Exhumed

by Skyla Dawn Cameron

  They still hadn’t found Myra Sweeney. Er, Swinney.

  I didn’t like Peri when I first met her and I liked her even less now that she’d somehow entranced my sort-of-best-friend, but at this point she had roots and was grounded, so unless Nic was at stake, she wouldn’t betray me. She’d keep Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dumber in line. I had no doubt they were at least trying.

  Still. Another day and a half gone, they hadn’t found a trace of the crazy bitch, and my ranting over the phone at Felix for twenty minutes hadn’t yielded results either. Next step would be to drive the fuck down there myself, level half of his business with explosives, and then redial to see if he was interested in speaking with me further.

  Go with what you know, right?

  The microwave dinged and I popped open the door before it completed the announcement, coppery scent drifting out. Please don’t let this be the rest of my unlife. Warming blood. Removing anything from the bedroom that could be a weapon. Tying him to my bed—well, actually, I was okay with that part. Still, for a horrible moment, hopelessness gripped me, slicing me in two, and my knees buckled. I locked a hand on the counter, holding me up, staring as the microwave finished chirping.

  How long would I be able to do this? Next few weeks were fine. Months, sure. Years? Decades? Let’s face it: taking care of him would require me to be a good person. Which I firmly wasn’t. I trusted myself to look after him in the immediate future but beyond that was anyone’s guess.

  Then there was the matter of me not really knowing what in the hell I was doing to start with. I didn’t have “boyfriends” or men I loved. Nicolette as a roommate for a year notwithstanding, I wasn’t used to having people live in my home for extended periods of time, let alone sharing my bed, or...any of that stuff. I figured I’d learn as we went but this was a pretty shitty start.

  I shoved at the negative thoughts and grabbed a straw from the utensil drawer. One day at a time. I’d work a solution. I always did. Just because there was no cure, didn’t mean we wouldn’t find one. I’d done the impossible before, after all—like when I fell for him, or when I turned him, which I swore I’d never do to anyone.

  Ellie perched on the end of the couch, a vacant look to his eyes as he talked, and I was pretty sure he had Peter on the line again. Ryann sat at the coffee table before him, taking notes on a legal pad. Nic was busy emailing someone. Good little set up here, I had to say—everyone actually was working. Parker and Ted might not be pleased to have two of their employees here rather than manning the phones at the agency, but I kept their business on retainer in case I needed something at any time, so they weren’t hurting financially. And Nic didn’t think Peri was ready for them to have even a pet goldfish, so only an empty house waited them in the suburbs.

  They drained on me, sure, but they weren’t the only ones. Emotionally I was tapped out, heart aching so badly at any given time, I was surprised I had any of it left. I carted the warm pouch of blood back toward my room, hefting it from one hand to the other. Back up the steps, back into the room. Lights still glowed white overhead and the finger painting of dried dark red blood in the corner was almost obscene in its simplicity and sort of beauty.

  I just had to go out that night for a job. Had to. Five miles away was still too far when no one was home with him. Not that the extra minutes would’ve made a difference to his sanity, but he woke up alone in a box. Able to move, sure, because for years I’d had him hooked up to muscle stimulants used for coma patients, just in case he came out of stasis paralyzed like I had been once upon a time. But still. A dark box. Alone. Crazy. It couldn’t have been fun.

  Nate still slept peacefully, beautifully, not having moved from the position I’d left him in previously on the bed, chain running through the ring in the wall. He had room to shift but didn’t. It had been hours, though—muscles were likely cramping up. He stirred when I perched on the side of the bed, eyes drifting open.

  Please be sane, please be sane...

  He blinked once. Twice. His gaze was still vaguely vacant, confused.

  Motherfucker. Never changed. Never, ever changed. I held up the bag. “Hungry?”

  He nodded, still watching me oddly. I popped the straw into the pouch and held it for him to drink, briefly pondering the possibility of a sippy cup and then quashing it because ugh, CREEPY.

