Читать книгу Possessed by an Immortal - Sharon Ashwood - Страница 12

Chapter 5

Late that night, Mark stormed into the office he shared with two other part-time physicians at Redwood General Hospital. He slammed the door behind him, beyond frustrated. Larson wasn’t talking.

At first, it had been understandable because he was unconscious. The wound was serious, but Mark had tended to it and thankfully Larson would recover.

But once Larson was awake, he hadn’t talked because he was afraid. Someone had threatened his grandchildren. Someone he feared more than Mark—and that was saying something.

The phone rang. Mark snatched it up. “What?”

There was a beat of silence. “I see someone had their grumpy pills today.”

It was Faran Kenyon, werewolf and fellow member of the Horsemen.

“What?” Mark snapped again. He wasn’t in the mood for Kenyon’s antics. His skin itched like the devil. He’d been exposed to too much sun on the plane and now he looked pink. He’d already used half a tube of medicated cream and smelled like the victim of a bad diaper rash.

And the scent of blood on the plane had gotten to him badly. As a doctor, he was used to it, but Bree had been bleeding. The blood of strangers was one thing. The blood of a woman who had caught his notice was something else. Dangerous. Tantalizing.

“Next time you send a top-secret report to the captain, blind copy me,” Kenyon said, breaking through his thoughts. “Otherwise, all I get are bits and scraps. I heard about the damsel in distress showing up and you deciding to get her and a sick rug rat to town, but why the shoot-out in the bush?”

“I was tracked. I found a letter inside my cabin.”

“Who from? The health department?”

“The Knights of Vidon.”

Kenyon swore.

“Indeed,” Mark said with wry humor. “Vampire slayers apparently take no vacations. Therefore, I don’t get one, either. Unfortunately, the letter was from one of my longtime fans. It was a surprise. I haven’t heard from that family for a very long time.”

“Who?”

“Nicholas Ferrel. I knew the taste of his ancestor.”

“Creepy. How long ago was that?”

Mark sat down at the desk, and was greeted with stacks of files plastered with sticky notes. Sign this form. Initial that one. Complete another mountain of logs and charts. He shoved them aside with a sweep of his arm. “Five hundred thirty years, give or take.”

“And his descendant still holds a grudge? What in blazes did you do?”

“It was a different era. Listen, I’m sending some blood samples by courier. I’ve addressed them to you, but would you send them over to the lab when they arrive?”

“Sure. Anything I should know?”

“They’re for the boy. There’s something about his case that worries me. Redwood is just a small regional hospital. I want the Varney labs on it.”

The Varney Center in Los Angeles was the West Coast hub of the Company and the North American headquarters for the Horsemen. As well as the usual mountains of data intelligence, spy toys and black ops coffeemakers, it had an exceptional medical facility. There were few things that made Mark go weak in the knees, but those labs counted. The fact that he got to work there was one of the main reasons he had joined the Horsemen.

“Not to sound like the trolls in accounting, but he’s a human, right? Should we be using our resources for this?”

“Do I ever ask for favors?” He knew very well that the answer was negative.

Kenyon sighed. “Dare I ask why now?”

“The woman has insurance issues. If there’s a hassle, tell them to take it out of my pay.”

Kenyon was quiet for a moment. “If you’re that involved—”

“I’m not involved,” he said quickly. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong, and that frustrates me. I became a doctor for this kind of science.” Not to mention atonement for all the lives he’d taken.

Kenyon’s voice was cautious. “The boy’s really sick, isn’t he?”

“Maybe. Probably.” Closer examination had confirmed his earlier fears. Whatever was wrong was chronic and debilitating—almost certainly something in his blood. He could smell it. “But I don’t want to say anything until I’m absolutely certain. I don’t want to put his mother through any false alarms.”

He swiveled the chair around so that he could look out the window. All he got was a view of the parking lot, growing dim in the fading light. Besides sending a brief report to L.A., he’d spent hours treating Larson, then more time testing Jonathan and looking in on some other patients he had in long-term care. He’d lost track of time, and now the clock said it was after six in the evening.

A whole day back in the human world. He already missed the green of his island retreat, where he didn’t have to fight to wear a civilized mask. Where choices were easy.

“I have bad news,” Kenyon said. “You don’t get to hang around up there playing Dr. McGrumpy. The boss wants you in L.A.”

“Now?”

“Right now. He’s sending a plane to pick up Larson. Raphael got the copy of your statement.”

The boss. Raphael. “His timing is inconvenient.”

“Sorry. He wants you on the plane. He’s scooping up Larson’s family, bringing the whole lot of them in so that they’ll be safe. Then he’s going to question Larson again. He wants you present for that.”

We’ll see. Mark had never liked having his leash yanked, and thoroughly resented it now. “Then I need you to do one more thing. I want an ID on this woman. Her name is Bree. The boy’s name is Jonathan. He’s almost four years old.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t have one. I suppose Bree is short for something.”

“Uh-huh. Date of birth? Place of birth? Maybe a Swedish accent to give us a clue?”

Mark considered. “I’d say Californian.”

