Dark Desire (6 page)

His eyes commanded her to take a step closer. She brought a hand up to shove at her hair and found she was trembling. “I'm going to have to tie you in so when I hook the cable to the…” She trailed off, bit her lip. “Quit staring at me that way. This is hard enough.”

She approached him cautiously. It took every ounce of courage she possessed to step to his side. He could smell her fear, hear the frantic beat of her heart. There was terror in her eyes, in her voice, yet she came to him. He was not forcing her compliance. The pain made him weak. He chose to conserve his energy. It astonished him that she came to him despite her fear. Her fingers were cool on his skin, felt soothing in his filthy hair. “Trust me. I know I'm asking a lot, but this is all I could figure to do.”

The eyes, black ice, never left her face. Slowly, trying to avoid alarming him, Shea padded the area around the wooden stake with folded towels, hoping that moving him wouldn't kill him. She covered him with a blanket to protect him from the sun. He simply watched her, seemingly uninterested, yet she knew by the way he held himself, that he was coiled and ready to strike if there was need. When she would have secured him in the coffin to minimize jarring and bleeding, he caught her wrist in the viselike grip she was becoming so familiar with.

The photographs Don Wallace and Jeff Smith had shown her two years earlier had pictured some of their victims with blindfolds and gags. She couldn't deny that this creature looked exactly like the man in her dreams, like the man in their photograph, yet surely he couldn't have survived seven years buried in this cellar? There were rags in the coffin. A gag? A blindfold? Her stomach somersaulted. Even to protect his eyes she could not blindfold him. She could not duplicate anything those murderers had done to
him. His filthy hair was very long, tangled, and falling around his face. She had a strong need to brush it away from his cheeks, to touch it with gentle fingers, to stroke away the last seven years with a caress.

“Okay, I'll leave your arm free,” she soothed. It was difficult to remain still, waiting for his decision, her eyes held captive by his burning gaze. It seemed an eternity. Shea could feel his rage seething just below the surface. Every second that ticked by made it more difficult to keep her courage. She was not altogether certain he was sane.

Reluctantly, finger by finger, he released her. Shea didn't make the mistake of touching his arm again. Very carefully she hooked the cable to the handle at the head of the coffin. “I have to put this over your eyes. The sun is sinking, but there's enough light to blind you. I'll just lay it across; you can take it off at any time.”

The moment she laid the cloth across his eyes, he ripped it off, fingers shackling her wrist in warning. His strength was enormous, nearly crushing her bones, yet she had the feeling it wasn't his intention to hurt her. He had drawn a clear line for her, what was acceptable to him and what was not.

“Okay, okay, let me think. No cloth.” Her tongue found her lower lip; her teeth followed. His black gaze simply watched her, followed the movement of her tongue, came back to her vivid green eyes. Watching. Learning. “I know. You can use my glasses until I get you into the camper.” She placed the dark glasses very gently on his nose. Her fingers stroked his hair in a little caress. “I'm sorry, this is going to hurt.”

Shea took a cautious step backward. It was worse not seeing his eyes. Another step. His mouth twisted in a silent snarl; white teeth gleamed. She ran a split second before his arm snaked out with blinding speed. His nails ripped a
deep furrow in her arm. She cried out, clutched her arm, but kept running until she reached the rotten stairs.

The light hit her eyes, blinding her, sending pain splintering through her head. Shea squeezed her eyes closed, stumbled to the truck, started the winch. She didn't want to see him brought up anyway. That she was the one tormenting him sickened her. Tears were streaming down her face. Shea pretended it was a reaction to the setting sun. Intellectually she knew he had struck at her out of fear that she was deserting him.

The whine of the cable stopped abruptly. Shea felt her way around the truck, opened the tailgate, slid down the ramp, and threaded the cable back through the cab into the shell. The winch loaded the coffin smoothly into the pickup bed. Shea desperately needed her sunglasses for driving, but she couldn't bring herself to get close to him again until it was absolutely necessary. By now he would be in so much pain that he might kill her before she could convince him she was not trying to torture him. She couldn't find it in herself to blame him.

