Twilight Hunger (Wings in the Night #7)

Twilight Hunger (Wings in the Night #7) Page 23

Under normal circumstances Dante would have been able to travel far faster on foot. But tonight he needed a car. So rather than struggling into some secluded place to rest, he limped weakly into the town and along the sidewalks, scanning the parked vehicles for dangling sets of keys. The other man's belt was still tied tight around his thigh, but every step he took caused blood to ooze from the wound. His jeans were soaked in it, and he was leaving an obvious trail, a crimson strand. The pain was blinding.

And fate seemed to be conspiring against him, because every car in the area was locked. Not a key in sight. In all his years he'd never mastered the art of car theft, and he regretted it now. If he survived this, it was a skill he would strive to learn.

Headlights shone in his eyes, and Dante instinctively backed into the shadowy recesses of a doorway. The car, a white Ford Mustang, pulled into an empty parking space, its radio blasting. Then it went silent and the lights died.

Closing his eyes, Dante focused his mind, casting a wide net and searching, sifting a thousand mental voices for those near him, then those nearer, and nearer still, quickly homing in on the driver. The young man was happily drunk and humming to himself, thinking about the girl in the passenger seat and how willing she was. Thinking about how many times he could do her before the booze he'd imbibed put him to sleep and reminding himself not to drink any more tonight so he could make the most of her.

Dante crept into his mind as silently as a burglar, and every time his thoughts strayed toward the keys in the ignition, Dante distracted him by gently nudging his mind back to thoughts of booze and sex and the woman in his car beside him. It wasn't difficult at all when they were drunk.

Within moments the young man was out of the car, laughing as he came around it, slung an arm around the girl and walked unevenly into one of the buildings that lined the street. Dante sensed them going up the stairs to the apartment above a shop. He let them get inside before he withdrew from the young man's mind. By then he was breathless, such a simple use of energy damn near draining him.

Pushing himself upright, he walked, dragging his wounded leg now. He made his way to the car and saw with relief that the keys were in the ignition. Yanking the door open, he got in, started the engine and drove away.

He needed blood, and he needed stitching, to keep himself from bleeding out before the day sleep could heal him. 'Fina had abandoned him. Though the way she saw it, he had no doubt abandoned her first. He had to get to Belinda, the woman he kept in Bangor.

It took an hour to get to her place. Her apartment i He had a keycard that let him in, and he made his way to the elevators, all without being seen by anyone. The place was dark and nearly silent this time of the night. Finally he reached her floor. Thank God. He wasn't going to last much longer.

He fell against her door, thumping weakly with a fist. When she didn't answer, he opened it and stumbled inside.

Belinda lay across the sofa. She wore red and welcomed him with sightless eyes. No. She wasn't wearing anything at all. Her wrists were laid open. Blood had spattered over the walls, hit the ceiling in places, and soaked into the carpet and the sofa. Her body was covered in it. And it was old blood. Dead blood. Wasted.

"Did you think I didn't know about her, Dante?"

Dante spun, nearly falling over at the sudden movement.

Stiles stood there, grinning at him with that twisted mockery of a smile. "I couldn't leave your little human blood bank alive. You needed her too much. I knew you'd come here tonight."

"She was an innocent. God, you heartless bastard." Dante tried to lunge forward but slumped instead, catching himself on a table then standing there, bowed, weakening.

"The end justifies the means, though. What you don't know is that I've reorganized some of the men who used to work for the DPI. Oh, there aren't many of us. Only a handful. Survivors of that famous vampire uprising in White Plains."

Dante shook his head. "The government-"

"Has nothing to do with us. We're privately funded. Your kind should be careful who they feed on, Dante. Rich men like vengeance, and they can afford to buy it."

Panting, Dante managed to keep his head up, though it wanted to fall. "Glorified hit men," he muttered.

"Vampire hunters. When we aren't being paid, we do it... just for fun." Stiles stepped inside, and three other men came in behind him, carrying weapons. One had a gun, one a crossbow, one a stake. Dante closed his eyes at the cliche of the third weapon, shook his head. "I see you have a rookie."

