Before I can process what's happening, Quinn has the kid against the far wall and knocks him out. Blake doesn't seem to believe what he is seeing as Quinn goes to him. I am watching from just inside the doorway, wondering what to do from here, seeing as Quinn didn't exactly choose the subtlest way to take care of the guard.
"Jessica!" Quinn yells just as I feel something swipe across my back.
I turn and stare at a creature I can't believe actually exists. He—I assume it's a he, though I really don't care to check for certainty on that—has little left of his face—just bone and muscle, and I am wondering at this point why Quinn didn't mention this guy. And why didn't we bring more than our brains for weapons if we were going to run into him? I know better than this—I'm an assassin, for crying out loud.
I fend off three successive blows, but this thing is kicking my ass. He drives a single talon into my upper thigh and simultaneously rakes three from his other hand across my breastbone.
You would think I would collapse at this—I do, too, but something snaps. I feel that newfound power that Trinity was referencing in our Tithe as being a result of our combined blood and I am furious. At this point, I stop focusing on merely the physical and start dealing out mental blows, one right after the next. The creature barely budges and I watch in horror as Quinn comes up beside him.
Damn it, Quinn, get out of the way! I know he can't hear me, but it's all I can think as I watch the creature break his leg and leave him shaking on the floor.
Now, before we continue, let me explain something. Being an assassin doesn't mean that I carry around a bat-style utility belt—I wouldn't know how to effectively use a grappling gun if you gave me one. I don't brandish huge gothic-style swords—they're a bitch to keep polished—and though I carry bigger guns than pistols from time to time, I don't normally because, oh yeah, they don't work against vampires. Wound, maim, piss off, sure, but they don't do much more than complicate things. We are taught to use our surroundings. And knives. Most of my professors specialized in small blades. Unfortunately, I don't have any of the above and that whole bit about using my surroundings is useless when I'm in a room that's essentially empty.
I hear footsteps and armed assassins flood the hall beyond the door, so now not only am I fooling with the creature, I have his little friends to worry about, too. And I have two grown men with me who are, for all practical purposes, utterly useless. I back up until I am in the center of the room as a plethora of commands are barked at the creature that is waiting on my next move. I close my eyes and call on everything I've got.
I hold my wrists loosely crossed above my head and envision two blades. To those around it will appear as though I am surrendering, but by then it will be too late. I've never materialized anything, but I've heard rumors of others who have been able to manipulate air into matter on a small scale. I don't need small. I need impossible. I need for Trinity to have been telling the truth. I need the air around me to cut like blades at my suggestion.
The creature growls and I hear the word "custody" emerge from somewhere behind him. I wait. I wait to feel his foul breath on my face and to smell the scent of death. Once he is near enough to break me in half, I swing my arms down in a crossed pattern—effectively severing his head.
A collective gasp is drawn from those who loiter in the door, but I don't pause. I take a running start and roll with a sweeping cut through their ankles.
What the hell is going on? Trinity yells. Where are you?
Those who were lucky enough to avoid my first attack are now coming at me, and they have guns.
Several shots ring out and I don't even know where I've been hit because I can't feel anything. Luckily, this at least means they weren't using steel rounds. Without missing a step, I disarm them in hand-to-hand, where believe me, they are at a disadvantage.
Jessica, tell me where you are! I can't call them off unless I know where to call.
The hallway is suddenly still. The vamp to my left slides down the wall, leaving a bloody path in his wake. Most of them are going to make it, though recovery is going to feel like going through this all over again.
Piss off, Trinity, I can take care of myself!
My vision viciously spins as I lean over on my knees to catch my breath. Quinn struggles out of the room, favoring his leg at the knee.
"Blake," I murmur. "We have to get Blake … "
Hands catch me from behind as my legs give. "I'm right here," he says.
I try to speak again, but nothing comes out and this actually concerns me a little. Never mind the untold amounts of blood I've lost or vital organs that are never going to fully function right again. Oh, and the gunshot wounds. Wherever those are.
