Phantom Shadows (3 page)

At her direction, the immortal laid Bastien on an empty bed.

“Richart d’Alençon,” he introduced himself with a nod.

She smiled. “Melanie Lipton.” Pulling on a pair of vinyl gloves, she began to unbutton Bastien’s blood-spattered shirt. “Do you know how many darts he was hit with?”

He reached into his pocket. “I found two on the ground beside him.” He showed her, then set them aside and helped her remove Bastien’s clothing.

She frowned. “Two shouldn’t have rendered him unconscious. Didn’t it take more than that for you when you were hit?”

He nodded as he dropped Bastien’s long coat to the floor. “I believe I was tranqed four times or more before I lost consciousness. Either blood loss is compounding it or he removed some darts before I arrived.”

Chris stood at the foot of the bed, brow creased, arms crossed over his chest. “Why weren’t any of the men left alive for questioning?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

“I thought you were supposed to be watching him.”

Richart’s eyes flared bright amber as his jaw tightened. “There were four vampires. Two remained at UNC and two headed for Duke. Bastien took the latter. I took the former. Should I have left the two at Chapel Hill to freely troll for victims in order to watch Bastien dispatch the vampires he followed?”

Still frowning, Chris said nothing.

“I caught up with Bastien just before the human soldiers arrived. The women the vamps had snatched needed to be taken to safety. I could not stay without risking their lives.”

“I don’t like it. The men were human. He should have been able to disarm them without killing them.”

The incandescence in Richart’s eyes faded a bit. “In Bastien’s defense, I can tell you that in battle it is almost always kill or be killed. Considering these men were armed with the tranquilizer
and
filling him with bullets, leaving one alive may not have been an option for him.”

Melanie silently applauded the immortal.

While the Frenchman stripped Bastien’s shirt from him, Melanie retrieved several bags of blood from storage in the next room and set up an IV pole beside the bed.

Bastien’s smooth, muscled chest and eight-pack abs were riddled with ragged holes, some of which still contained bullets.

Melanie eyed Richart as she found Bastien’s vein with a needle and attached the canula. “I know they can’t do anything about the drug coursing through him, but wouldn’t it be better for a healer to be brought in to take care of his wounds? There are so many.” She would have to remove the bullets herself if they didn’t.

“David is in Egypt,” he replied.

David was the second oldest immortal in existence and was a very powerful healer . . . among other things.

“Seth is somewhere in Asia, but mentioned stopping by David’s place tomorrow. The only other healer in our area is Roland Warbrook. And he would rather watch Bastien die a slow, agonizing death than raise a finger to help him.”

Well, Melanie had to admit, she could understand Roland’s animosity. Bastien had, after all, nearly killed Roland’s wife. And had tried on several occasions to kill Roland himself. After raising a vampire army to conquer the Immortal Guardians.

Bastien’s past was a complicated one. And she suspected she didn’t know the half of it.

“Shouldn’t Dr. Whetsman be doing this?” Chris queried.

Yes, but
. . . “Dr. Whetsman avoids face-to-face contact with vampires.”

Richart frowned. “Bastien isn’t a vampire.”

“It doesn’t matter. Dr. Whetsman wouldn’t make that distinction, because Bastien lived amongst vampires for so long and led them in the first uprising.”

“How long has this been going on?” Chris asked. He may not like Bastien, but he didn’t want any of his people shirking their duties.

“Since Vince.”

Vincent was one of the vampires who had followed Bastien a couple of years ago. Though he, Cliff, and Joe (two other vampires) had surrendered, hoping the network could help them, Melanie and her colleagues had found no way to stop the mental deterioration the virus caused in humans. In time, Vincent had broken, flying into a rage and injuring Dr. Whetsman and several others before Chris’s men had stopped him.

“He doesn’t have
any
contact with them?” Chris pressed.

“No. Only Linda and I do.”

When Chris opened his mouth to say more, Melanie held up a hand. “They respond better to us.”

“Because you’re women,” Richart offered shrewdly.

She nodded. “They’re more careful around us. Protective even. The men tend to aggravate the vampires more.”

