Darkness Rises ig-4

by Dianne Duvall

  Lisette didn’t know who the mysterious immortal was, but he fascinated her.

  He lay on the floor where Roland had dumped him, his wavy, raven hair shielding much of his face. A face she had not minded staring at in the least these past few weeks as she had spied upon him.

  He was strikingly handsome. And so somber. Sad almost. Or maybe lonely? Ami always managed to lure a smile from him, even if only a small one.

  Her eyes strayed to his wings. Those beautiful wings.

  Only a few feathers peeked out from the blankets and chains.

  Was he an immortal? Or was he something else? Something a little more . . . angelic?

  She hadn’t posed the question to the others, knowing how ruthlessly Roland would have mocked the notion. But the idea just wouldn’t leave her.

  Easing closer to the male, she cautiously leaned in and sniffed his neck.

  His scent was . . .

  She sighed.

  So good. He smelled like she remembered her father’s country estate used to when she was a girl. Like spring rain. Fresh and clean and new.

  She smiled. With a hint of the fruity lollipops Ami had given him last night.

  What she didn’t smell on him was the virus. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything. As Roland had pointed out, she couldn’t smell it on Seth either. Or David. Or some of the other elder immortals who had lived a great deal longer than she had.

  Her gaze returned to his wings.

  Still . . .

  Her cell phone chirped.

  Jumping, she shook her head at herself and stepped back from the captive as she retrieved the phone.

  “Oui?” she answered when she saw it was Richart.

  “Have you heard from Étienne tonight?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He was wounded earlier, judging by the pain I felt, and I haven’t been able to reach him.”

  The twins had always referred to the unique bond they shared in much the same way the fictional character Adrian Monk described his own ability: It was a gift . . . and a curse.

  It sucked that they felt each other’s pain. And only pain. They never felt each other’s pleasure, which—now that she thought of it—would be awkward now that Richart had wed and made frequent love to his wife.

  The bond did come in handy, however, in times like this when one might be injured and require aid.

  “Did you try Cam?” Surely Étienne’s Second would know something.

  “Cameron hasn’t heard from him and is making discreet inquiries.”

  “Why discreet?”

  “I don’t know. Something’s been going on with Étienne, something he’s been keeping from us. You’ve noticed how distracted he’s been.”

  “Yes. I assumed it was a woman, but could glean nothing from his thoughts. He has kept them from me of late.”

  And usually did so when he took a lover. Not that such had happened often over the past two centuries. Immortal/human love affairs never ended well.

  “Should I call Seth?” he asked, that question telling her more than anything else how concerned he was.

  “Would you have wanted Seth to hunt you down when you were with Jenna, recovering from your wounds the time you were tranqed?”

  “No.”

  “Then there’s your answer. Give it a little more time. If Étienne was wounded badly enough, he may simply be sleeping too deeply for the phone to awaken him.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “Call me when you hear something. And tell Jenna hello for me.”

  “I will,” he said, a smile entering his voice.

  Lisette had only recently met her new sister-in-law and had never seen her brother as content and quick to smile as he had been with the former single mother. Not since his transformation anyway.

  Guilt, an ever-present companion, stirred.

  Lisette ended the call and returned her cell phone to her pocket.

  Sighing, she focused her attention once more on the prisoner.

  And found him staring up at her with piercing brown eyes.

  Chapter 5

  “I feel pretty! Oh so pretty!”

  Krysta jerked awake.

  “I feel pretty and witty and gaaaaaaay!”

  Sitting up in the director’s chair, she winced and rubbed her aching neck. She must have fallen asleep.

  Her gaze went to Étienne.

  He lay as he had ever since she and Sean had finished cleaning and bandaging his wounds. Still as death. The rise and fall of his chest so faint it seemed an illusion.

  She reached for the cell phone she had dropped on the battered table beside her. Sean shuffled into the room, eyes puffy from sleep, boxers and T-shirt as rumpled as his short, black hair.

  “How’s your head?” she asked.

  “Better.”

  She glanced at the phone. “It’s someone named Richart.”

  “Are you going to answer it or let it go to voice mail?”

  Glancing at Étienne, she answered the call.

  Before she could say one word, a slew of French poured over the line. Biting her lip, she waited for it to end.

  An expectant pause ensued.

  Diving in, Krysta asked, “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes,” the man replied in a voice and accent very similar to Étienne’s. “Who is this? Where did you find this phone?”

  “In the owner’s pocket. Who is this?” she countered.

  “Where is he?”

  She looked at Sean, who watched her with furrowed brow. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’m his brother.”

  Not what she had been expecting. “Vampires have brothers?” she asked, realizing the moment she said it what a stupid question it was. Of course they did. They had all been human once. It was just hard to remember that once they turned monstrous.

  Sean’s eyebrows flew up as he mouthed, “His brother?”

  She nodded.

  A tense silence followed.

  “Hello?” she asked at length.

  “If you have harmed him in any way,” the man began, his deep voice so full of menace that she felt a twinge of fear.

  “I haven’t.” She thought she heard a sigh of relief. “But someone else has. And I’m a little worried that they might come after us.”