Stiles laughed. It was a low, honestly amused sound, yet dangerous at the same time. "It's good that you can joke at a time like this," he said at length. "No, Dante, that's no rookie. The stake has been treated with a new chemical we think will do your kind in. But, of course, we won't know until we test it." Coming closer, he lifted Dante's chin. "Guess who gets to be our guinea pig?"

Dante put all the power he still had into the fist he drove into Stiles' belly. Stiles doubled over, staggering backward, and the other three rushed forward.

"Hold it right there."

Lou Malone, the mortal cop, stood in the doorway with his handgun drawn, and the men in the room went still.

"Drop 'em!" Lou shouted.

Weapons clattered to the floor.

"Up against the far wall. Come on, move it. Face in. That's it," he said as he herded them. "Hands behind your heads. Feet apart, forehead to the wall. That's better."

He jerked his head at Dante. Nodding, Dante made his way toward the door, but on the way he paused, dropping to one knee to pick up the wooden stake. As soon as he closed his hand around the wood, his skin began to burn, and he dropped it fast, clutching his wrist and staring in shock at the smoke curling from his seared palm. Struggling to his feet, he staggered into the hallway.

"I've got a car outside," Lou said. "Wait in it, and keep it running. I'll be out in a sec." Lou grabbed a telephone, dialed 9-1-1.

Dante went to wait in the car.

Lou clocked the men on the head with the butt of his revolver. Then he ran the chain of his handcuffs under an old iron radiator and put the cuffs on two of them. He locked the door and left them there, figuring that ought to hold them until the local cops arrived. They would be detained for at least a little while. Long enough for him to get his preternatural prisoner tucked away safe and sound.

He figured he would have another leg of that chase on his hands, but at least now he wouldn't have Stiles mucking up the works. So he was surprised to get back to his car to find Dante slumped inside. He couldn't believe the vampire hadn't run again.

He got in, drove the car back to the hotel in Easton, and used the rear entrance to get the vampire in and up to the suite. Dante came around slightly as Lou hauled him bodily into the hotel, straight to the elevator and up to their floor. Inside, he took the groggy vampire straight to the bathroom and set him on the floor with his back against the wall.

Dante was still. Shit. Maybe he was already dead. Lou was damned if he knew how to tell. Did you check for a pulse? Did a vampire even have a pulse?

He found some scissors, a needle and some thread in Lydia's makeup bag. Okay. So he could at least stitch the guy up. The damn blood was still leaking out of him, making a puddle on the bathroom floor.

Using the scissors, Lou sliced away the jeans from just below the makeshift tourniquet. He peeled the blood-soaked denim away, tossing it into the tub. Then he glanced from the slick red length of Dante's leg to the needle and thread sitting on the counter. "Shit."

He got up and went into the living room part of the suite, opened the little mini-bar and took out two bottles. Whiskey and vodka. Twisting the cap off the whiskey, he tipped it to his own lips and drank it down.

Releasing a breath, he twisted the cap off the vodka, carried it back into the bathroom, and poured some of it over the wound in the front of the vampire's thigh. It rinsed the blood away, and Dante groaned in pain. When Lou looked at him, his eyes were open.

"I was beginning to think you were dead."

"What the hell are you doing to me?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm thinking this thing's gonna bleed to the last drop. I assume that's bad, even for a vampire."

Closing his eyes, Dante nodded. "Especially for a vampire."

"Thought so." Lou took the needle. It had a strand of black thread in it, and he poured a little vodka over it.

"That's not necessary," Dante said. "I'm not going to get an infection."

"You don't say." Shrugging, Lou leaned over the wound. "Brace yourself." He poked the needle through, surprised as hell by the howl of pain. "Hell, even I wouldn't yell like that. I thought you were tough."

Through clenched teeth, Dante said, "Sensations... are... magnified in my kind."

"Oh. I didn't know." Lou looked at him; his face was a twisted grimace of pain. "Should I stop?"

"No."

This time, when he pushed the needle into the man's flesh, Lou winced himself. Four stitches, nice and tight. That was all it took to completely close the wound. He nodded, satisfied with himself.

"There's another... just like it," Dante said. "On the other side."

"Christ." Lou reached for the vodka, drank what remained of it, and helped Dante to roll over.

