Forbidden (18 page)

Roc's vision spun. His limbs felt loose and disjointed. Swirls of lights and colors tangoed, spinning and colliding about him. Some looked like pieces of glass, flat like a mirror, as if they reflected light from some far-off source. Others appeared like serrated edges, sharp and jagged, the light piercing his retina. The lights gyrated and whirled around him, fading and glowing, going black then blazing to life again.

Voices assaulted his eardrums, darting in and out of a fog and storming through any barricades. Sometimes the voices sounded like his, other times like Rachel's, and yet another deeper one penetrated the confusion. Then a brick-red lava of pain flowed out of his shoulder, burning away the distorted sounds and leaving in its trail silence and the faint beat of his heart.

At one point, he realized he was lying down on his back, his left shoulder swollen to the size of a beach ball with air pumping into it then hissing out, in and out, in and out. The throbbing remained the one constant as the lights dimmed and faded and glowed and brightened.

But one thing he clung to: her voice. She spoke to him in quiet, soothing tones, velvety smooth as the rag she drew across his forehead. Sometimes she said encouraging words: “It's all right, Roc. You're going to be all right.” Other times, she didn't speak to him at all: “Oh, Lord, help this man.”

Then there was murmuring he couldn't decipher. It sounded as if she was speaking to someone else, not a prayer, but someone at a distance. Was it Brody? His father again? Had Anthony found them? Or Akiva?

Roc thrashed about, struggled to open his eyes, and she returned to his side, shushed him, and the cool rag once again drifted over his skin. He pried open his eyes, and through a haze, saw her astonishing blue eyes, now pinched with concern. He tried to speak, but his throat trapped any words.

“What is it?” she asked. “What do you need? Water?” She helped him sip through a straw, placing the plastic between his parched lips.

“Brody”—his voice croaked—“where is he?”

“In the other room.”

“Get him.”

She left, and while he waited, everything once again faded to black.

***

When light peeked through his eyelids, he forced them open. She placed her cool fingers against his brow, and hers puckered with concern.

“Brody,” he managed. He had to talk to Brody. He had to understand what was happening, how to protect Rachel.

“Here. Drink this.” Again, she positioned a straw against his lips, and he sucked down more ice-cold water.

“Where's Brody?” He searched the room, the bare walls, the open door behind Rachel.

“He's at work.”

“My gun. Get it.”

Her brow furrowed deeper. “Why?”

“If he comes…I have to be ready.”

“It's okay.” She touched the back of her fingers to his forehead. “We're safe here.”

“Where's my stake?”

“Rest, Roc. Don't you worry about anything.”

She didn't understand. She couldn't. She was too naïve, too ignorant of vampires and their ways.

She rearranged the blanket covering him. “Just rest. I'll be right back.”

He watched her moving around him, shifting a bowl on a table beside the bed, folding a shirt, and taking the water glass to the other room. She was efficient and kind, her face solemn yet peaceful. Weights yanked down his eyelids and won the battle.

His dreams were of blood. He tossed and struggled against unseen forces, beings that surrounded him, crept up on him, attacked viciously from all sides. Again, he saw a young, innocent face, the skin smooth with a smattering of freckles, and then it transformed into a fierce predator.

His father came to him, shrouded in gray cloth and grizzled beard. Remy offered him a bottle, the taste of oblivion an arm's length away. Whiskey sloshed against the glass, and Roc could smell the potent scent, luring him more than the arms of a beautiful woman could. But then his father snatched the bottle away and guzzled it down himself.

***

When Roc next awoke, sunlight streamed through vertical blinds covering a window. His shoulder ached but no longer throbbed, and his skin felt cool and damp, no longer hot and dry. Overhead, a ceiling fan circled and cast a cooling breeze over the room. He flung the sheet back with his good arm and sat on the side of the bed, planting his bare feet on the carpeted floor. His vision bobbed and weaved with the sudden change in position, and his insides shifted, his stomach lurched. Thankfully, it was empty, and nothing came up.

