Brother.
"You want to put the safety back on that gun, son?"
John shook his head, caught between the strange memory echo in his head and what was in front of him: a man of death in leather.
"Okay. Just watch where you point it. You don't look real comfortable handling that thing, and I don't want the inconvenience of having a hole in me." The man looked at the chain. "You going to let me in?"
From two doors down, a volley of yelling rose to a crescendo and ended with the sound of breaking glass.
"Come on, son. Little privacy's a good thing."
John reached deep into his chest and felt around his instincts for any sense of true danger. He found none, in spite of the fact that the man was big and hard and undoubtedly armed. Someone like him just had to be packing.
John slipped the chain free and stepped back, lowering the gun.
The man shut the door behind him. "You remember meeting me, right?"
John nodded, wondering why his memories had returned in such a rush. And why a splitting headache had come with them.
"And you remember what we talked about. About the training we offer?"
John flipped the weapon's safety into place. He recalled everything, and the curiosity that had struck him then came back. As well as a fierce yearning.
"So how'd you like to join up and work with us? And be-fore you say you're not big enough, I know a lot of guys who are your size. In fact, we have a class of males coming in who are just like you." Keeping his eyes on the stranger, John put the gun in his back pocket and went over to his bed. He grabbed a pad of paper and a Bic pen, and wrote
: I don't have $
.
When he flashed the pad, the man read the words. "You don't need to worry about that."
John scribbled,
Yeah, I do
, and turned the paper around.
"I run the place and I need some help with administrative stuff. You could work the cost off. You know anything about computers?"
John shook his head, feeling like an idiot. All he knew how to do was pick up plates and glasses and wash them. And this guy didn't need a busboy.
"Well, we got a brother who knows the damn things like the back of his hand. He'll teach you." The man smiled a little. "You'll work. You'll train. S'all good. And I've talked to my
shellan
. She'd be real happy if you stayed with us while you're in school."
John lowered his lids, growing wary. This sounded like a lifeboat in a lot of ways. But how come this guy wanted to save him?
"You want to know why I'm doing this?"
When John nodded, the man took off his coat and unbuttoned the top half of his shirt. He pulled the thing open, exposing his left pectoral.
John's eyes latched on to the circular scar that was revealed.
As he put his hand on his own chest, sweat broke out across his forehead. He had the oddest sense that something momentous was sliding into place.
"You're one of us, son. It's time you came home to your family."
John stopped breathing, a strange thought shooting through his head:
At last, I've been found
.
But then reality rushed forward, sucking the joy out of his chest.
Miracles just didn't happen to him. His good luck had dried up before he'd even been aware he'd had any. Or maybe it was more like he'd been bypassed by fortune. Either way, this man in black leather, coming from out of nowhere, offering him an escape hatch from the hellhole he lived in, was too good to be true.
"You want more time to think?"
John shook his head and stepped back, writing
, I want to stay here
.
The man frowned when he read the words. "Listen, son, you're at a dangerous point in your life."
No shit
. He'd invited this guy inside, knowing no one would come if he screamed for help. He felt around for his gun.
"Okay, take it easy. Tell you what. Can you whistle?"
John nodded.
"Here's a number where you can reach me. You whistle into the phone and I'll know it's you." The guy handed him a little card. "I'll give you a couple of days. You call if you change your mind. If you don't, don't worry about it. You won't remember a thing."
John had no idea what to make of that comment, so he just stared at the etched black numbers, getting lost in all the possibilities and improbabilities. When he glanced up again, the man was gone. God, he hadn't even heard the door open and shut.
Chapter Twenty-one
Mary shot out of sleep with a complete body spasm. A deep-throated yell thundered through her living room, shattering the early morning quiet. She bolted upright, but was shoved onto her side again. Then the whole sofa pitched away from the wall.
In the gray light of dawn, she saw Rhage's duffel. His suit coat.
And realized he'd jumped behind the couch.
"The drapes!" he shouted. "Shut the drapes!"
The pain in his voice cut through her confusion and sent her racing around the room. She covered every window until the only light coming in was through the kitchen's doorway.
"And that door, too…" His voice cracked. "The one into the other room."
She shut the thing quickly. It was now utterly dark except for the glow of the TV.
"Does your bathroom have a window in it?" he asked roughly.
"No, no, it doesn't. Rhage, what's wrong?" She started to lean over the edge of the sofa.
"
Don't come near me
." The words were strangled. And followed by a juicy curse.
"Are you all right?"