"Another wave of guards will come, do you remember the way out?" Blake ignores my protests as he addresses Quinn and picks me up anyway. "Can you make it?"
Quinn nods and sucks in a sharp breath. "There are two ways to go. One leads us to the parking garage, the other to the woods north of the cancer wing."
Blake looks down at me, though I hardly notice because I am fighting to keep my eyes open. "Parking garage. She won't make it if we have to wait for help."
The last few seconds before I pass out, I hear voices, loud and in abundance, coming from down the hall.
Quinn swears below his breath. "Is that Iris?"
Take it all Away
I'm getting a little tired of waking up in strange places. I open my eyes, but still can't see clearly and doing so makes them burn. I want to close them, but my whole body feels funny and funny is never a good thing in my world.
Quinn is asleep on top of the covers next to me, Blake sits across from us in a chair, fully awake. He notices that I am moving and gets up.
I am shaking uncontrollably, and the more awake I am, the more I realize how desperately I need blood. I go to sit up, unfortunately forgetting about the gashes across my chest, and cry out in pain as I do.
Blake throws his hands out just as I am discovering how bad an idea it was. "No, no don't move," he says gently.
Everything hurts and I find myself wishing I were back in detox. I only thought that was the worst pain in the world. I struggle to pull back the covers—Blake takes over for me. I want to survey the damage, but my tattered clothes are soaked in blood. I feel down my legs and stomach and count five bullet wounds and when I move to my chest, I am shocked at how deep those gashes are.
"They're worse on your back, Jess," Quinn says. He's awake now as well and is sitting up beside me. He lays the back of his hand on my head. "That's not all that's wrong with you. You're ice cold."
Kindred, as they are immortal, have a higher tolerance for pain than humans, whose critical systems rely on pain signals to communicate that something needs to be done to fix the issue. We can't fix the issue without blood and time, neither of which seem to be in my favor lately. I am hyperventilating. Again.
"We can't wait any longer," Blake says to Quinn, "maybe she'll tolerate it now that she's fully awake."
"Tolerate what?" I ask hoarsely.
Blake answers, "Our blood makes you sick. You can't keep it down."
"It's probably connected with the Blood Tithe," Quinn says. He goes to the bathroom counter and wets a washcloth with hot water. When he returns, he lays it across my forehead.
Trinity, what's happening to me? I don't want to talk to him, but I don't want Quinn and Blake to blame themselves when there isn't anything they can do to help me.
Jessica, tell me where you are. You need my blood. Without it, you will die. Trinity is calm as he thinks this because he is trying to convince me that he isn't a sick, malicious bastard. Are you hearing me?
You are a sick, malicious bastard! I would rather die than …
Quinn and Blake help me upright and I momentarily black out from the pain.
Jess! Jessica!
The door to the room opens as I come to, and a familiar face enters. "Leave us please," Jacelynd says softly.
His voice bri
ngs tears to my eyes, not because of my wounds, but because the physical pain suddenly seems so very small in comparison to the guilt that is tearing my heart out.
Five hundred years.
He hovers over me at the edge of the bed. As he looks at me, his restraint dissolves. He clenches his jaw and tries for a second to swallow back the tears, but they come anyway. He chokes up as he opens his mouth and tries to speak. I fear what he is going to say, the anger that he has every right to feel, but he doesn't say anything. He opens the collar of his shirt, along with the first three buttons, and pulls it off one shoulder. Without stepping away from me he pulls a small hand blade from his belt and runs it in a small, clean cut across his jugular.
Jace rests a knee beside me and cradles my head as I take his blood. I can feel his body tighten as he sobs, though he doesn't make a sound and I want so badly to comfort him. But his sorrow is because of me. Because of what I've done.
