First to Burn (18 page)

“I know.” Her body clamored for more of his heat, but intellectually she accepted the ludicrous, crazy absurdity of their position and timing. They had to stop.

“We can’t. We have to go.”

“I know,” she whispered a second time.

Connected as they were, he ought to understand she didn’t want to walk away from him, but she wouldn’t head into a fight they could avoid. “Let’s back off.”

“Okay.” His words vibrated along her skin. “We’ll try it your way.”

His answer didn’t feel like she’d scored a victory. She couldn’t feel triumphant when the thought that drummed in her head was,
Please
,
don’t let my way be a mistake.

* * *

If Wulf had kept his pistol instead of arming Theresa with it when they’d started upstream a quarter-hour ago, maybe its textured grip would have been his lifeline to the twenty-first century. Without that anchor, the watery rush below sucked him back to the beginning, to that Danish swamp, and the day his world changed.

Pushing after his brother Iovor
,
he told himself ’twas only the swamp’s foul air wet his tunic under his iron-ringed byrnie
,
but the evil of this fen touched fear to his back until he sweated.
He was no boy to believe himself safe from death
,
nor yet a hero assured of Valhalla.

Ahead Iovor followed their liege Beowulf in the place of honor
,
and a score of warriors trailed behind.
In the Kingdom of the Spear-Danes their leader had become the great man Iovor had foreseen when they cast their lots with this adventure.
Now they
,
the two sons of a drunken lackwit
,
offspring of a man who had traded his shield and honor for a horn of barley ale
,
walked as the right and left hands of a hero.
When telling of these deeds
,
every hall’s skald would recite the names Iovor and Wulf alongside the name of their great lord.

Vines dripped from trees like a net to catch the unwary.
Water as dark as moss seeped in their tracks
,
and broken branches
,
their tips painted with black blood
,
showed the path.
He knew himself to be a tall man compared to most
,
but these jagged sticks stabbed air above his head.
They marked the height of the creature’s shoulder
,
where Beowulf had split its arm from the sinews and left a gaping death wound.

Two nights ago Grendel had rampaged this route to find doom in their lord’s grasp and returned bloody to die in the fen.
Last night the beast’s hell-mother had beaten this way carrying a thane of King Hrothgar.
This day Beowulf led his line of Geats-men to seek Grendel’s corpse and make a second death mound from its dam.
Or die trying.

Iovor halted.
From habit Wulf closed on his brother and turned
,
back to back
,
spear and shield held before him to guard his brother as his brother guarded him.
Despite seven suns at the oar bench with the others
,
rowing to reach the Kingdom of the Spear-Danes
,
he did not know how the men about him fought in a forest.
He wouldn’t risk his man-wick on a gamble that this crew of misfits could stand against evil that came in the night.

He had faith only in Lord Beowulf
,
in his brother and in the spear in his own right hand.

Wulf’s hand flexed with the need to hold something to keep him in the present and far away from the ancient swamp that stalked his memories. His front pockets yielded his compass, a coil of wire and a lighter, which reminded him of the aerosol spray he’d grabbed at the shop and jammed in his back pocket. The cool metal of the can in his palm was completely modern and, paired with the lighter in his other hand, a damn fine weapon.

Minutes later an out-of-place scent, like soap or deodorant, wafted from a side tunnel. Whirling, he brought the aerosol and the lighter together, thumbs on both buttons, at the same time stinging pain punctured his shoulder.

Whoosh
. A salvo of flame erupted from his can.

Bang-Bang-Bang
. In between the punch of shots—Theresa’s, he prayed—Wulf saw a man beat at a fiery halo and knew he’d fried his target. The pain-filled scream moved with the burning man as he staggered into the catwalk’s railing. Brittle iron gave fast, and the attacker plunged to the rushing water, but a different fire, something that felt cold and hot simultaneously, rippled and spread from Wulf’s shoulder. They’d jabbed something in him.

Before the afterimage faded from Wulf’s corneas, he heard another burst.
Bang-Bang-Bang
. His pistol had held nine rounds. How many did Theresa still have? He couldn’t add. His left arm hung like a wrung-out dick. Only muscle memory took his right hand to his ankle sheath. His eye twitched and he jerked to dislodge a hairy, leggy thing that had dropped onto his cheek. No—wait—nothing crawled on his face. That was the poison.

Bang-Bang-Bang.

