Alexander swore in the ancient language, his knuckles white, fists ready to fly into the old paven’s bony face. “Dare can flash and so can his recruits. He used his blood to get into the credenti.”
The paven chuckled. “Impures can never be anything more than what they are—a waste of blood.”
Alexander sniffed. “You an Impure, then, Cruen?”
Something halfway between a growl and a scream shot from Cruen’s throat and he opened his mouth wide and flexed his brick red fangs.
Alexander stalked over to the table and stood before the Pureblood. “Unless you’re going to use those,” he snarled, “put them back in your head and tell me why I am here.”
Cruen started to stand, but the veana with the long snow-colored hair beside him slammed a hand over his arm. He hissed at her, but remained seated. His gaze lifted and Alexander saw the true force of evil within those pale blue orbs.
“This is the last time we will call on you, son of the Breeding Male,” Cruen spat out. “You have twenty-four hours to bring Dare to us or Nicholas Roman will be morphed. Perhaps he will bring us what we seek.”
Sara had the room for one hour.
Hopefully, it would be all she needed.
Venturing a glance at her brother, who was lying on the hospital bed she’d set up in the media room on the first floor of Walter Wynn, Sara noticed that his body looked rigidly still and his eyes were clamped shut.
She tried again, the slow, calmness in her voice concealing the profound anxiety running through her insides. “You are relaxed, Gray. So relaxed that the muscles in your feet, your ankles, your knees, your legs are so heavy you cannot lift them. So relaxed that your belly, chest, and shoulders are sinking into the bed. So relaxed your neck, face, and eyes are limp.” Sara turned on the projector and the blank wall before Gray’s bed erupted with light. There was no sound, only visions. Only images of fires, one after the other after the other.
She turned to look at him and said gently, “Open your eyes, Gray.”
His face twitched as if he was trying to shake his head, but his muscles were too weak.
“Open your eyes now,” she said again, a little stronger this time.
Like a lover going in for a kiss, or a fish stretching for food, Gray pressed out his lips. He was talking—in the only way he could and Sara knew what the movement meant.
No.
Normally, she’d give up at this point, let him be, let him rest. But not today. She didn’t have the time or the patience for his petulance. She leaned down close to his ear and whispered tersely, “Open your eyes, dammit!”
He flinched, but slowly his eyes opened and he stared up at the screen. He didn’t gasp, didn’t turn away, scream, or get agitated in any way, as she’d thought he would—as she’d hoped he would so she could take the next leap into the treatment. What he did do was stare up at the images, eyes unblinking like some scene from Clockwork Orange, tears welling in his eyes, then snaking down his cheeks.
Fuck. Fuck Gray and fuck me.
Sara flicked off the projector, went to stand in front of him, her emotions high as they had been for days. “Look at me, you stubborn bastard.”
He did, his eyes bright with the tears of a tormented soul. She recognized the look, she’d seen it in the mirror on more than one occasion.
“Is this it?” she asked him, shaking her head. “Are you ever going to let me help you? Or am I done? Do you want me to be done?”
He stared at her.
“Because I’ve had offers. Not pretty and probably painful as shit, but there’s someone who can help you in a way I can’t seem to.”
Gray dropped his gaze and looked away.
As he always did.
Jaw tight, those goddamn tears pinching the back of her throat again, Sara pushed off the bed and went out into the hallway. “Bring him back up,” she told the orderly. “I’m done.”
Soul weary, Sara headed for the stairs, for her office and for the twenty remaining patients who actually wanted her help.
Drugs were being sold in Washington Square Park in broad daylight, bodies too, and the scent of both made Nicholas’s prick stand up. He shoved his BlackBerry into the pocket of his coat, the message from Alexander thoroughly imprinted on his mind. Twenty-four hours until he was sunlight intolerant. Hmm. How much did he care? What living he did do usually happened after the sun died anyway. If it wasn’t for Lucian and the very real possibility that when he morphed he would become the next Breeding Male, caged and tested by the Order, he might just forget this whole battle, tell the Order to kiss his Roman ass, tell the troll standing in front of him now to return to his bridge.
“So what do we get for assisting the Romans?” The short, hairy “eye” in front of him grinned, his fangs worn down from too much gravo.
“I can offer you money or blood,” Nicholas said. “Which do you want?”
“I’d say we wanted you, Nicholas,” the “eye” said with a cackle. “But you work the streets without a master now, don’t you?”
His gaze unwavering, Nicholas stood utterly still.
“Those ribbed fangs of yours were a real draw, even as a young paven.” The “eye” leaned closer, his breath resembling a decades-old trash can. “I’m curious—what do you do with the money you’re paid for one of those fancy fucks? Don’t have another veana to buy gravo for, do you?”
Nicholas had a knife to the “eye’s” back before the paven could take his next breath. “I will ask you once more before I rip you open, neck to asshole—money or blood?”
A chirping sound erupted from the “eye’s” throat and he forced out, “Three hundred grand for the location of the Impure.”
“By tonight.”
“Agreed.”
“Good to see you, Whistler.” Nicholas slapped the paven on the back, shoved his knife into the waistband of his jeans, and took off into the park.
33
Tom Trainer had changed. Strong body, keen eyesight, developing fangs, and the kind of hearing a bat would envy. So he was hardly surprised to overhear a hushed discussion between Dare, Alistair, and Mear three rooms over, in the new compound Ethan had procured for them. He was, however, surprised to hear his name mentioned, and when the male voices dropped another decibel, he jumped to his feet and went over to the door to listen.
“You did promise him, Commander.” It was Mear.
“He’s not ready yet,” Ethan said tightly. “He will go after that doctor and not only forget his obligation to me, but cause a disturbance that might hinder my plan.”
“But, Commander, I could—”
“Do you want a dead lover, Mear? Because if he goes and my wishes aren’t carried out to the letter, I will slice him apart in front of you, understand?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“He will have his day to drain the pain-in-the-ass doctor. Today I must take back what is mine. If what Alistair says about the doctor is true, if she indeed has vampire blood in her veins, the balas and its host are no longer safe there. Mear, you go with Alistair. Make sure there are no problems.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tom hid behind the door as the two recruits passed by him. They were going to Walter Wynn.
His blood, renewed, strong, lustful, and hateful, cried out for her.
Sara.
Ethan Dare was his commander, and he would follow him in all things. All things, but one.
Today, he followed Mear and Alistair—right out of the iron gates and into the street.