  More colour flushed his cheeks and he looked enough like his human self that my heart ached. I saw no fangs when I slid the empty bag back again; it was possible he hadn’t grown used to them. My experience had been either a new vamp kept them out all the time or only popped them out when they couldn’t control it. It hurt, the whole growing fangs thing. Took a while to get used to and after three hundred years and thousands of feedings, the pinch of pain still irritated me.

  I set the empty blood pouch on the nightstand. Nic had been after me to try leaving him on his own to bathe finally—might be worth a shot. “Want to take a shower?”

  A slow nod. Could be he didn’t know what I was talking about. I resisted the urge to kindly ask that he not kill me as I didn’t think it would help.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He watched me leave, still saying nothing. I almost preferred the crazy talking because at least then I knew what the fuck was going on in his head, even if it made no sense.

  My bathroom was the full en suite kind of deal, stark white because I liked simplicity and clean lines. The walls were subway tiling and looked like brick, running floor to ceiling. Floor was large square white tiles. A large bowl-like sink sat on its own against the wall on a white counter, straight lines with simple shelving below. White towels and folded cloths sat beneath along with chrome net baskets for collecting odds and ends. With so little colour, the place was a real mess when I came home covered in dirt and blood.

  Which happened often enough.

  Bathtub was the luxury Jacuzzi kind, big enough for me and at least one other person. Maybe two. I’d not brought home any males but the one in my bedroom so I’d yet to test it out. I’d been hoping to curl up in it with him when he awoke. And I shoved away that thought violently.

  Shower in the corner was a stall of clear glass walls around it and multiple spouts. The glass he could shatter and I just had to hope he didn’t. Maybe the bath would be better but I’d pegged him for a shower sort of guy.

  I collected items from around the sink—the bottle of shave gel, flammable under pressure, and just in case he could light a magical fire, I tossed it in the basket I’d grabbed from under the sink. Razors didn’t look like enough to cut but I threw them in too. And my makeup because he might go painting again.

  Seriously, that shit is expensive when you buy high quality but not tested on animals.

  Chrome towel racks on the wall could be weaponized but I could take a few hits from that—and so could he. I left the loofah because I’m considerate like that, and took the basket back out through my bedroom and locked it in my closet. He could break through those doors but probably not without me hearing about it.

  I slipped the key out of the front pocket of my jeans and moved around the bed. It slid in the lock and the manacles clicked and fell open, chain rattling and shifting. He held steady, not acknowledging me, just waiting—which sent a prickle of worry down my spine, but I kept moving. Legs went next and I slid the manacles away, gathering the cool heavy chains up and coiling them at the bottom of the bed.

  He turned, rolled onto his back, and flexed his fingers, staring at his open palms. When I offered my hand, he took it, fingers warm and strong.

  Not that I’d ever fantasized about strolling through the tulips hand-in-hand, singing tra-la-la, but at the moment it would’ve been a nice thought, if not a totally impossible prospect.

  I gave him a tug, easing him off the bed, and prepared to grab him in case he wavered; he still walked easily enough, albeit stiffly, as I led him to the bathroom. “Shower,” I pointed to the shower ’cause, okay, I didn’t actually know if he knew what I was talking abo
ut and crazy could go pretty deep, “and soap, shampoo. No boy stuff so you’re going to smell like a girl. But a hot one.” God, I wished he’d roll his eyes at me or something, but he just blinked in the shower’s general direction.

  I eased my fingers from his and gently urged him forward. Stepped back. Watched from the doorway as he stepped to the shower, pressed a hand to the glass for a moment, and then popped the door open. The ghostly outline of his palm and fingers remained.

  I wondered what my cleaning lady would think of the BDSM dungeon I was turning my bedroom into.

  A few steps back and I closed the door, happy to give him some privacy. Seconds later the shower roared to life, beating through the pipes and hammering the tile—seemed like he knew what he was doing. I moved next for the walk-in closet; I’d stowed a box of men’s clothes sealed in plastic somewhere in there years ago so I didn’t have to do last minute shopping for him. I’d gone as neutral as possible, which is relatively easy with menswear. If anything was horribly out of date, we’d just call it vintage.

