life to solve the mystery of Caroline’s death and Gregor’s disappearance.
Either way, she was screwed.
The sound of laughter came from behind her, echoing off the foyer’s high ceiling. She glanced over her shoulder and—
Perfect.
A gaggle of nurses, lunch bags in hand, walked out of the sunshine and into the building. As they passed, Myst slid in behind them unnoticed, an individual among a group. The best kind of camouflage.
Listening to them chatter, she soaked in the normal rhythm of their day. Less than a week ago, this had been her life. Now, it felt empty, rounded out by a hollowness she couldn’t define. Strange how a person could change so much in such a short amount of time, but reality didn’t pull any punches. Which left one option, didn’t it? Move forward. Put one foot in front of the other and get on with her life. The question now? Did she walk toward Bastian or away from him?
Shaking her head, Myst pushed the decision away. Baby…no baby…she couldn’t deal with the mess right now. Not when she felt so raw inside that it hurt to breathe.
The group stopped in front of a bank of elevators. Myst broke away from the group, headed around the corner, and found the stairwell. As she climbed the steps she forced herself to focus: picturing the fourth floor, imagining the offices, which ones had receptionists she’d worked with, which ones didn’t.
The fourth-floor wall sign came before she was ready. Standing on the landing, Myst rolled her shoulders to loosen up tense muscles. She could do this. A quick in. A faster out, and she’d have the information she needed.
Grabbing the metal knob, she pulled the door open and stepped into the corridor. The lock clicked behind her, sounding loud in the silence. She turned right, registering the pale yellow walls and the blue doors. Like books on shelves, they lined up in perfect symmetry, bracketing the hallway on both sides. The drone of voices came from behind some of the doors: patients waiting to be seen by doctors, nurses asking questions, the ringing of telephones mixing with the buzz of fluorescent lights.
The further she walked, the quieter it became. The OBGYNs were housed on the far end. And they were the best targets. Hospital calls came in frequently, pulling them out of the office and into the birthing center. Add that to the fact it was lunchtime and…
Bingo.
Just what she needed: a suction cup stuck to a door with a plastic sign hanging from its hook. Complete with black numbers and red hands, the clock read 12:30 p.m., and the notation beneath it? Be back soon.
Myst checked her watch. She had twenty minutes before the receptionist came back.
Looking both ways, she made sure the corridor was empty, then reached for the knob, praying—
The door opened on the first try. Thank God. She’d hoped like hell, but receptionists were tricky creatures. Some locked up the office like they had a pot full of gold beneath their desks. Others were more laid-back, assuming patients would take one look at the sign and head to the coffee shop to wait out the allotted time.
With one last look to make sure she was alone, Myst slipped inside. All the lights were on, the cloth-covered chairs with their worn wooden arms on display as much as the magazines on the side tables. Behind a half wall across from the waiting area sat the receptionist’s desk. White file folders with colorful tabs lay in the out-box. A bigger pile leaned in a lopsided tower in the in-box, a testament to the overworked, underpaid medical secretary.
Some things never changed.
Shouldering her bag, she jogged into the doctor’s private office. An old computer occupied one corner of the cluttered desk surface. As Myst swung to face the monitor, she grabbed the mouse without sitting down. The screen saver’s starbursts faded, giving her a plain black background with the prompt for a username and password.
The moment of truth. Had the hospital shut down her access? Did the administration even know she was gone?
Chewing on her bottom lip, she sat down in the swivel chair. Her hands shook as she typed, half afraid the computer would sound the alarm and screech thief, thief, thi
ef! She tried twice, fumbling her way over the keyboard, deleting her password and retyping it, visions of the inside of a jail cell in her mind’s eye.
Finally getting it right, she paused, her finger poised above the enter button. With a “please, God,” she hit the last stroke. The computer thought for a moment, then…wham. She was in.
Perched on the edge of the chair, Myst typed her patient’s first and last name. Caroline’s file popped onto the screen. She double clicked it, hope racing fear to the finish line as she hit the print button, then scrolled through the notes.
“Please, let it be here. All I need is…holy crap.”
Her mouth parted as the lab results came up. She leaned closer to the screen and read the report again. When the sight didn’t convince her, she shook her head and whispered, “Hemophilia.”
Was that even possible?
The blood disease was considered a male one, a genetic disorder passed from mother to son. It wasn’t developmental. A patient was born with it, something to do with the X chromosome and—
“Oh, my God.” She cupped her hand over her mouth to stifle a moan. Oh, no…no, no, no. Hemophilia was treatable. With the right medication…had the test results come through…if she’d only known, she could’ve saved Caroline’s life.
Setting her elbows on the desk edge, she palmed her head and stared at the screen, running through the chart one more time. Goddamn lab technicians. They should have been faster with the results. If only they’d…
But that wasn’t fair.
She knew it even as she cursed them. Like everyone in the medical system, the people who ran the samples were inundated with requests…too many to test and not enough time. The reasons why, though, didn’t make her feel any better. No amount of understanding in the world could erase the awful facts.
Her patient had died of a treatable illness, leaving a little boy without his mother.
Feeling hollow inside, she sat in the empty office, listening to the thunk-thunk of the old printer as it spit out page after page. When the screen saver came on, she swiped her cheeks and pushed up the sleeve of her Patagonia to check her watch. Ten minutes and counting. She needed to move, couldn’t sit on her duff waiting for shock to fade and her brain to reboot. The receptionist would be back soon. Better to take the printouts and—
Fury of Fire Page 30