“Dr. Whetsman aggravates
me
and I’m human,” Chris muttered. “If he wasn’t so damned brilliant, I would have fired his ass a long time ago. Hold up for a minute,” he added when Melanie rolled her tray of instruments close to the bed and prepared to begin extracting bullets. “Let me go ahead and call Roland. I don’t want Seth to chew me out later for not giving it a try.”

Melanie looked at Richart, who shrugged, his face indicating his belief that such was a useless endeavor.

While Chris dialed, Melanie replaced the blood bag that had already emptied itself into Bastien with a full one.

“Roland. Chris Reordon. We have a man down who could use your healing skills . . . Immortal . . . Multiple bullet wounds . . . I know blood will heal those, but he’s also been tranqed, so the process has been slowed significantly. The virus is too busy trying to counteract the drug to—” He looked at Richart. “Bastien.” Wincing, he held the phone away from his ear.

Melanie could only make out a word here and there, but those she did were of the four letter variety.

Richart pursed his lips and whistled, eyebrows raising. His preternaturally enhanced hearing no doubt allowed him to hear everything the reclusive, antisocial immortal growled.

Chris ended the call.

Melanie raised one eyebrow. “I’m guessing that was a no.”

“You guessed right,” Chris said and motioned to the unconscious immortal. “Dig in.”

Grimacing at his choice of words, Melanie reached for the forceps.

A trebly version of Skillet’s “Monster” broke the silence.

Richart retrieved a phone from his back pocket, glanced at the caller ID, then answered.
“Oui?”

Melanie didn’t understand anything he said after that. Her knowledge of French was pretty much restricted to yes, no, and cheese. And she wasn’t sure why she knew the last one.

Richart ended the call and returned the phone to his pants. “I teleported Lisette to the scene to frighten away any curious humans before I brought Bastien here. She said your cleaning crew has arrived.”

“Excellent.”

“I asked her to linger until they were finished and to let me know if any soldiers should come looking for their fallen comrades.”

As the two men discussed the possibility of such happening, Melanie searched for and retrieved the first bullet.

Chapter 2

“Stop beating yourself up,” a male voice said.

It sounded familiar to Bastien, but he couldn’t quite place it, muffled as it was. It felt as though someone had stuffed cotton in his ears.

“I can’t help it,” a woman responded. “I’m failing . . . everyone.”

That voice was one he would always be able to identify. Dr. Melanie Lipton’s warm tones wrapped around him like a soothing blanket and eased the pounding in his head. They also tempted him into cracking open his eyelids.

Bright light pierced his eyes, driving him to squeeze his lids closed again.

What the hell?

“You aren’t failing anyone,” the male insisted. “Look how much you’ve helped me and Joe.”

Dr. Lipton answered with a sad laugh. “Yeah, I’ve really helped you.”

Bastien didn’t like the defeat that colored her voice. Melanie was the strongest, bravest human in the network. The
only
human gutsy enough to work with the vampires on a daily basis.

“You have,” the male insisted. Cliff. One of the young vampires who had followed him when Bastien had led the uprising against Roland and the other immortals. “I haven’t had a single episode since you started administering the drug.”

“You said it makes you feel sluggish.”

“Hey, sluggish is better than murderous. I’m not hurting people. That’s exactly what I hoped for when I came here.”

“I didn’t even create the drug,” Melanie despaired. “I just watered down the one our enemies developed.”

“And you’re the only one around here who thought to try it.”

“I’m sure someone else would have eventually.”

Cliff snorted. “I’m not.”

“Joe doesn’t like it. I had to give him enough to make him sleep before we brought Bastien in here.”

“I heard.”

“The virus seems to be progressing more rapidly in him. He was turned eight months after you were and you aren’t exhibiting nearly as much hostility as he is.”

Cliff swore.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s . . . Knowing I’m not as bad off as he is, that I may not lose it as quickly as he is or as quickly as Vince did . . . It’s a relief, you know? But I feel guilty as hell saying it.”

“You shouldn’t. It’s completely understandable and Joe wouldn’t hold it against you. I’m sure he would feel the same way.”

Silence fell, heavy with despair.