He remained still for a moment before attempting to stand. Someone had stripped him of his clothes, which were folded and lying on a dresser. He wore only his BVDs and a gauze bandage covering his shoulder.

One door in the room was closed, but another was ajar and revealed white floor tiles. Keen on a shower, he padded across the room and entered the small bathroom. There were no decorations, but a soap bar sat on the counter, and one was cradled in the shower, along with a bottle of gold shampoo. He rubbed his jaw, and stubble scraped his palm. In the mirror, he saw the white bandage covering his shoulder, stark against his tanned skin. His face looked like his skin had been bleached. But his eyes demanded close inspection.

They were dark as they'd always been, a dark brown, and he could see bits of red, amber, and green all mixed together. But no black. So the bite hadn't changed him. At least not yet.

He gave his shoulder a roll, testing the flexibility and hissed at the sharp pinching sensations. No use removing the bandage yet.

Flicking on the shower, he tested the water pouring out with his hand until it turned hot. He stood partly under the spray a good five minutes, trying not to get the bandage wet, but by the time he turned off the water, the bandaged edges had become damp and curled. He toweled off as best he could with one arm. He then put on his jeans but abandoned his shirt, which, although cleaned from all the blood, was ripped and torn.

Rachel's surprised gaze met his as he entered the living area. Her blue eyes assessed him, caused a strange effect on him again. He avoided them as he would a vampire's, and surveyed the room instead. The living room held a brown sofa and matching chair, along with assorted tables and a flat-screen television, all of which he recognized as Brody's den. He'd been there many times in the past. A quick scan told him no one else was in the apartment.

But he couldn't avoid her any longer. Rachel stared hard at him as if determined to keep her gaze on his. He must look a sight, probably frightening to this pregnant Amish woman.

Feeling awkward, he shoved a hand through his wet hair and tried to rearrange the strands into some semblance of order. He couldn't remember if he'd driven Rachel here or if he'd allowed her behind the wheel and simply given directions. He wasn't even sure what day it was, where he'd left his Mustang, or how much time had passed. A thousand questions assaulted him, and he tried to sort through them in order of priority.

“Good morning,” she said before he could get his thoughts straight. “How are you feeling?”

He nodded, not entirely steady on his feet or settled in his stomach. “Better. Or so I think. You okay?”

She looked surprised by his question. “Of course.”

The moment stretched between them, twisting into awkwardness. “And the baby?”

She smiled and touched the mound of her belly. “Kicking. Can I get you something? Toast or maybe coffee?”

He shook his head, and the more dire questions rushed forward: “Where's Brody?”

“I reckon at work or…” She shrugged. “He wasn't here when I awoke this morning.”

His gaze shifted toward the sofa and the folded blanket he assumed she'd used in sleeping there. He nodded his agreement with her assessment. “He left you alone?”

“There is security,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

She pointed toward the front door. Next to it a wide window looked out over the pool and its courtyard, but now the blinds were closed. “A police officer has been watching the apartment. I saw him yesterday and today.”

“Good.” So Brody was thinking smart, planning ahead. But what could Brody know of what danger they faced? No cop would understand or believe it. Still, relief washed away guilt over exposing Rachel to Akiva. At least she was safe for the moment.

He rubbed the back of his neck and took in the bachelor pad Rachel seemed determined to tame. The sink was filled with sudsy water, and a stack of folded rags rested on the counter, along with gray, wet ones. Part of the linoleum floor was wet.

“How long was I out?”

“Two days.”

The answer surprised him and upped his worry. He glanced at the door. Light slanted through the blinds covering the window. “Have you been anywhere? Talked to anyone?”

“No.”

“You've heard nothing from Akiva?”

“Did you think he'd call?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nah, I just…” He smiled at her blunt question and his inability to answer. “He'll be looking for you. You know that, right?”

“For both of us.” She wiped her hands on a towel she'd draped over her shoulder. Even though she was no longer wearing the traditional garb of an Amish woman, she looked decidedly Amish in her jeans, maternity top, and prayer
kapp
. “I am not afraid of him.”