A weight leaped onto his back, but Wulf dipped his shoulder and allowed momentum to carry the attacker forward while slashing his knife into the man’s inner thigh.

More screams. Farther away. Why had he moved so far from the fight? Had to get back.

Cold pressed on his cheek. Hard. Metal?

He was a puny thirteen-summer lad pulling a bench oar for the first time. The weight wouldn’t shift. Over his head red-and-white sails soared. The whale road through the sea welcomed him home. A woman, his mother, her arms whitecaps raised to embrace him.

His mother was dead. Cold.

Salt tears pulled at him.
Please.
Theresa.
Please.
Pull me back.
Pull.

Chapter Fifteen

Terror and sweat cemented Theresa’s palms to the pebbled grip of Wulf’s pistol. She opened her eyes, or maybe she closed them; in the absolute dark she couldn’t tell.

“Wulf?” After the gunshots in the confined tunnel, she had no idea how loudly she’d spoken, because the only thing she could hear was a roar like an earthmover in her head. “Wulf?”

Temporary hearing loss. If he answered, she wouldn’t know. Shit. She crouched, spine jammed to the wall, butt crushed to her heels, shoulders hunched, curled inward to become the smallest target she could manage. Everything was pulled in except the gun. The gun pointed out.

A hand could grab her. In the dark she wouldn’t see it, only feel it.

New smells mixed with the familiar sewer dank: cordite, singed hair and blood. Without hearing, she’d have to find Wulf by crawling in the direction where he should have been. On hands and knees, she dragged the gun across the catwalk and trailed her empty hand side-to-side like a spider until she brushed...softness. She recoiled, but immediately forced herself back to the obstruction. It was a leg covered in smooth fabric, not Wulf’s denim. It was one of
them.
Her fingers skimmed past the spot where the fabric changed to shirt cotton. Sticky blood pooled on a chest. She found a neck, but despite pressing, she couldn’t locate a pulse. This was a dead man.

More than likely, she’d shot him.

Willing the hot ball in her throat to dissolve, she vowed not to freak out. Wulf was somewhere on the elevated walkway, perhaps calling her name, perhaps too injured to speak. She had to search. But, oh God, this body blocked the catwalk.

She stretched until her knuckles grazed the metal grillwork on the far side of the man’s bulk, arching over his torso like a cat to avoid touching him. With both hands across, she started to swing her leg over, but her foot slipped and her knee squished into his abdominal cavity. Then her other foot and the hand holding the gun skidded in opposite directions, leaving her sprawled on the dead man’s gut. Her whole being recoiled from the contact, and she pushed her knee into soft organs, scrambling for traction she couldn’t find.
Ugh.

One of his ribs caved in like a crushed milk container, but she couldn’t get away. He was dead, dead, dead, but he wouldn’t let her pass. Her fingers clawed at the metal walk until they latched on to the perforations. With a terrified strength she hadn’t known she possessed, she pulled her whole body slithering across to the far side of the dead man.

Finally, chest heaving, she lay on her back sucking air. A new fear hit.

In the lightless void, unable to hear past the drilling sound between her ears, she’d lost the wall. Was safety at her head or her feet? If she chose incorrectly, she could end up like the flaming man who’d crashed through the railing.

Her hands retreated inside Wulf’s jacket sleeves until the pistol snagged the cuff. Darkness couldn’t hurt her unless she panicked. Cold was the killer. It would sap her will. If she didn’t pick a direction, she’d be sitting here next week, so she forced her arms to uncurl. With the fingers of her left hand locked on the catwalk, she shoved the gun ahead of her until it bumped into something that vibrated her arm from wrist to shoulder.
The wall.

She pressed her forehead against brick that smelled of wet and age, vaguely reminding her of the inside of her great-uncle’s garage. Not unfamiliar, and not the odor of blood, so she inhaled deeply and let the wall guide her progress until she touched fur.
A
rat.

Flattened to the bricks with her fist jammed below her clavicle until it hurt to breathe, she willed her heart to slow. The fur hadn’t moved under her hand, so no, it wasn’t a rat.

It was human hair, short and bristly, not Wulf’s. No pulse here, either, but the torso angled away and up as if it covered a second person. Like a nurse changing sheets, she flipped the body to expose another underneath. The blood-matted hair couldn’t be identified by feel, but the nose and cheekbone contours, open collar and shoulder holster matched her memory.
Wulf.

