Atlantis Unmasked (24 page)

Blood in the trash can.
Her
blood in the trash can. It seemed wrong. Blood was life, and life didn't belong in the garbage. Bodies didn't belong in the courtyard, broken and destroyed.

How had she thought she could handle this? She was no commander. Sam should be in charge.
Alexios
should be in charge, except he would have to leave them soon. Go back to Atlantis. Leave them. Abandon her.

She'd be alone again. Alone always.

A sound in the corridor snapped her out of her miserable bout of self-pity. What right did she have to whine about loneliness when her failure had left two people dead on the ground?

Suddenly, she realized she was standing, unarmed and half nude, in the middle of the kitchen, like a damned target. She pressed a catch on the bottom of the first-aid kit and a drawer—one of Quinn's special hidden compartments—slid open, displaying a sleek and deadly handgun. It was only a .22, but it could do some damage up close. She whirled around and crouched behind the edge of the table, propping her arms on its wooden top to aim the gun at the doorway.

“It's Alexios,” he called out before he reached the doorway. “All clear, but we've got company.”

She stood up, lowering the gun but not fully relaxing. “What kind of company? How many of them? Do we need to call P Ops in on this, after all?”

He stopped, framed in the doorway so the light from the corridor turned his hair to a golden halo of fire. “Don't shoot,” he said, nodding at the gun in her hand. “And I'm sorry I wasn't more clear. It's the good guys this time. Somebody named Tiny. He said Sam sent him.”

Her shoulders slumped with relief, and she placed the gun down on the table, careful to put the safety back on. “Are you sure it's him?”

“Well, he knew enough about Sam to make it pretty clear he was telling the truth. Not to mention that it seems exactly like Sam to have a friend named Tiny who's probably six and a half feet tall and weighs well over three hundred pounds.”

“Are they—what are they—” Suddenly she remembered that she was still standing in the middle of the kitchen wearing nothing but her bra and a coat of Neosporin on the top half of her body. “Maybe you could help me with bandages?”

He walked toward her and his gaze dropped to the newly cleansed tear in her side. His face hardened, and when he looked up again, his eyes had turned completely black, except for those tiny blue-green flames in the exact centers of his pupils.

The air between them suddenly crackled with unreleased tension and sharp-edged, urgent emotion. But then he sighed, and the pressure in the air eased.

“I think you're trying to hurt me, here,” he said ruefully. “I finally managed to get your shirt off, and it's only so I can bandage you up.”

She appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood, and she might even have fallen for his casual banter if it hadn't been for the way his lips tightened and the muscle at the edge of his jaw clenched.

“Bad timing. Story of my life.” She pasted a smile on her face, but it didn't seem to convince him.

He turned toward the counter and began rummaging in the first-aid kit, yanking things out with barely suppressed violence and slamming them down on the table while continually keeping up the stream of muttering just far enough under his breath that she couldn't quite make it out. Finally, he held up a plastic-wrapped roll of new bandages and a pair of scissors.

“Success at last,” she said. But when he turned around, there were two of him, and both of them were holding bandages and scissors. Strange. Then little black dots started swirling around the edge of her vision, and she realized what was happening just before her knees buckled.

“Going down,” she warned him, but he was way ahead of her. He caught her and gently sat her on the table again but stood so close that she was leaning forward in the circle of his arms, resting her head on his rock-hard shoulder. Wondering how it was that the steel bands of muscle he apparently wore under his skin could feel so comforting. So comfortable.

So much like someplace she never wanted to leave.

He patted her back and murmured lovely things that she couldn't understand, smoothing her hair back from her face and kissing her forehead and her temple. “Shh,
mi amara
, shh. You're weak from blood loss and the crash after the adrenaline rush. It happens after every battle, no matter how big and strong the warrior, so before you even get started, you can stop berating yourself for weakness.”

She raised her head and looked into his eyes—those exotically strange and seductively beautiful eyes. “What do you mean? You said it to me before.
Mi amara
. What does it mean? You're going to have to teach me Atlantean, you know.”

He stared into her eyes for several seconds, unmoving, before apparently coming to some decision. She watched his face as it changed, but she didn't know how to read the topography of emotion on the map of his face.

She didn't even know what to hope for. All she knew was that he felt like coming home, and it terrified her. She pulled back a little, and he instantly released her.

“I think we shall have Atlantean language practice another day,” he said, offering up a small smile. “But for now, we're going to bandage your side, get you dressed, and get you into bed with some water and hot tea.”

He retrieved the package of bandages that he'd dropped on the floor when she'd almost fainted and ripped it open, then returned to the sink and washed his hands. Carefully, but with a sureness born of long practice, he unwrapped a sterile pad and covered her wound. She held the pad in place while he unspooled the roll of bandaging and then wrapped it around and around her waist and ribs until she felt like an extra in a mummy movie. Finally, he stopped wrapping and fastened the bandage with a tiny metal clip from the package.

She let out a sigh, relieved that it was over. “I'm not afraid of the sight of blood or anything, but I do prefer not to be looking at my own,” she admitted.

He tossed all the packaging in the trash and washed his hands again. “I need to find you a shirt. I'd give you mine, but it's in worse shape than yours was, I think.”

“In the pantry cabinet,” she said, indicating the far corner. “There's a pile of spare sweatshirts.”

He crossed to the cabinet and retrieved a bright red shirt with the words EAT AT JOE'S splashed in white across the front. She shook her head, trembling with delayed reaction. “No! No, I mean, not red and white. Please.”