It was agonizing to inflict this kind of pain on someone, vampire or otherwise. Lou was damn near to losing his lunch by the time he finished, and his patient was little more than a quivering lump. Still, the stitches held. Dante wasn't bleeding anymore. Not even when Lou hauled his ass off the floor, braced him over the edge of the tub and hosed the blood off him as best he could. Then he toweled the vampire off and helped him to the nearest bed.

He figured if Dante lasted the night, he would be all right. Lou had picked up enough from their earlier conversation to have figured out that vampires healed by day, while they slept. He cleaned up the mess in the bathroom, and then he made himself comfortable in a chair near the bed, planning to sit vigil over the guy until sunrise.

It was going to be a long night. Sighing, he picked up the phone, called the hospital, asked to be patched through to Max.

Her voice, when she came on the line, was strained, tired. Old. Way too old to be coming from a girl like her. He wanted to say something that would make it better. Comfort her. Something. But damned if he knew what.

"How's Morgan doing?" Stupid question. How the hell did he think she was doing?

"They're giving her fluids. No blood. No donors. She needs it or she'll die." Her voice broke though she struggled not to reveal that she was crying.

"I'm sorry, Max."

"Did you find him?"

"Dante? Yeah. He's not in very good shape, either. I did what I could. He's resting now."

"And Stiles?"

"He and some of his friends are visiting with the local cops tonight, if all went the way I hope it did. I don't expect they'll be bothering us at least until tomorrow morning. Maybe longer."

"So my sister's safe for tonight."

"As far as we know, yeah."

There was silence on the line.

"Max... I'm sorry I let you down."

She didn't answer. He lowered his head, trying to think of a way to break the silence. Finally he said, "I'm at the suite. You have the number, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna keep an eye on him until daylight. He can't be any problem in daylight if I'm understanding this right."

"From what I read in those files, that's right."

"I'll just stash him somewhere dark toward morning, and then we'll figure out what to do next. Okay?"

"Okay."

"You call if you need me."

"I've got it covered."

That hurt. It felt as if she was saying she didn't need him. Wouldn't need him. No longer trusted him to be the man she could depend on. He had let her down. Fallen off his goddamned pedestal.

"Okay, then." He drew a breath, sighed.

"Good night, Lou," she said, and she hung up.

The silence of the broken connection seemed smothering. Sighing, he put the phone back in its cradle. He made one more round of the suite, making sure the doors were locked tight, dead bolts turned. As an afterthought, he retrieved the two tiny booze bottles from the wastebasket and stood them in front of the door. If it opened, they would tip over, clattering against each other, waking him if he had happened to doze off.

Finally he went back to the bedroom, sat down in the chair beside the bed where the wounded vampire slept and let himself have permission to just rest his eyes.

"You're being awfully hard on him, you know."

Maxine turned from the telephone at the nurse's desk to see Lydia staring at her. "Is this motherly advice or just an opinion?"

Lydia flinched. But then she seemed to steel herself. "I suppose I deserved that. In your eyes, at least."

Max sighed, feeling a twinge of guilt and ignoring it. "How is Morgan?"

"The same. They've got her wired for sound in there, though. IV lines, monitors, the works." She lowered her eyes, but not before Max saw them welling. They were red, in fact, as if she'd been shedding tears all night. "God, I hope I get the chance to... to tell her."

"That you're her mother?" Max asked. "You already had the chance, Lydia. But you didn't say a word. Not to Morgan, and not to me."

The older woman looked up slowly, met Max's eyes. "I hope I get the chance to tell her I love her. That's all. I never intended to tell her-or either of you-the rest."

Max swallowed the knot of guilt that rose in her throat. "Why?"

"I thought I explained that to you. Just how do you feel about knowing your mother was a whore?"

Max flinched this time. It was as if the woman had slapped her with her words. "You're ashamed of what you were."

"No. No, I'm not ashamed. But I knew you would be, and so would your sister in there, if she knew the truth."

"Know us that well, do you? After all of... what? A few days?"

A nurse came to the desk, and they both fell silent as she shuffled papers, gathered charts. Max turned to her. "Can you have them turn on the phone in my sister's room, in case I need it again?"

"I'm sorry, no phones in ICU. But there's a convenience phone in the Intensive Care waiting area; TV, too. It's just across the hall from your sister's room."