  Sean nodded, sharing her concern.

  They still had seen nothing about it on the news and didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. Both feared it was bad.

  “How sorely is he wounded?”

  “I’m pretty sure he needs blood.”

  “Did you give him any?”

  “Um . . . no.”

  “Yet you know what he is.”

  “If you mean, do I know he’s a vampire, then yes.”

  Another long pause. “Tell me where you are located.”

  Covering the phone, she whispered, “He wants to know where we are.”

  Sean looked as uneasy as she felt. “I don’t know . . .”

  “Who is there with you?” Richart demanded.

  “My brother.”

  “Who else?”

  She bit her lip. If Étienne was a two-hundred-year-old vampire and Richart was his brother, then Richart must be a vampire, too. What if Richart planned to bring a few of his bloodsucking friends? What if they didn’t share Étienne’s rare desire to protect humans?

  “You hesitate,” he pointed out.

  “Look, I’m just not used to trusting vampires, okay? How do I know you won’t bring a horde of others along with you and kill us both?”

  “I wouldn’t need a horde of others to kill you,” he responded simply.

  Crap.

  “Honey,” she heard a woman say in the background with an American accent, “if you’re trying to reassure her that you won’t hurt them, saying things like that won’t help.”

  Krysta raised her eyebrows.

  Sean mouthed, “What?”

  “I think he has a girlfriend,” she whispe
red.

  “Étienne?”

  “No.” He’d better not. “His brother.”

  Wait. Why should it matter to her if Étienne had a girlfriend?

  “I shall come alone,” Richart tried again. “Unarmed. You may arm yourself however you will.”

  She looked at Étienne, so still and pale.

  Hoping she wasn’t making a huge mistake, she gave Richart their address.

  Sean left the room, then returned in jeans with two holstered 9mms, socks, and sneakers.

  Krysta rose and reached for a shoto sword.

  Richart repeated her address. Krysta heard typing in the background.

  “Here it is,” the woman with Richart said.

  “Is there a satellite image of it? Or a street view?”

  “The closest street view,” the woman said, “is this. A gas station a couple of miles away.”

  “Thank you, my love.”

  Krysta could have sworn she heard them kiss.

  “Be careful,” the woman cautioned.

  “Always,” he murmured. Then louder to Krysta, “One moment, please.”

  “Okay.”

  “What?” Sean asked, tying his laces.

  “This is so weird.” She had never really thought of vampires as anything other than monsters.

  A laugh came over the line. “It worked,” Richart said, with a great deal of surprise in his voice.

  “What did?”

  “Open your front door.”

  Frowning, Krysta strode past Sean into the den and crossed to the front door.

  Her hand tightening on her sword, she glanced back.

  Sean stood in the doorway of her bedroom, one Ruger aimed at the door, one aimed at Étienne.

  Krysta turned the lock with the hand holding the phone and opened the door. Tilting her head back, she eyed the figure standing on the front porch.

  A mirror image of Étienne stared back.

  “Holy crap,” she whispered. “Richart?”

  The vampire’s gaze moved past her to take in her brother and the rest of their tiny abode. He drew in a deep breath, nostrils flaring, then nodded. “May I come in?”

  Swallowing, she stepped back.

  Richart nodded to Sean, who nodded back, but didn’t lower his weapons.

  Krysta closed the door. “Étienne is in there.”

  Richart’s boots thudded loudly on the worn wood floor as he strode toward the bedroom.

  Sean eased back into the room, never shifting his aim from the two vampires.

  “Sean.”

  “It’s all right,” Richart said, surprising her. “I understand.” Once in the room, he leaned down over his brother and drew back the sheet. “His wounds are not healing?” All were covered by bandages.

  “No.”

  “Étienne, mon frère?”

  No response.

  “How deep are the cuts?”

  “Not cuts,” she corrected. “Bullet wounds.”

  He looked at her sharply, then glanced at Sean. “Your weapons have not been fired tonight.”

  “It wasn’t us,” Sean confirmed. “I removed the bullets, but didn’t stitch the wounds because they weren’t bleeding. I just bandaged them instead.”

  “You have my gratitude,” Richart uttered with a bow. Turning back to his brother, he peeled one of the bandages back and muttered something in French.

  Krysta fervently wished she knew French.

  Richart took his brother’s forearm in his hands and raised Étienne’s wrist to his lips. As he parted his own, fangs descended.

  “Wait!” Krysta protested.

  He met her gaze. “What?”

  “He’s lost enough blood, don’t you think?”

  Richart considered her for a moment, then seemed to come to some decision. “Our fangs are like needles. They siphon the blood of anyone we bite directly into our veins and, if necessary, can infuse others with our blood.”

  Sean lowered his aim slightly, medical curiosity brightening his face. “Really? So you can transfuse him just by biting him?”

  “Yes.” Richart bent his head and sank his fangs into his brother’s wrist.

  Krysta shared a Holy Crap! look with Sean.

  It didn’t take long at all, which was actually frightening. If he could infuse his brother with blood that swiftly, then he could drain a human that quickly, too.