Her heartbeat hung suspended too until she found a flutter of life in his neck. While she searched for a wound, hope rose from her chest to her throat and she wanted to sing,
He’s alive
,
he’s alive!
His clothes were sticky, as if he was drenched with blood, but she couldn’t feel an obvious injury on his chest, abdomen or thighs. Under one pant leg she found an empty sheath. Under the other, a tiny flashlight.

Thank you
,
Wulf.
Her finger on the circular button, she took a deep breath.

And heard rushing water. The background wail that had filled her ears since the blast of gunshots was silenced; she could hear. When she pushed the flashlight button, she could also see, and that made her believe they’d both make it safely out of this sewer.

A clear, round tube stuck out from Wulf’s shoulder. Despite having seen thousands of identical tubes, it took her a moment to recognize it was a syringe.

“Wulf? Can you hear me?” Her voice sounded as if she’d exhausted it at a concert. She shined the light in his eyes. Fixed and dilated pupils indicated brain stem impairment or coma, but thankfully his breathing and pulse were steady. Slow, but steady. The syringe had been jabbed so deep his deltoid had clenched around it, and she needed both hands to yank the barrel free. As she watched, his breathing normalized and his blue lips regained a flush. This time, when she played the light over his face, his pupils contracted evenly. Like in Afghanistan, he was healing before her eyes. She leaned close enough to his face to see his cheek stubble. “Can you blink?”

His eyelids twitched frantically as his eyes rolled in his head.

“Stay calm.” She pressed her hand to his cheek.

“Nnnn.” His lips parted but he couldn’t form a word.

“Don’t try to talk.” She stuck the flashlight under her chin and used both hands to steady his head. “I’ll find help.”

“Nooo!” Jerking like she’d zapped him with a crash cart, his wrist whacked the side of her head. The impact knocked the flashlight loose. As she tried to catch it, it hit her thigh, then clattered on the metal catwalk before rolling to the edge. It hung, mocking her clumsy hands, for a fraction of a heartbeat. Then the light disappeared.

“Fuck!” She peered through gaps no longer distinguishable from darkness. She could almost see a glow through the black water. Almost. But not really.

“No...help.” His words sounded like they came from under a mountain.

“That was our light!” This blackness was worse because it was so unnecessary.

He breathed heavier and somehow shifted his body.

“What are you doing?” She groped for his wrist. “Stay still.”

“Need...eat.”

“Absolutely not.” His pulse was stronger. Part of her wanted to squeeze too hard—she was that mad at him—but she didn’t. “Not until we figure out what was in the syringe.”

“In...purse.” He panted after each syllable. “Eat. Mints.”

“Not a chance. Candy won’t help you flush whatever drugs those were out of your system.”

“Please.”

The word weakened her, and she found his hand. A connection in the darkness was almost like having a candle. Then her purse strap tugged across her shoulder and she heard a telltale rattling tick-tick. “What are you—” She dropped his hand and grabbed for her bag, but it was too late. The sneak had opened it and swiped the box. “I said you shouldn’t—”

“Too late.” The rising tone on the end of his statement—was he
laughing?

She hunted through the air, but couldn’t find his hand to retake her mints, so she gave up and scooted against the wall. She was in a Roman sewer with two dead men, another man who was too weird to die, no light, no phone and no idea what had happened to Theresa Chiesa of Jersey City. At least the stones felt solid, and her knees pressed into her chest felt like the knobs of bone and cartilage she knew they were. This space and these two knees belonged to her and she could count on them, even when nothing else in her life was stable.

“Before I finish these, want one?” He sounded better.

She shook her head before she remembered he couldn’t see her. “No, thanks.”

Wulf had been drugged into a coma and then,
click
, he’d snapped to life, exactly like he’d done after the Black Hawk crash. What the hell could produce both a super kidney function to flush a systemic drug and super healing ability?

She heard crunching. “Those are loud mints when you chew thirty at once.”

“I offered to share. I need calories.”

It felt like an hour passed without either of them speaking, but it was probably only moments. The sound of tearing fabric was audible over the water.

“There are two dead men,” she finally said.

“Two?”

She couldn’t interpret his thoughts from his neutral tone. “I think I shot one.” She’d been in Afghanistan more than six months, but the first time she’d fired a gun at an actual person had turned out to be while on leave in Rome.

“You okay?” His hand and forearm landed on her like a falling branch.