His eyebrows drew together for a moment, but then he glanced at the trash can and his forehead smoothed out. “Of course.” He tossed the red shirt back in the cabinet and pulled out a black shirt and quickly shed his own filthy shirt and pulled it on, then grabbed another shirt. It looked about two sizes too large for Grace, but it wasn't like she cared about fit. All that mattered was that it had no red or white.

No scarlet.

She started shaking in earnest, and he quickly helped her into the shirt, helping her hold her arms up like she was a child, then pulling the shirt over her head and lifting her hair up and out from where it was trapped in the soft fleece.

Suddenly Grace knew she had to tell him. Had to let him know that she was hanging on by her fingernails, clinging to the face of the cliff with nothing beneath her to catch her fall.

Nothing but him.

She wanted—needed—to let go and, for once in ten long years of her life, discover whether anybody would be there to catch her. Whether
he
would be there to catch her.

“Alexios,” she began, but a loud, deep voice boomed through the corridor like thunder trapped in a waterspout, cutting her off.

“Incoming friendly.”

Grace tilted her head. “Tiny?”

Alexios nodded, looking amused. “Tiny.”

She noticed, however, that amusement wasn't enough to keep caution at bay. He turned to face the doorway, subtly blocking Grace so that an intruder wouldn't have a direct line of fire to her. She noticed it, but for once she was too tired to fight it. Maybe it was blood loss, maybe it was the shock of nearly dumping her emotions out on the table where they could be crushed, but she didn't have the energy to argue with Alexios about who had the bigger . . . weapon.

The man who filled the doorway a moment later was one of the biggest men she'd ever seen. She had an instant impression of dark hair, dark eyes, and a mountain of blue jeans and flannel shirt. The top of his head brushed the top of the doorway, and his shoulders were so broad he had to turn a little sideways to come into the room.

“Are you a shifter?” She blurted out the question and then felt like a total idiot when he did a double take. “I'm sorry, it's none of my business. If Sam trusts you, that's good enough for me.”

The man—Tiny—laughed, and it was a wonderful, rolling rumble of a laugh. It was a laugh like Santa Claus or a favorite grandfather should have.

“He better trust me. After what he did for me, I'd follow him into hell to give him a drink of ice water.”

Curiosity burned through her for a moment, but it, like her need to prove her toughness to Alexios, faded away in light of the utter physical exhaustion sweeping through her.

“Grace, meet Tiny. Tiny, meet Grace Havilland, the commander of this group,” Alexios said formally.

She waved a hand, brushing off the introduction. “Commander of what's left of this group,” she corrected, unshed tears clogging her throat again. “We were hit hard tonight.”

Tiny nodded, and his bearded face went from amiable to deadly. “Sam told us what happened. We've been trying to keep an eye out for shifter attacks, given what's been going on across the country, and the fact that the top bloodsucker himself puts his head on coffin pillows not too far from here.”

“Vonos,” Alexios said.

Tiny nodded again. “Vonos. And no, little lady, I'm not a shifter. Big enough to be a bear, though, aren't I?” He laughed that wonderful laugh of his again.

“I'm sorry. I didn't—I just—I'm sorry,” she repeated. “You're not seeing me at my best.”

“Well, from what Sam said about you, you're good people. He said you took on a panther all by yourself with nothing but a bitty knife. Took it down, too. That's nothing to sneeze at.” Tiny's radio crackled from its place on his belt and he held up a hand to them while he answered it. Grace couldn't catch everything, but she did hear the all-clear given from the man on the other end.

Tiny signed off and returned his radio to his belt, his face somber again. “Doesn't look like we're going to get another wave tonight. We've cleaned up your fallen attackers, and there won't be any sign of a battle by morning.”

Grace leaned forward and grabbed Alexios's hand for support. “What about my people? There were two, a man and a woman—” She had to stop for a moment and try to breathe before she could force the words out. “What did you . . . where are they—”

“Per Sam's orders, those two had a car accident tonight when they were out enjoying the sights of St. Augustine with the other tourists,” Tiny said gently. “They need to get back to their families, and this is the best way.”

Grace nodded, then leaned forward until her forehead rested on the back of Alexios's shoulder.

“Thank you for everything,” Alexios said, his voice a rumbling vibration against her forehead. “Will you stay?”

“We're not going anywhere until Sam gets back and lets us know what he needs. I'm going to make a big pot of coffee if you don't mind. Needed to get here in kind of a rush and didn't have time to stop anywhere.”

Grace lifted her head, which suddenly seemed to weigh a thousand pounds in an eerie echo of her thoughts earlier. “Of course. Please make yourself at home with anything we have. Thank you so much for everything.”

Alexios turned and scooped her up off the table, ignoring her feeble protests. Whatever burst of adrenaline had burned through her during the battle, it was long gone, and exhaustion, blood loss, and bone-deep sorrow had all taken a toll on her last reserves of energy.

“You have my thanks, as well,” Alexios said to Tiny. “I will get Grace settled so that she can rest, and then I'll join you on patrol.”

The big man nodded and moved aside so that they could leave the room. “There are plenty of us to handle the patrol, but I know about needing to make sure yourself. If you want to get some rest first, though, I'll stand watch for you. We'll check in on your man and your prisoner, too.”

Alexios repeated his thanks and headed down the corridor, carrying Grace as if she weighed nothing. It was a new sensation for her, this feeling of being protected. Cherished.

It frightened her how much she didn't hate it.