She nodded. "If I get another call, could you put it through to there?"

"Sure."

Max glanced at Lydia, inclined her head and started down the hall to the waiting area. As they passed the Intensive Care unit, she could see into Morgan's room through the large safety-glass window. David was in there with her, holding her hand, speaking to her. "Same scene, different hospital," Max muttered.

"Here it is."

Max looked toward Lydia, who was holding open a door on the other side of the hall. She went inside, looked around. There were three vending machines-snacks, soda and coffee. A television, a radio, a phone-not a pay phone either, but a real phone. Several chairs and a couple of futons completed the room. Max propped the door open, then took a seat that gave her a clear view of her sister across the hall.

Lydia dropped coins into the coffee machine and waited for her cup to fill.

"You said you're not ashamed of what you did for a living all those years ago," Max said slowly. "I'm curious about that."

Taking the cup of creamed coffee from the dispenser, Lydia sipped and grimaced. "Because I had no choice."

Max waited, but Lydia didn't seem inclined to continue. "Come on, Lydia. Don't you think I have a right to know the whole story?"

Walking to a chair, Lydia sat down slowly, took another sip of coffee and then set the cup on a small table beside her chair. "I suppose. It's not pretty."

"The truth rarely is."

Nodding, Lydia seemed to gather herself. "When I was ten years old, my father died. When I was eleven, my mother remarried. My stepfather was abusive."

How cool and clinical she sounded, Max thought. "He beat you?"

"Beat me. Raped me. He hurt me in just about every way he could think of. My mother, too. She didn't have it in her to leave, but I did."

"So you ran away from home? When? How old were you?"

"Fourteen. That's how long it took me to realize that my mother wasn't going to protect me. She couldn't even protect herself. And it was getting worse. I figured if I didn't get out soon, he would end up killing me."

"Where did you go?" Max studied her. Lydia's eyes were stark. Empty.

"Nowhere. There was no place I could go. I lost myself in the city, lived on the streets, made friends there. The drugs helped ease the pain. The people helped me learn how to survive. It seemed horrible at first, the idea of selling my body for money. But when you get hungry enough, it stops seeming so bad. Hell, it was far better than what was happening to me at home. I was in control. I got to say when and how and who-or at least that's what I told myself-and I got paid for it." She shrugged. "I got by for a while-until I got pregnant."

Max's stomach was tied in knots. "You didn't... make them use protection?"

"I didn't make them do much of anything, Max. It's dangerous out there. You piss off the wrong John, you end up bearing scars, or worse."

"You're lucky all you got was pregnant."

"You're right."

"So then what happened?"

Lydia lowered her head. "There was this old woman. Mary Agnes Brightman, but everyone just called her Nanna. She had a big house in White Plains. Word was she took in pregnant teens. So I paid her a visit."

"And she took you in?"

"Yeah. She wasn't incorporated, didn't have a license. Just a big house and a big heart. There were six of us staying there full-time while I was there, and countless others in and out. Nanna fed us, clothed us, talked to us like we were intelligent human beings, you know?" She sighed. "Some decided on abortion, and when they did, she paid for it, took them to a good doctor, got it done right, made them go to counseling before and after. Some decided to keep their babies, try to raise them. She helped them find housing, jobs, day care, file for public assistance until they could get on their feet. Some decided to have the babies and give them up for adoption. Nanna had a son who was a lawyer, and he helped them arrange that, no charge."

Nodding slowly, Max said, "That was the choice you made."

Lydia lifted her head. "Nanna and her son, Brian, took me once to see the couple who wanted to adopt my baby. Oh, I didn't get to meet them. Didn't know their names, nothing like that. But I watched them. They were shopping. They'd moved up to the top of Brian's waiting list, so they knew that they'd be likely to get a baby within a year. They were shopping for furniture. Cribs, walkers. And I watched them. She got misty every time she held up some tiny outfit or teddy bear. Got actual tears in her eyes. He would say something funny, joking about baby names or something until she smiled again. They looked... so good. You know? Nice. Normal. And that woman, God, she wanted you so much." Lydia drew a wavering breath.

"That night Brian showed me some photos of their house, though he couldn't tell me where it was I had no idea it was so close-right in White Plains."