"Just let me… catch my breath. I need you to leave me alone right now."
She came around the comer of the sofa anyway. In the dimness, she could just vaguely make out the big shape of him.
"What's wrong, Rhage?"
"Nothing."
"Yeah, obviously." Damn it, she hated the tough-guy routine. "It's the sunlight, right? You're allergic to it."
He laughed harshly. "You could say that. Mary, stop. Don't come back here."
"Why not?"
"I don't want you to see me."
She reached over and clicked on the lamp nearest to her. A hissing sound shot through the room.
As her eyes adjusted, she saw that Rhage was flat on his back, one arm cradled against his chest, the other over his eyes. A nasty-looking burn had taken root on the skin exposed by the sleeves he'd rolled up. He was grimacing in pain, his lips peeled back from his—
Her blood went cold.
Fangs.
Two long canine incisors were lodged among his upper teeth.
He had fangs.
She must have gasped because he muttered, "I told you not to look."
"Jesus Christ," she whispered. 'Tell me those are fake."
"They aren't."
She pinwheeled backward until she hit the wall.
Holy… good God
.
"What… are you?" she choked out.
"No sunlight. Funky choppers." He inhaled raggedly. 'Take a guess."
"No… that isn't…"
He groaned and then she heard a shuffle, as if he were moving around. "Could you please shut that lamp off? My retinas got toasted and they need some time to recover."
She reached forward and clicked the switch, then snapped her hand back. Wrapping her arms around herself, she listened to the hoarse sounds he made as he breathed.
Time passed. He didn't say anything further. Didn't sit up and laugh and take out a fake set of teeth. Didn't tell her that he was Napoleon's best friend or John the Baptist or Elvis, like some kind of crazy lunatic.
He also didn't fly up into the air and try and bite her. Didn't turn into a bat, either.
Oh, come on
, she thought. She couldn't be taking him seriously, could she?
Except he
was
different. Fundamentally unlike any man she'd ever met. What if…
He moaned softly. From the glow of the TV, she saw his boot poke out from behind the couch.
She couldn't make sense of what he thought he was, but she knew he was suffering now. And she wasn't going to leave him on her floor in agony if there was something she could do for him.
"How can I help you?" she said.
There was a pause. Like she'd surprised him.
"Could you bring me some ice cream? No nuts or chips if you have it. And a towel."
When she came back with a bowlful, she could hear him struggling to sit up.
"Let me come to you," she said.
He went still. "Aren't you afraid of me now?"
Considering he was either delusional or a vampire, she should be terrified.
"Would a candle be too much light?" she asked, ignoring the question. "Because I won't be able to see at all back there."
"Probably not. Mary, I won't hurt you. I promise."
She put the ice cream down, lit one of her larger votives, and rested it on the table next to the couch. In the flickering glow she took in his big body. And the arm still over his eyes. And the bums. He wasn't grimacing anymore, but his mouth was slightly open.
So she could just see the tips of his fangs.
"I know you won't hurt me," she murmured, while she picked up the bowl. "You've had enough chances to already."
Draping herself over the back of the sofa, she spooned up some of the ice cream and leaned down toward him.
"Here. Open wide. Haagen-Dazs vanilla."
"It's not to eat. The protein in the milk and the cold will help the burns heal."
There was no way she could reach where he'd been scalded, so she pulled the couch back farther and sat on the floor next to him. Working the ice cream into a thick soup, she used her fingers to smooth some of it over his inflamed, blistered skin. He flinched, flashing those canines, and she had a moment's pause.
He was
not
a vampire. Couldn't be. "Yes, I really am one," he murmured.
She stopped breathing. "Can you read minds?"
"No, but I know you're staring at me, and I can imagine how I'd feel if I were you. Look, we're a different species, that's all. Nothing freaky, just… different."
Okay
, she thought, putting more of the ice cream on his burns.
Let's try this whole thing on for size
.
Here she was with a vampire. A horror icon. A six-foot-eight, 280-pound horror icon with a set of teeth on him like a Doberman pinscher.
Could it be true? And why did she believe him when he said he wouldn't hurt her? She must be out of her mind.
Rhage groaned in relief. "It's working. Thank God."
Well, for one thing, he was too busy hurting right now to be much of a threat. It was going to take him weeks to recover from these burns.
She dipped her fingers into the bowl and carried more of the Haagen-Dazs to his arm. On her third round, she had to lean down close to make sure she was seeing right. His skin was absorbing the ice cream as if it were a salve, and he was healing. Right in front of her eyes.