The drive to her cabin took longer than it should have, with her eyes streaming and swollen and her vision blurred. She drove slowly, trying to avoid every rock and bump in the dirt track. As it was, even with four-wheel drive, it was hard going. Shea was cursing softly by the time she backed the truck practically onto her porch.

“Please, please, don't grab me and eat me alive,” she chanted softly, a litany or prayer. One more time ripping at her throat and she might never be able to help anyone again. Taking a deep breath, she opened the tailgate and shoved the dolly over the ramp. Without looking at him, she lowered the coffin onto the dolly and wrestled him inside.

He never made a sound. Not a groan, not a sob, not a curse. He was in agony; she could tell by the sweat coating
his body, by the white lines around his mouth, the crimson stain on his forehead, and the stark pain reflected in his eyes when it was finally safe to remove the sunglasses.

Shea was exhausted, her arms aching and weak. She was forced to take a moment to rest, leaning against the wall, fighting a wave of dizziness. His eyes were back on her face, simply staring at her. She hated his silence, instinctively knowing that those who had tortured him had not received the satisfaction of hearing his cries. It made her feel like one of them. Movement had to be excruciatingly painful for him.

Working quickly, she got him onto the gurney beside her operating table. “All right, I'm going to get you out of this box.” She needed the sound of her voice even if he didn't understand. She had tried several languages, and he hadn't responded yet. There seemed to be intelligence, knowledge in his eyes. He didn't fully trust her, but it was possible he realized her intention was to help him.

Grasping her sharpest knife, Shea leaned over him to get at the thick ropes. Instantly he caught her wrist, preventing movement. Her heart sank. He didn't understand after all. She closed her eyes, steeling herself for the pain of teeth ripping through flesh. When nothing happened, she looked at him, fully expecting to meet his blazing eyes.

He was examining the long gash on her arm, his eyes slightly narrowed, lids half-closed. He turned her arm one way, then the other, as if fascinated by the long line of blood from wrist to elbow. Impatient, Shea tugged to get away. His fingers clamped down hard, but he didn't look at her face. He brought her arm to his mouth slowly, and her heart seemed to stop. His breath was warm against her skin. He touched her gently, almost reverently, a long, moist caress that took the sting from the injury. His tongue was rough velvet, lapping at the wound with care. The feel of it sent an unexpected curl of heat spiraling through her.

Intuitively she knew that he wanted to repair the damage he had done. She blinked down at him, unable to believe he was attempting to heal her silly scratch when his own body was so terribly mutilated. The gesture seemed so touching, it brought tears to her eyes. She stroked back his shaggy mane of hair with tender fingers. “We need to hurry, wild man. You're bleeding again.”

He released her reluctantly, and Shea slashed through the ropes. “It's okay to yell at me if you have to,” she chattered on needlessly. It took an eternity to remove the manacles. Even with a bolt cutter, she was not very strong. When his wrist finally came loose, she grinned at him triumphantly. “I'll have you free in no time.” She heaved the heavy chains off him, revealing blackened, charred flesh up and down his legs and across his chest.

Shea swore, furious that such evil existed. “I'm pretty sure the people who did this to you found out about me and my research, too. We may have the same blood disorder.” One manacle was finally off his ankle. “It's very rare, you know. A few years ago some fanatics banded together and decided people like us were vampires. But I guess you already know that,” she added apologetically.

The last cuff fell away, and she threw down the bolt cutter. “Your teeth seem more developed than mine.” She ran her tongue along her teeth, assuring herself she wasn't really like him as she began to rip away the rotting sides of the wooden coffin. “Since you can't understand a word I say, I'll admit I'm glad about that. I can't imagine biting into someone. Yuck. It's bad enough that I need extra blood to survive. There, I'll cut your clothes away and get that thing out of you.”

His clothes had all but rotted off anyway. She had never seen a body so battered before. “Damn them for this.” Shea swallowed hard at the extent of the damage. “How could they do this to you? And how could you have sur
vived?” She brushed perspiration from her brow with her forearm before bending over him once more. “I need to move you onto this table. I know I'm jarring you, but it's the only way.”