He leaves the room after I have taken all I can without hurting him. Trinity was right, I still feel like hell. I hurt in places I didn't even know it was possible. All I want to do is die. I stumble to the bathroom and look in the mirror. The skin around my eyes is bright red and raw. I look at my back the best I can and see a bloody, shredded mess. The bullet wounds healed over with Jace's blood, but my chest, back and the deep puncture to my leg will need more time. I look at the shower with longing because I am still frozen to the core and because I want to wash away the dried blood. And my regret. And the last ten years. None of which is going to happen, so I take a wet rag do the best I can to clean up.
It didn't occur to me to close the door and even if it had, it would have been for naught. My clothes are nothing but well placed rags at this point and don't hide much of anything. I am having issues with my shirt when Jace walks in.
He has clean clothes in his hands (I think I can safely assume he wouldn't have brought them soiled) and lays them on the counter next to me. Wordlessly, he closes the door. Then, takes my hand from where I am peeling cloth off of my chest and kisses it, only to resume the task himself.
I am getting dizzy and lean back on him to keep from falling. I should speak, but what do you say to a man who has never given up on you? Who gave more than he had to you, and you threw it all in his face?
I close my eyes when he touches my back, simply because I can't bear to see the expression on his face when he sees that what he's waited on for the last ten years is damaged goods. The majority of my burn scars are on my back, moving down to the top of my left leg. Every fragile touch is an excruciating reminder of what I've lost.
I am finally stripped down to what had once been pale lavender panties and a tattered matching bra. Bloody as they are, I don't make any motion to take them off. Jace carefully keeps a hand on my arm while he turns to start the water. Then he takes off his own bloody clothes, leaving his boxers on.
He guides me to the water, feeling it first with his hand before letting me touch it. When I nod approval he switches from the tap to the showerhead and tenderly steps in with me.
I lose my breath when the water hits me. The heat feels unbelievable, but it's a shock to my system. Jace wraps his arms around me from behind, and bows so that his cheek rests against the top of my head. For a long while we remain this way, silent with emotions too large for words. It's Jace who finally speaks and when he does, it's barely a whisper above the water.
"Forgive me, Jessica."
I turn around, not believing what I heard. "What?" I ask.
He trembles as he brushes my hair back. He starts to talk and gets choked up again, shaking his head to indicate that he can't speak.
"I'm the one who needs forgiveness, Jace. You have done nothing.Why would you … ?"
With his palms on my cheeks and his fingers swept into my hair, he tilts my face to his. "I should have stopped you." He takes a second to collect himself before continuing, "You have paid for my mistakes and you have paid dearly." He lowers one hand to lightly graze the burn scars on my back. "This was the last time that I heard you." I can tell he is reliving a moment that I'm grateful to have no memory of. "You were screaming my name." He closes his eyes, pain evident in his features.
I don't know where I am pulling the strength from, but I lean up and kiss him, my mouth barely touching his. The tentativeness in his response lingers and after a moment, I start to pull away, thinking that I have done something I have no right to. But he draws me close and deepens the kiss, all traces of hesitancy lost. And for one peaceful moment, I forget the pain and the cold and the reality of what lies ahead.
We are standing by the bathroom counter. Jace is painstakingly careful as he helps me dry off. With the dried blood washed away, I see there are actually more than five new bullet wounds. They've scarred, but because I had blood so soon after the injury, they are barely visible. By the way, that's what determines scars on a vampire—the morbidity of the injury and the length of time between injury and blood-taking. I know that not all of these scars came from our encounter in Hades, but Jace has no idea. He takes note of one in particular after we finish bandaging my chest.
"We're lucky you don't have shattered ribs." He turns away as I undo the clasp of my bra and slide off my underwear. I'm touched by this small act of consideration. Regardless of our marriage, which I now believe—it's knowledge in my heart, not my head. Dreams aside, which so don't count, he hasn't recently seen me fully unclothed and I would prefer it not be like this. I put on the clean bra and underwear before I answer him.
"It's okay." I touch him to let him know he can turn around. "This is an old scar. And I did have shattered ribs—wasn't fun."