“Californians don’t have an accent.”

“They do if you’re Italian.” California hadn’t even been discovered when he was born in 1452. By the time Columbus sailed for the New World forty years later, Marco Farnese had been Undead for a decade. “Parlo la lingua del canto e della seduzione.” I speak the language of song and seduction.

Kenyon gave a short, dry laugh. “Right. Like I’d call you for phone sex. There’s something sad about an Italian vampire. All that great garlicky cuisine going to waste.”

Mark grunted. “Call me when you find something.”

“When is optimistic. Stick to if.”

“Nonsense. You’re a bloodhound.”

“I’m a werewolf. Hear me howl in dismay.”

Mark swiveled back to the desk and hung up the phone without saying goodbye. His mind was already racing ahead to what Kenyon might find out, and how that would connect with any of the other puzzle pieces.

Larson’s refusal to say who had frightened him so badly was a problem. Mark’s enemies had been close by—close enough to play mailman.

And why had Ferrel resurfaced now, after so many years? After generations? Mark had let down his guard enough to take a position at a hospital filled with vulnerable patients. If the Knights of Vidon found him on the island, how long would it be before they showed up here?

And that was only half his problem. There was Bree and the boy, with their own set of gun-toting maniacs. Whose enemies had been the ones shooting at them? His or hers?

Mark swore softly. Even if he was being summoned to Los Angeles, Mark had a responsibility to the boy and his mother. He couldn’t just dump them and go. At the very least, he had to get the boy into adequate care.

That didn’t mean he was involved with them in the warm-and-fuzzy sense. It was just that there were some occasions when he had to be a doctor first, and a vampire later.

Mark pushed back from the desk, trying not to see the paperwork glaring up at him. So much for a paperless world, where everything was digital. He swore every time he looked at the stack of files it was bigger. Worse, it didn’t care if he was a supernatural being of immense power. Growling never made bureaucracy run away.

He left the office, closing the door behind him. The corridor was narrow, painted the usual nondescript hospital-beige. A nurse in scrubs hurried by, giving him a nod and the professional half smile of someone with too much to do. He nodded back, then strode toward the ward where he’d left Bree and her son.

Like everything at Redwood General, the pediatrics area was small, but the staff made the most of it. It was the one place with bright colors. Mark found the kids’ TV room, where Bree waited with Jonathan. A swarm of cardboard bees covered the walls, smiling down at the tiny patients. Jonathan was playing on a giant red sea monster that doubled as a slide. Skinny arms flung wide, he scooted down the curve of it as Mark walked in.

It always fascinated Mark how even the sickest children still had the impulse to play, but healthy adults quickly forgot how.

They were the only ones in the room, and Mark saw Bree before she saw him. She was hunched over, her chin propped in her hands, watching a cartoon with the dull expression of the exhausted. Nevertheless, she’d angled her body so that she could still see her son. That vigilance of hers never, ever slipped.

As if she could sense his presence, she raised her head. She was disheveled, her eyes bruised with shock and fatigue. He’d bought a different jacket for her from the gift shop because her trench coat had been bloody. This one was ice-cream-pink and fuzzy—not something he guessed was her usual style—but it was all the store had. She’d pulled another pair of jeans from her backpack, and this pair had threadbare knees. The woman had nothing but the clothes on her back, and they were in sorry shape. And yet, she was lovely.

As their eyes met, hers widened, expectant. Mark’s chest squeezed, a half-forgotten feeling waking inside. It had been so long since someone had waited for him. It was something he’d never take for granted—to walk out of a room, and have it matter to someone if he ever walked back in. He’d lost the right to expect that from anyone long ago.

Yes, she was beautiful with her soft hair waving around her face, like a painting of an angel. Not the Christmas-card type, but the angels from his day, with swords and arrows and smiles that woke the sun and broke armies of war-proud kings. That kind of sweetness remade worlds.

And destroyed vampires like him. Innocents invited tragedy because, well, beasts would be beasts and angels would ultimately suffer. Mark tried to freeze his heart as he strode forward, but the bitter lesson of his memories melted like cobwebs in the wind. Hunger rose in his blood.

The corners of Bree’s mouth quirked up in a hesitant greeting. He was struck with yearning to kiss those wide, generous lips. He could tell they were warm, just like every part of her he’d already touched.

He squashed that thought before it took flight. A kiss would only end in complications. Neither of them needed that, especially when he might have to tell her she was going to lose her precious son. Please, no.

“Bree,” he said softly, sitting next to her in the row of molded plastic chairs.

“Mark.” Her hands twisted, fingers lacing and unlacing. “Or should I call you Doctor here?”

“Mark is fine.” He reached over, stilling her hands. The bones felt delicate beneath his fingers. “I’ll be honest. I still don’t have a diagnosis for you, but I’ve sent some blood samples to an excellent laboratory in Los Angeles. They’ll run whatever tests I ask for and not ask any questions.”

Her eyebrows lifted, expressing skepticism and hope in one gesture. “Really?”

“Yes. It’s a start. Depending on what those tell us, there are some other things we will probably want to do—we just don’t know yet.”