She winced. Should she be okay? “Yeah.” Killing probably wasn’t a big thing to him. “I mean, he was trying to kill us, right?” Her hands felt dirty and crusty, as if splotched with dried blood, like Lady Macbeth. “What’d you do the first time?”

“First time I what?”

“Killed someone.”

A lighter flame in his palms became, within seconds, a ball of light hanging from the catwalk railing. He’d crafted a lantern from the dead man’s pants fabric and wire. The whole conglomerate hadn’t yet caught fire, and he hadn’t answered. “What did you do after?”

“It wasn’t what you’d term politically correct.” He scooted closer to the body, every movement an odd jerk, like his synapses had to fire individually to activate his muscles.

“By definition killing a person isn’t politically correct.” Flickers of light reflected on the corpse’s open eyes. She’d seen death, lost devastating battles in the hospital to it, but this wasn’t remotely the same because she hadn’t lost. She’d won. Here
winning
meant death.

Wulf stared down at the heavyset man. “Here’s the solution to one of my problems.”

“What?”

“My team’s been looking for this guy.” He turned out the dead man’s pockets. “He was a flight-line manager at Bagram until last month.” He removed the man’s shoes, lifted the innersoles and tried to twist the heels. “Disappeared after a pilot was shot,” he added as he searched inside the man’s belt, waistband, cuffs and collar.

“You’re thorough.” He didn’t fumble over buttons or zippers. He’d regained his physical control, at least in this small way, and it soothed her.

“Ideas?” He handed her a leather case the size of a long wallet. It held another hypodermic and two vials of liquid, one empty, one full.

By turning it toward the flames, she was able to read the label. “Ketamine. A sedative, mostly veterinary, off-label use as a rave drug.” She calculated from the listed amount. “This would work on a Clydesdale. Maybe a whole team.” Her throat closed and she stared at his face. The flaming cloth cast shadows that merged with the dark bloodstains until he resembled a ghoul from a Bosch painting. No miracle-science lab had created him. Her mind asked the question:
What are you?

Her mouth opened, but surrounded by death, her lips refused to take the last step.

He reclaimed the drug case, put it and the dead men’s identifications in a pouch fashioned from a jacket, zipped it closed and tied it around his body.

“What are we going to do about them?” Without asking, she knew the police wouldn’t be one of his choices.

“Leave ’em. It’s a time-honored tradition.” After wiping his knife on a man’s pant leg, he replaced it in his ankle sheath. “Emperor Elagabalus was tossed in the sewer at the end of his shelf life, so it’s good enough for these scum.” He hauled himself upright with help from the wall. “You’re fabulous, you know that?”

“Not really.” She shivered and hugged herself with hands as clammy as her wet pants, but she made it to her feet. “I lost it before you regained consciousness.” His opinion shouldn’t have made her feel better, but it warmed her at least as much as the coat she still wore.

He shrugged. “I’ve seen fresh Rangers not stay that cool.”

“You don’t have to be a guy to be...” Tough wasn’t the right word. “Capable. Up to the job.” Sure, she’d been scared. She couldn’t think about the crunch of the first dead man’s rib without her shoulders and neck hunching, but that had nothing to do with being a woman. “I’m a doctor. I deal with unexpected shit every day.”

He untied the cloth ball and dangled it in front of him. The smoldering light swung wildly close to his jeans as he staggered. “Come on.”

“You’ll burn yourself.” She scrambled after him.

“It’ll heal.”

That sounds like the truth
, she thought. She followed Wulf’s light downstream. At the moment, she didn’t see another choice.

* * *

Theresa knew no self-respecting Roman restaurant opened before six, but Wulf had promised food if she climbed this last hill. After leaving the sewer at the main opening with barely a wave from tourists on the bridge, they’d cleaned up in a church’s dingy basement bathroom and walked backstreets to this spot. On one side of the alley, ramshackle buildings backed into the rising ground. On the other side a screen of trees, brambles and ivy hid the cars honking below. Now that they’d stopped walking, her legs felt odd.

“Fighting makes me hungry.” Wulf knocked on a black-painted door. “This was the meatpacking district in the old days. My friend Cesare’s father was a butcher.”

The ground tilted.
Maybe I should sit.
The restaurant stoop looked clean.

“Cesare learned to cook from his mother.” Instead of letting her sink to the step, Wulf put a hand under her elbow and knocked again. “Butchers’ wives cooked the scraps. Good stuff.”

Scraps. Behind her closed eyes, she saw the raw, burned face of the man who’d tumbled into the water.