“You should be.”

“The good Lord will do as He deems fitting.”

“You prayed for me,” he said, more to himself, yet his spoken words surprised and embarrassed him.

“Of course.” Her serious blue eyes studied him. “Why wouldn't I?”

“I would think the question would be: Why would you?”

“Because you saved me.” She stepped forward, and he noticed her bare feet, her toes pink and clean. With his own uncovered feet and torso, the moment felt far too intimate. But her focus seemed to be solely on his shoulder. “I should change the bandage. It has started to heal. Although I think you will have a terrible scar.”

“It won't be the first.” Clearing his suddenly clogged throat, he moved into the den. He glanced at the gauze covering his shoulder, focusing on the way the skin pinched when he attempted to move it. “Where did you get the tape and bandages?”

“Your friend…Brody got them for me. And he bought some food: eggs, bread, orange juice, and such. There was nothing much here to eat.”

“He's a good guy. But definitely a bachelor.” He'd pay Brody back somehow. Weariness settled into his bones, and he leaned his thigh against the sofa.

“You should sit down,” she said, coming alongside him. “Here…” She readjusted a pillow, and with slight pressure on his good shoulder, she sat him on the sofa. She peered down at him, her hand propped on her hip. “You don't look so good, Roc. I will fix you some strong tea and toast.” With a firm nod, she moved back to the kitchen.

He watched her go, noticing she moved easily in spite of the size of her belly. From the back, he couldn't tell she was pregnant at all, not with her slim hips and long legs. His awareness of her stunned him, and he pushed it away and focused on her fixing him food. He was, after all, hungry. On cue, his stomach rumbled.

From his vantage point, he could see her walk to the refrigerator and open it. The inside of the door gleamed with whiteness, as if it had been recently scrubbed. She pulled out eggs, a stick of butter, and a loaf of bread.

Roc dragged his gaze away from her, which seemed like dangerous territory, and spied a stack of magazines next to the laptop computer on the table. With his one good hand, he shuffled through them—
Maxim
,
Men's Journal
,
Maximum Fitness
, and
Smart
Money
. A manila folder slipped out from between the magazines and fell open. It wasn't a police report but instead a small stack of printed papers, paper-clipped at the top. Articles, no…obituaries, which had apparently been downloaded from the Internet.

“How do you know him,” Rachel asked from the kitchen, “your friend, Brody?”

“We were on the force together before—” He stopped himself, unwilling to discuss his past. “You can trust him, though.”

“That is good. Your friend,” Rachel said, distracting him, “doesn't like my cooking awful much.”

Roc kept his gaze on the obits, flipping from one to the other. “He's a bachelor. He's used to eating out.”

Pans clattered in the kitchen, and the refrigerator opened and closed again. “He seemed angry or even nervous. That's understandable, seeing how we barged in on him.”

“Yeah?” Roc flipped through the pages, noting the obits were of all races and ages. “He probably thought you were trying to get to him is all.”

“Get to him? How's that?” She stood at the edge of the kitchen, a spatula in her hand.

“Don't you know the old saying, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach? He probably thought you were making a play for him.”

She shook her head. “A play?”

“Ya know, coming on to him.”

Suddenly, her cheeks flamed. She clutched the spatula like a weapon to ward off his thoughts. “Surely not! I am a married woman.”

Roc raised an eyebrow but didn't argue against her statement. He reminded himself—to her, she was still married. “Who knows what he was thinking?” He sniffed and caught what smelled like scorched butter. “Is that my toast?”

“Oh!” She turned on her bare heel and raced for the stove. Clucking her tongue, she took a paper towel and wiped out the pan. She sliced another hunk off the stick and placed the butter in the pan, then cracked three eggs. Before the eggs were finished, the toaster popped up slices of browned bread.

Roc went back to the top of the stack of obits and noticed the most recent death was on top, and the dates went in order to the bottom. All of the deaths had occurred over the past three…four months. Was this some new case Brody was working on?