  Not like he’ll be fit for public viewing anytime soon, Zar. Yeah, that was a good point I didn’t want to think about for too long.

  I found the box on a top shelf above my shoes, right near the incredibly high ceiling, and had to pull out a black plush-topped stool to give me a few extra inches. MEN’S was marked on the side; I hadn’t chanced his name because there was no telling who might break into my apartment and as far as the world knew, Nathan Gregory O’Connor was dead and buried in a family plot twenty miles outside of the city. He had been buried, of course, but I took care that no one knew I’d dug him up.

  Dust fluttered down, tickling my nose and itching my eyes. Apparently Anastasia didn’t clean up there, and she and I would need to have a talk about—

  A crash from the bathroom jerked my arms with panic; I glanced over my shoulder, lost my balance, and nearly landed on my ass as the stool tipped. The box thumped on the floor, leaving my grasp and tumbling, and I urged the stool back so all feet sat firmly on the ground before I hopped off.

  Shit, shit, shit—

  I burst through the door and around the corner, bare feet slipping on the hardwood as I scrambled to the bathroom.

  I smelled the blood even before I got there.

  The vanity mirror was shattered, jagged pieces glittering in the white lights. Shards covered the white porcelain sink, the counter, the floor. Blood was bright drops of crimson on the monochrome room, terrifyingly beautiful, droplets like spray on a modern art piece. The shower still ran, beating against the floor. The ground was curved, tipping downward to a drain in the floor, but it spattered across the room to water down the blood and throw fat droplets on the broken glass.

  My gaze travelled up, up. He was naked, yoga pants in a heap over the tub’s edge, soaked through, hair hanging in wet ropes over his eyes. Head tipped down, he stared at me with dark, dark eyes, and in his bloody hand was a long, jagged shard of my bathroom mirror.

  Yeah. Shit.

  Chapter Seven

  Worth

  That it hadn’t occurred to me to remove the bathroom mirror as a weapon said great things about the trust I had in our relationship.

  That the mirror was broken and he threatened me with a piece of it said some not-so-great things about the relationship itself.

  He raised his hand, dead steady, pointing the shard of glass my way even as blood dripped wildly from his wounds. “Who. Are. You.” His voice was shaky, a stark contrast to the rest of him which stood stock-still.

  I lifted my hands, fingers splayed. Defensively, hopefully non-aggressively. “You know me. Remember? You just forgot my name, that’s all. I’m—”

  “I don’t know you!” His arm jerked straight, the tip of the broken mirror thrust in my direction.

  “Yes, you do. I promise you do. Please—”

  Someone rapped on the bedroom door beyond the room and Nic called, “Is everything okay?”

  His eyes widened. “Who is that!”

  Shit. Fuck. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” I called calmly. “Go back downstairs now.” My eyes never left his and I lowered my volume. “See? Everything’s okay. You know who I am.” Dammit, where the fuck did I put the fucking tranq gun? Did I reload? Motherfucker.

  “Who. Is. That.”

  “That’s my friend, Nicolette. She won’t—”

  “Who are you!”

  Jesus. “You know who I am, Nate. Just think. You had to cover the windows for me, remember? And you said you loved me?”

  He shook his head emphatically, dark, twisted locks of soaked hair swinging. “No. She doesn’t have friends.”

  Hey! Okay, so he had a point there—my only friend he knew when he was living was his bitch of a dead wife. And him. Sorta. “She’s my friend,” I promised.

  “I keep hearing...people. Voices. I’m not crazy. I hear them.”

  “You do. There are people in the apartment. They’ll help you—help us.”

  He stared at me, processing, the glittering piece of the mirror never wavering. “I used to have a ring. Did you take it?”

  I scanned my memory—it had been a year and a half since I dug him up but all we did was strip him out of his burial clothes and get him hooked up. “I don’t remember a ring.”

  “I had it...” His gaze drifted to the side, point of the broken mirror dipping down. “I took it off. At my father’s. He...gave me...shrimp. In my food. He knew I was... He...I...”

  “Put the glass down and I’ll help you figure out where the ring is. But I haven’t seen it. It’s been...a few years since you were...around.” “Around” sounded better than “alive”. I wasn’t sure how he’d take the latter in his fragile state.