Her eyes clouded and she pulled her hands away. “We can’t stay here. Those men who were following me—they’ll check hospitals.”

Again, Mark wondered if they’d been shooting at him or at her. “Who are they?”

She looked down. “Like I said, I don’t have names. I’m really sorry you got caught up in this. You’re kind. You don’t deserve it.”

“You said you witnessed a murder.”

She shifted in the chair. “You don’t understand how powerful they are.”

You don’t understand how powerful I am. “Tell me.”

She bent her head, avoiding his eyes. “It’s been like this all along, from one coast to the other. And there have been close calls. Jonathan and I got cornered in the Chicago airport. They stuck both of us with needles full of some sort of sleeping drug. The only thing that saved us was that they got the dosage wrong. They didn’t give me enough. I woke up in the back of a van and managed to get out with Jonathan. I was so scared.” She covered her face with her hands. “He didn’t wake up for ages. I started to wonder if he would.”

Fury washed through him in a hot tide, followed by hard suspicion. Why drug Bree and Jonathan and not just kill them?

Her expression was bitter. “They’re getting closer every time they strike. One day we won’t get away.”

“You need a bigger city.”

“Maybe.” She looked away. “I’ve been through most of them.”

“I could take you to Los Angeles.”

She shuddered slightly. “No, I— No. Not Los Angeles.”

Clearly, something bad had happened there. “Seattle?”

She chewed her lip. “Maybe. For a while.”

The implication being that it wouldn’t work indefinitely. No hiding place would. What does she have—or know—that someone wants so desperately?

“I’ll take you there,” he said, almost before he had made a conscious decision. “I need to catch a plane, anyway. I can do it from there.” He’d just miss the one Raphael was sending for him and Larson. Oh well.

“You’re going away? And here I was getting used to personal service.” Her tone was careless, but a lift in her voice betrayed a hint of dismay. Then she laughed, shaking her head as if to clear away unwelcome thoughts. “No, I travel alone.”

“So do I.” He gave a slight smile. “But it’s just to Seattle. A couple hours, then I’m on a plane and out of your life. I can leave you a contact number so you can call me to get the results of the tests. No matter what, I’m still your son’s doctor.”

She was silent.

“Are you okay with that?” Mark asked. “Am I being too pushy?”

“Of course you’re not. I’m sorry. I’m not really this antisocial,” she said, flushing.

“But the men with guns totally ruin cocktail hour. I get it. Take the ride, no strings attached.”

“You’re a kind man.” She lowered her eyes. “Okay.”

Then she looked up from under her lashes. Her gaze caught his, holding it while his gut squeezed with guilt. Fiery hells, she’s beautiful. And she had no idea what he was. She was running away from one kind of killer and accepting help from another.

And right when Nicholas Ferrel was back in the picture. It was like Mark’s nightmare was unfolding again, and he was helpless to stop it.

Well, he’d get her settled in Seattle, and that would be it. There were other agents there who’d keep an eye on her if he asked. This didn’t need to be complicated. It couldn’t be.

Just then, Jonathan ran over, flopping into his mother’s knees with a giggle. Bree laughed, too, her waves of honey-gold hair swinging with her as she scooped her son into her lap. The sound eased the tension in Mark’s gut. If she could still laugh and Jonathan could still play, there was hope for them.

His cell phone rang. Mark rose, walking out of the playroom to get away from all that domestic bliss. He thumbed it to life. “Winspear.”

“Hey.” It was Kenyon.

“You have something?”

“I’ve just gotten started, but before I go any further, I have a photo for you to look at. Is this your girl?”

Mark’s phone pinged. He tapped the photo and it filled the screen. He felt his eyes going wide. It was Bree, but looking very different. Her hair was the same, but she wore a lot of makeup and a very tiny sequined dress. He was tempted to head back to the playroom for a detailed comparison of all that smooth, white flesh. What would she feel like, warm and alive, half-naked and in his hands? He felt his fangs descending, his mouth suddenly filled with saliva.

He sucked in a deep breath, crushing those thoughts. “Yes, that’s her.”

“Holy hair balls,” Kenyon groaned.

“Why?”

“You pick ’em, Winspear.”

“I don’t pick anyone. What are you talking about?”

“If there’s a train wreck within a million miles, you’ll put yourself on the scene.”

“Stop talking and say something,” Mark growled in icy tones. “Who is Bree?”

“Brianna Meadows. Daughter of Hank, also known as Henry Meadows of Henry Meadows Films.”

Mark knew the man’s work. Gorgeous sets, huge budgets, historical epics of doomed courage and noble sacrifice. Genius stuff, if you liked that sort of thing. Having lived the real deal, Mark didn’t.

“And of course that’s only the half of it.”

Mark waited through a beat of silence. “Which means what?”

“Don’t you ever watch Gossip Quest TV News Magazine? She’s the ex-mistress of Crown Prince Kyle of Vidon. That kid of hers is rumored to be his illegitimate son. She’s unofficially on the Vidonese most-wanted list.”