She lifted her eyes to Max's. "I knew you'd be happy there."

Max felt a little misty herself. "But they didn't want us both?"

"They didn't have the chance to make that decision. When we learned I was having twins, Brian let me assume both of you were going to that same home. But that wasn't the case. He placed your sister with a different family."

"Why?"

Lydia's voice had turned coarse now. "Oh, he thought he was doing a good thing. Helping out a dear friend on the West Coast who desperately wanted a child. I don't think he meant to harm anyone. But he did. I never knew the truth until after Nanna died some ten years later. She had found out, somehow, and was furious with her son over it. She left me her house, with the explanation that I had been wronged when she had only wanted to help me, and that she owed me reparation."

"And you kept her work going," Max filled in.

"I had been going back there often, helping out with the new girls in between my other jobs. Legitimate jobs. One of Nanna's conditions of helping girls like me was that we promised not to go back to the life. I was one of the few who kept that promise. Kimbra was another. I first met her at Nanna's house." She shrugged. "So when Nanna died and left the place to me, I knew almost as much about running it as she did. Turned out Kimbra had a great head for business. She helped us incorporate as a non-profit organization. Haven House."

Max drew a breath and looked Lydia in the eye. "And you thought Morgan and I would be ashamed of this story?"

Lydia looked away. "Just the beginning."

"Just nothing." Licking her lips, Max impulsively gripped Lydia's hand. "You were right about that couple. I had that idyllic childhood you wanted me to have. And if that lawyer hadn't taken her elsewhere, Morgan would have, too. My adoptive parents were wonderful, Lydia. I never suffered the lack of anything. Most of all love."

Lydia closed her eyes. "God, you don't how much hearing that means to me. Letting you go... it was so hard."

"I can imagine. But I think you did the right thing. And I'm grateful."

"The right thing... for you, maybe. But Morgan... "

"Don't give up on Morgan just yet. She comes from good stock."

They both turned to look across the hall, through the glass to where Morgan lay. Lydia nodded. "I, um, I'm going to go sit with her for a while."

"David looks like he could use a break."

Lydia got to her feet. Max did, too, and then hesitantly, awkwardly, she gave Lydia a brief hug. Lydia squeezed her hard, then let her go.

"I think I'll call Lou back."

"Good idea," Lydia said. She gave an encouraging nod and left the room.

Lou fell asleep in his chair, his head hanging to one side, ear pressed to his own shoulder. Something woke him. Two somethings. One was the sudden shrill ring of a phone. The other came first, though. It was Dante's voice. And it was coming from close to him. Very close to him. Like in his face.

Dante said, "I'm very sorry about this, Malone. But I have no choice."

Then the phone rang, and Lou's eyes popped open. Dante was leaning over him, and Lou flung his arms up to push the vampire off, but the chair went over backward and Dante came with it to the floor. He sank his teeth into Lou's throat as Lou fought to pry him off.

Lou swung out an arm, knocking the stand over. The phone fell to the floor. Vaguely, he could hear a tinny voice repeating his name.

"Jesus!" Lou gritted his teeth against the sensation of being drained. "I saved your fucking life!" He intended to shout it, but it came out weaker than that. "I helped you!"

His heart pounded harder than he thought was healthy, and he kept struggling to push the creature off, but his efforts were useless.

Finally Dante lifted his head and let Lou's fall backward to the floor. "You're still helping me," the vampire said, and he looked... different. Stronger. His eyes glowed, and his skin seemed to plump with life.

Yeah, Lou thought. My life.

Dante wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then he scooped Lou up off the floor and dropped him on the bed. Turning, he picked the phone up from the floor, set its base on the stand and brought the receiver to his ear. "Your boyfriend needs you, Maxine. He's waiting for you at the hotel. You'd better hurry. I didn't drain him dry, but I was damned thirsty."

He hung up the phone.

Lou moaned, reaching for it, knowing fall well what the vampire was doing. Trying to lure Max away from her sister so he could get to her himself. Dammit.

Dante looked down at him in the bed. "I really am sorry. There was no other way."

Lou tried to sit up as Dante turned and left the room, but he only managed to raise his upper body a couple of inches before falling backward again, into darkness.