  “You’re not her. I know her and you’re not her!” His voice pitched into a roar and my heart rate kicked up violently as he met my gaze.

  “Nate—”

  “No. No.” He shook his head again, eyes squinting like the light might be bright, like he wanted to close them, and his hand with the shard of mirror wavered.

  Ten steps to him. Three seconds to disarm, maybe. Unless he threw a spell. The other night he knew how to close and block doors, but I’d seen nothing beyond that. If he could do the telekinesis thing like his father, all the glass currently on the floor could be headed towards yours truly in a matter of seconds.

  There was also the matter of his ability to remove himself from the dimension’s time stream. Possibly teleport if he still had landing sigils around the city. That he hadn’t done so yet, I counted as a major win.

  Hey, I was taking ’em wherever I could.

  “Baby, please,” I started. I tried an experimental step forward and he flinched, so I held still. “Do you want to feed again? What do you need? Tell me and I’ll—”

  “I want to leave!”

  Um, except that. “You can’t go right now. You’ll...be hurt outside. Remember sunrise? The sun rose. We’re protected in here but—”

  “That’s her. Not me.”

  Oh, let’s not find out. “I got you some clothes. Why don’t we—”

  Another knock. “Zar?”

  I snapped, turned my head toward the bedroom. “Jesus, will you just fucking—”

  And he dove the moment my attention was diverted.

  Body collided with mine, striking my chest; water flew, blood flew, the glint of the glass shard near my throat—fuck! I hit the floor, barking my head on the hardwood. He felt heavier on me, denser vampire bones, denser muscle even though there was less of it, all pressing into me. The mirror shard shot for my throat, his own blood twisting down its slick, jagged surface, and my arms jerked out, braced against his, and kept the pointed edge an inch from my throat.

  He couldn’t saw through and take my head off, no, but he could cause some damage. Weaken me. And if he went after Ellie or Nic...

  Peri and Ryann will take him out, nothing you can do. Oh god, if only he knew—if only he could fucking understand. My eyes itched and I blinked u
ntil the tears retreated. “Nate. Listen to me—”

  “Don’t,” he whispered in a low, violent voice, “speak.” The whites of his eyes had gone a thick, swirly navy like his irises—something I’d never seen, not ever in a warlock. Not ever in him.

  And with the sharp stab of magic in the air, so strong around him it was nearly visible, I was guessing it was a bad thing.

  His hair hung down on either side of me, swinging with every slight movement, dripping water down on me. My long braid was a lump against my spine, T-shirt and jeans beneath him were soaking through and searing with his body heat. I all but felt his heart thrumming against mine. Near. So near. His arm tremored and I locked my forearms, kept them braced and unyielding against his. His jaw worked, trembling, like he ground his teeth. Or maybe it was rage. Maybe he was getting ready to throw a spell. Or bite.

  Either way, it wasn’t good for me.

  “Let me up and we’ll—”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “No!” I screamed back. “This isn’t you! And I swear to fucking god I will fix you—”

  “I’m not broken!”

  I didn’t know how to do this. How to calm him. I struggled in vain to figure out what he’d say to me and came up with a blank. I’d never been crazy with him, just bloodlusting. He’d fed me and fucked me and everything was right in the world.

  Until I killed him.

  “You should’ve let me die,” I whispered, babbled—I didn’t even know what I was saying anymore. “You should’ve left me there, underground. In the dark place. Left the country, changed your name. Sean never would’ve found you. Or you could’ve just staked me in the cabin, like I thought you were going to. Then I wouldn’t’ve had to choose. I wouldn’t’ve changed you. You’d still be you. Why?”

  He stared, not speaking, eyes still as dark, nothing in their depths recognizing me.

  My gut knotted, eyes closed. “You’d be trading your life for mine. I’m not worth it.”

  “Zara, look at me.” His warm voice drew my eyes open again. Determination waited for me, gaze quietly fierce. Stubborn. He got something in his head and that was that with Nate. He’d win or die trying. “You are to me.”