  As could Étienne.

  Lowering his brother’s arm, Richart systematically removed all of Étienne’s dressings. “Thank you,” he said, “for caring for him and bandaging his wounds.”

  The mortal siblings nodded.

  The male even holstered his weapons.

  “Why did you do it?” Richart couldn’t resist asking. They clearly weren’t Seconds or other members of the human network or they would have known Étienne wasn’t a vampire.

  “He saved my life,” the woman said. “I would have died tonight if it weren’t for him.”

  Ah. “A vampire attacked you?”

  She shared a look with her brother. “Sssssssort of. But they weren’t—”

  “More than one vampire?”

  “Yes. There were six. But we took care of them.”

  Tossing the bandages in a nearby rubbish bin, Richart stared at her. “You fought alongside him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both of you?”

  “No. Just me. My brother came later and got us out of there.”

  Richart stared down at Étienne. Odd that there were so many bullet holes. Vampires usually stuck to blades like the immortals, knowing—even in their madness—that attracting too much mortal attention would likely lead to their demise.

  Étienne’s wounds slowly began to close and heal. Neither human expressed the amazement Richart would have expected upon seeing such.

  Hmm.

  Étienne looked much better, but it took longer for his wounds to close than it should have. And he wasn’t rousing.

  Richart nudged him. “Étienne.”

  Nothing.

  The healing sleep could be deep.

  Richart shoved him hard. Hard enough to wake him even from a healing sleep. “Étienne! Réveiller!”

  Still nothing.

  “Something is wrong,” he muttered, his concern mounting.

  “I think it’s the drug,” the woman said.

  Richart’s head snapped up. “What?”

  “The drug.”

  “You drugged him?” Fury rushed through him. Only one drug existed that could knock out an immortal like this. And, if these two possessed it, it meant they were the enemy.

  An enemy who should have been destroyed months ago.

  Both mortals took a cautious step back as his eyes began to glow.

  The male raised his weapons.

  “No,” the woman blurted. “We didn’t drug him. That’s what I was trying to tell you. The vampires weren’t the biggest threat tonight. It was the soldiers who arrived after we defeated the vampires.”

  He swore. “Soldiers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe them.”

  She did, and told him everything that had happened from the time the vampires had been defeated to Étienne being felled.

  “C’est impossible,” he whispered. They had eradicated the mercenary threat. Completely. Darnell had erased all of the computer files and cyber files. Seth and David had wiped the memories of those they had allowed to live. The rest of the mercenaries had been killed.

  It just wasn’t possible. They had left no dangling threads.

  Immortals didn’t even carry the tranquilizer antidote with them anymore because no one was supposed to have that drug. No one but the researchers at the network, and none of them would use it against one of the immortals they aided.

  The woman shifted, easing her weight off one leg. “Who were they?” She had limped when she had followed him into the room. She must have been injured, too.

  “I didn’t ask your name,” he said, still reeling.

  �
��Krysta Linz. This is my brother Sean.”

  Richart performed an abbreviated bow. “Richart d’Alençon.” There was only one way to confirm that this drug was the same one the mercenaries had used against them. “Please excuse me for a moment. I will return shortly.”

  Too shaken to worry about their reaction, he teleported to his home. “Sheldon!”

  “Yeah?” His young Second entered Richart’s bedroom, holding a sandwich in one hand. As soon as he caught Richart’s expression, he sobered. “Oh shit. What happened?”

  “Do we have any of the tranquilizer antidote left?” Richart asked as he gathered a change of clothes for Étienne.

  Nodding, Sheldon set the sandwich down and left the room. Richart followed him to the bathroom in which Sheldon kept much of their first-aid paraphernalia.

  A solitary autoinjector was stashed in one of the drawers.

  Jenna appeared in the doorway as Sheldon grabbed it and handed it over without a word.

  Richart didn’t think he had ever seen the young man look so worried. “Thank you.” He met Jenna’s gaze.

  “Is it Étienne?” she asked.

  He nodded. Knowing she would understand if he explained later, he teleported. Returning to his brother’s side, Richart dropped the clothing on the bed.

  Krysta and Sean jumped at his reappearance.

  Removing the cap, Richart pressed the autoinjector to Étienne’s neck.

  “Is that an EpiPen?” Sean asked.

  Richart shook his head. An EpiPen wouldn’t do squat to an immortal. They were unaffected by all but two drugs: The mercenaries’ tranquilizer and the antidote Dr. Lipton had developed to counter it.

  Turning the used autoinjector over and over in his hand, he waited.

  Étienne opened his eyes.

  The first thing he noticed was his brother looming over the lumpy bed that supported him. The second was Krysta and her brother.

  As the lethargy induced by the tranquilizer rapidly faded, Étienne sat up and took stock of the situation. They were in the mortals’ home, in Krysta’s bedroom. Étienne wore only his boxer shorts, a bedspread covering him from the waist down. Instead of being riddled with wounds and stained red with blood, his body was clean, healed, and carried the pleasant citrus scent he associated with Krysta.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, the words leaping from her lips as if she could no longer contain them.