I turn and he tends to the gashes there as well. "You were a Master assassin?" he asks.
"At the time I was an Apprentice." I pick up the pale pink sweatshirt he brought. It has faded blue-and-white letters that spell Oxford on the front.
He takes it from me, then motions for me to raise my arms and helps me put it on. "And now?"
"Do you really want to know?"
He takes the gauze off of the counter and unwinds enough to start wrapping my upper thigh, where the puncture wound is. After bending down, he looks up briefly to answer, "Yes."
"Covenant," I whisper, as though it's a dark confession. In a way, it is. This does more than reveal a little about my life, it cracks open the last decade and pours out all of the acts and deeds that are associated with an assassin of that rank. "I placed above fifteen in the last assessment that I had. I didn't have much of a choice. It was either that or become a mentor—I couldn't bear to train someone else to kill like I do."
Cleanly and without conscience.
"You do have a conscience," Jace says. "The fact that you couldn't say it aloud tells me this."
"Technically, you know me better than I know myself right now, so I guess I should believe you. I mean … five hundred years?" I ask. "Why didn't I see more in my dreams than just repeated fragments?"
"I can't explain why you had dreams of me at all prior to a year ago. Some events must have made a strong enough impression to remain in your mind regardless of what Tristan did to you."
"I wouldn't have believed you had you told me the truth, just like you said. I wasn't ready to hear it."
"Ten years even to an immortal is a long time. I never expected you to take me at my word. You've always needed to see things for yourself." The pain in his eyes is undeniable as they meet mine. "I'm surprised that you believe it now. I assume it's because you were told the truth by someone you felt you could trust."
"Past tense. And no, that's not the only reason. The dreams were reason enough for me to question what was going on. I should have given you a chance to explain when we were at the beach house. I'm sorry that I—"
"Damian gagged and blindfolded you. If I had been able to reach you first, before he did … hell, even if Quinn had reached you first … we could have done things differently … approached you differently. We certainly could have stopped Tristan fro
m forcing you into a Tithe."
Guilt rushes over me. "I wasn't forced. I was confused and angry, but not forced."
"Jessi, Tristan knows exactly which emotions to play on to get you where he wants you. Your hand was forced, whether it feels like it or not."
"What was I like before?" I ask.
He grabs the loose gray sweat pants off the counter and helps me step into them. And to my surprise, smiles a little. "These are yours. I brought them with me from our house."
It hadn't struck me that we would have had a home—though it seems common sense now. I'm going to blame that on the whole life-turning-upside-down thing.
Jace sees me digesting this and continues. "We had a golden retriever that I would swear you loved more than me. Her name was Bailey. She died a few years ago." He leads me out into the room. I still don't know where we are, but I am too interested in what he's saying to stop him and ask.
"You loved the beach. We'd go several times a year to the house at Cape San Blas." His smile widens. "You were every bit as terse then as you are now. Little cleaner vocabulary, but cynical nonetheless."
Someone has changed the bedding, I notice. Now that I'm a little more lucid, it looks like we are in a hotel—an expensive one, and I wonder how they could have possibly gotten me in here looking like I did. Jace motions to the end of the bed where I sit while he changes. When he comes out of the bathroom, he is wearing a white t-shirt and dark, loose-fitting jeans. They're worn enough to sleep in.
Jace turns off the lamp on the desk, leaving the room barely lit by the bedside light. "You kept journals. You asked me once, long ago, not to read them. So, I can't tell you what they say. But I haven't changed anything. The journal you were writing in last is still in the nightstand. Your shoes are still on the floor at the foot of the bed."
"I've never thought to journal," I say quietly. "I did a little when I was a teenager—but it wasn't really me. It was someone else's memories. Someone else's life. What if I never remember anything, I mean really remember anything? The dreams were little more than disconnected bits and don't tell me much about my real past. What if this is it and I'm never the Jessica you knew?"
Icarus; The Kindred (A Paranormal Romance) Page 7