Melanie sighed. “How are the—”

“Shh.”

“What—?”

“Shhhh.”

Bastien strained to hear whatever Cliff heard, but his ears still felt funny.

“Reordon’s leaving. He went ahead and scheduled the meeting.”

“When is it?”

“In an hour. Bastien’s going to be pissed.”

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. I tried to talk Mr. Reordon into delaying it and—”

“You could try the antidote.”

“No. I can’t. Not without knowing all of the possible repercussions. And it may not even
be
an antidote.”

“You won’t know the repercussions until you try it on someone. Try it on me.”

“Absolutely not. It could kill you, Cliff. Or trigger a psychotic break. One tranquilizer dart drops you—and any other vampire—like a stone. Yet it takes several to sedate an immortal. When I found a stimulant that looked like it might work, I had to multiply its strength exponentially. Any human injected with it would die instantly. It could kill the immortals, too. I don’t know what it would do to a vampire or how it might affect your fragile mental state.”

Bastien tried to open his eyes again. Knifelike pains pierced his cranium, eliciting a groan.

“Bastien?” Melanie queried.

A chain rattled.

“Too bright,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

He heard small, sneaker-clad feet cross the room. The lights dimmed.

Sighing, he cautiously opened his eyes.

Melanie moved to stand beside his bed or cot or whatever the hell uncomfortable surface supported him. Beneath a white lab coat, she wore a baby blue University of North Carolina Tar Heels T-shirt that hugged bountiful breasts and jeans that molded themselves to full hips and shapely thighs. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a ponytail that made her look like a college student.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Like someone dropped an anvil on my head.”

Pretty brow furrowed, she touched his wrist to gauge his pulse and glanced over at the clock on the wall.

Her emotions flowed into him, courtesy of the gift with which Bastien had been born. So much concern. He wasn’t worth it. But he devoured the sweetness of it like a piece of German chocolate pie after a long, long fast.

Relief replaced some of her concern. “Your pulse is strong.”

And running faster than usual thanks to her nearness and her gentle touch.

Her eyes met his. Something skittered through her. He felt it, but wasn’t sure . . .

Was it excitement or nervousness?

It must be the latter. Not that he could blame her. The first time he had met her, he had decapitated a man in front of her. They had met and spoken many times since, but how could she forget such a first impression?

Releasing his wrist, she turned and walked away. “Let me get you some more blood and a cold pack for your head.”

She was through the door before he could tell her not to bother.

“Man,” Cliff said when the heavy door closed behind her, “you had us worried there for a minute.”

Bastien tugged his gaze away from the door and sought the vampire.

Cliff stood a few feet away, a manacle around one ankle. The chain attached to it was titanium and as big around as Bastien’s forearm, keeping the young vampire from straying more than a couple of yards away from the wall behind him.

“What the hell?” When Bastien sat up, invisible sledgehammers assaulted his brain. He pressed the heel of one hand to his forehead and held his breath until the pain eased.

The slender young man shook his head and reached up to twist one of the short dreadlocks he had recently begun to grow. “It isn’t what you—”

The door opened as Dr. Lipton returned. Bastien saw several heavily armed guards posted outside the room before she closed it again.

“Who’s brilliant idea was this?” he demanded and motioned to his shackled friend. “Why are we in the holding room?”

Melanie paused. “Actually, it was my idea.”

He frowned. “Oh.” Damned if his mind didn’t go blank.

Thankfully, Cliff jumped in. “That Reordon prick ordered the guards to lock you up in here, but Dr. Lipton wouldn’t let them and made them take you to the infirmary instead.”

That must have gone over well.

Melanie shrugged apologetically. A blood bag in one hand and an icy gel pack in the other, she approached the gurney upon which he sat. (No wonder it was so damned uncomfortable.)

“When I heard what had happened,” Cliff continued, “I wanted to go see how you were doing, but Reordon said hell no and—long story short—Dr. Lipton argued with him until they reached this compromise.”

“It was the best I could do,” she admitted.

Bastien took the blood and waved away the cold pack. “Thank you. I’m surprised Reordon didn’t chain
me
up, too.”