He did the impossible. As Shea took the weight of his broad shoulders, attempting to slide him over, in a burst of courage and strength he shifted himself onto the table. Blood beaded on his forehead, trickled down the side of his face.

For a moment Shea couldn't go on. Her body was seized with tremors, and she lowered her head to hide her tears. She could hardly bear to see his suffering. “Is this ever going to end for you?” It took a few minutes of fighting for control before she raised her head to meet the impact of his black gaze. “I'm going to knock you out. It's the only way I can do this. If anesthesia doesn't work, I'll hit you over the head or something.” She meant it, too. She was not going to torture him as the others had.

He touched her cheek with a gentle fingertip, removing a tear. He stared at it for a long moment before he carried it to his mouth. She watched the curiously intimate act, wondering why her heart was melting in a way she had never experienced before.

Shea washed thoroughly, pulled on sterile gloves and a surgical mask. When she would have put a mask over his face, too, he warned her off with a silent show of fangs and a wrist lock she couldn't budge. It was the same when she tried a needle. Black eyes blazed at her. She shook her head at him. “Please don't make me do this, not like this. I'm not a butcher. I won't do it this way.” She tried to sound tough and not tearful. “I won't do it.” They stared at one another, locked in a strange mental combat. His black eyes burned into her, demanded obedience; his rage, always seething, was beginning to surface. Shea's tongue touched her lower lip; her teeth followed, scraping nervously. Satisfaction
crept into the black ice of his eyes, and he lay back, certain he had won.

“Damn you for being so stubborn.” She cleansed the area around the stake, set up her clamps, all the time wishing for a good surgical nurse and a large mallet. “Damn them for doing this to you.” She gritted her teeth and pulled with all her strength. He moved, just a ripple through his muscles, contracting, flexing, but she knew he was in agony. The stake did not budge. “Damn it! I told you I couldn't do this with you awake. I'm not strong enough.”

He seized the stake himself and jerked it free. Blood gushed, sprayed her, and she fell silent, working desperately to clamp off every source of bleeding she could. She didn't look at him, every ounce of concentration focused on her work. Shea was a meticulous surgeon. She worked methodically, repairing damage, at a fast, steady pace, blocking out everything around her. Her entire being was centered on the surgery, her mind locking him to her so he would not die.

Jacques knew she was unaware of her fierce hold on him. She was so involved in what she was doing, she seemed not to notice how she merged with him mentally to keep him safe. Could he have been so wrong about her? The pain was excruciating, but with her mind merged so strongly with his, it kept the shattered remains of his sanity together.

Twice she added light for the close work, suturing for hours. So many stitches inside and out, and when his chest was done she still wasn't finished. All his other cuts had to be washed and closed. The smallest laceration took a single stitch, the largest forty-two. It went on and on as the night closed them in. Her fingers were nearly numb, and her eyes ached with strain. Stoically she went on cutting away dead flesh, forcing herself to use soil and her saliva, though it went against everything she had ever been taught in medical school.

Exhausted, hardly knowing what she was doing, she
pulled off her mask and gloves and surveyed her work. He needed blood. His eyes were nearly mad with pain. “You need a transfusion,” she said tiredly. She indicated the blood transfusion apparatus with her chin. The black eyes stared at her relentlessly. Shea shrugged, too exhausted to fight him. “Fine, no needles. I'll put it in a glass for you, and you can drink it.”

His gaze never left her face as she wheeled the table to the bed and, with his help, shifted him into the comfort of clean, soft bedding. She stumbled twice, so exhausted that she was half asleep as she went for the blood. “Please cooperate, wild man. You need it, and I'm just too tired to fight with you anymore.” She left the glass on the night table inches from his fingers.

Like an automaton she cleaned up, sterilizing instruments, washing down the gurney and tables, bagging the remains of the coffin, the rotted rags, and the blood-soaked towels for burial at the first opportunity. By the time Shea was finished, dawn was only two hours away.

The shutters were closed tightly to block out the approaching sun. She bolted the door and dragged two guns from the closet. Propping them up near her only comfortable chair, she tossed a blanket and pillow onto the cushion, prepared to defend her patient with her life. She knew she needed sleep, but no one was going to harm this man further.