To Catch a Vampire (17 page)

A bleeding Oliver pushes his way through the copulating crowd toward the front door. Some libertines actually look concerned, especially when they see the sword still in my hand. A few even stop having sex. The bartender moves toward me as I pass, but I flying-squirrel him across the room. Vamps gasp but don’t move. Smart of them.

We make it out the main door without another incident. Outside is a problem. The bouncer grabs Oliver by the shirt when he steps foot one out, slamming him against the wall. Oliver cries out in pain when his back hits brick. Before I even realize I’m doing it, I jab the sword through the guard’s stomach with a roar. It slides in like butter. The howling bouncer releases Oliver, who falls to the sidewalk. The burning smell of the bouncer’s flesh almost makes me gag. I release the sword, and the bouncer steps away, staring down at his stomach as if an alien had just popped out. I toss Oliver’s good arm over my shoulder, hoisting him up. We both groan from the effort. A thin, warm layer of blood coats my hand.
Just get him to the car, Bea
.

He leans on me, and we walk as quickly as possible to the car, which isn’t that fast. I’ve been working out, but not enough to lug a two-hundred-pound injured vampire around. By the time I get him to the car, my thighs, arms, and back are all burning. The BMW’s not locked, thank God. I open the back door, tossing Oliver onto the seat. If possible he’s grown even paler. Thin blue veins cascade around his sickly alabaster skin. He flops onto his stomach, hands balled into fists to combat the pain. Dear Lord. The two foot gash puckers and bleeds. It’s so deep I swear I can see his spine. His shirt is thick with blood. I look away, slamming the door shut. He needs blood. And fast. What the hell am I going to do?

I climb into the driver’s side and reach for the ignition but realize I don’t have the keys. “Crap!” I shout, hitting the steering wheel with both hands.

“What?” Oliver asks as if he’s in a dream state. He’s seconds from passing out.

“No keys! What—”

JR and Gerry round the corner, charging at the car like the bulls in Pamplona. I lock the doors, not that it will do anything. But me whipping my head back and picking them up does. They soar into the street behind us. I just bought us all of a second.

“
Red and yellow wires
,” Oliver winces. “Hotwire.”

The panel under the wheel falls into my lap, expelling a load of wires. Reaching under my bustier I pull out a dagger to cut the wires as my hands tremble. I start rubbing them together like in the movies, but the engine just sputters. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I see Gerry and JR running toward us again. I keep rubbing. I look again, and they’ve disappeared.

Glass smashes beside me, a thousand tiny shards raining like diamonds. I scream and duck down, instinctively protecting my face. A hand grabs my hair, yanking me up. I gouge the dagger into the offending hand. It works. JR pulls his bleeding hand away. The blade went all the way through, so the silver tip pokes out of his palm, dripping blood. I rub the wires again.
Oh, please. Please
… The car springs to life.
Oh, thank you, God!
I put it in reverse and punch it. The tires skid, but we move. Oliver groans in pain as his back slams into the seat behind. I step on the brake, and we come to a sudden stop. He groans again. I put the car into drive, and we’re out of the lot.

There are few cars on the road, but channeling Richard Petty from NASCAR, I maneuver and speed, even going through a red light. I’m not stopping for anything. There’s no noise but my ragged breath and the passing air outside. No cars follow us that I can see.

“Oliver?” I ask through the breaths.

He doesn’t answer.

Very quickly, I turn around. Blood has smeared the brown leather interior like something out of a crime scene photo. His eyes are closed, and he’s not breathing. Is he dead? My stomach buckles so hard I gasp. Wait, he’s a vampire; they don’t breathe. The knot in my belly loosens a little. He’s just passed out. I have no idea how much blood he can lose before he dies for real. I have no idea what to do about his cuts. I just have no idea what to do.

Don’t panic
. That’s what you do—you don’t panic. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself, though it works only up to a point. My arms shake from the adrenaline coursing through my every vein. Okay, first step is to stop driving like a maniac. The last thing I need is to be pulled over with a bleeding man in the backseat. I stop at the red light this time.

He needs blood, and I have no idea where to get it. I’d donate, but until we’re safe, I need all my strength. They have blood at the hotel. Our weapons are there too. I really,
really
want my machete right now. But Marianna is there. As is Oliver’s cell phone. Call for help. I run though my options and can’t think of anything better right now. I punch the address into the GPS with my trembling finger. The light turns, and I head for the hotel.

_____

Oliver doesn’t regain consciousness in the fifteen minutes it takes to reach the Dauphine. I didn’t think it possible, but in that time he turns a whiter shade of pale with his cheeks sinking in too. And doubts about this plan fade when I look at him. He needs blood and I’m getting it for him, even if it means facing a house full of vamps.

The remote for the Dauphine’s gate still works. Good sign. If I’m lucky, everyone’s out and they have no idea we’re wanted fugitives. Yeah. Right. I pull the BMW to the front of the house, leaving the engine on. Might need a quick getaway. The lights are on inside, but nobody runs out of the house.
Please God, let everyone be out. Please
.

I leave the car idling and get out. My legs wobble a little, but I can walk. Better yet, I can run. Which is what I do. I run through the unlocked front door, past the library and den, and up the stairs. Nobody stops me. I’m panting when I reach the second floor but continue as fast as my legs allow to the second stairwell. My heels thump on the stairs, but I make it to our room without incident. Crap! No keys!

No choice. My mind pushes the door. It swings open the wrong way. The hinges from the wall hang off the door, but I shimmy through the opening. After turning on the light I race over to the bed, falling to my knees and reaching under. I feel the black duffel and yank it out. All the weapons are there. I run around the room grabbing the essentials—thermos of blood, case papers, cell phone—and throw them in the bag. I’m over by the window picking up Oliver’s other leather jacket when the door smashes in. I shriek and drop the jacket. The door falls to the ground with a thud. The male German twin still has his leg raised from the kick. His sister and Marianna stand behind him, all three glaring at me. My luck just ran out.

I don’t so much as blink when the trio step in. Marianna walks between the twins, so they flank her on either side like blonde pillars. She stops a few feet from the bed, folding her arms across her chest. “Checking out?” she asks with a sly smile.

“I don’t want any trouble. I was just leaving.” I don’t move though.

She eyes me up and down. My entire body is sticky with blood. I’m like a prostitute to a recovering sex addict: temptation. She licks her lips. “Did Freddy kill him?” she asks.

“What?” I ask.

“Freddy. Did he slay Oliver?”

All the pain, all the nervousness sizzles out of me, replaced by red hot rage. “Why did you do that to him?”

She shrugs. “I thought Freddy might find it interesting. And judging from your appearance, he did.”

“Go to hell, you bitch. I will kill you, I swear to—”

“Save your idle threats, little girl. Klaus, Ingrid, enjoy your midnight snack.”

I don’t wait for them to move. Their blonde heads twist like bottle caps around to their backs. Bones and tendons crack and break. Both fall to the ground, their gurgled screams filling the room. Sadly they won’t die, but I’m sure it hurts like hell. Marianna’s already huge eyes double in size as she looks to either side. Guess she didn’t see that coming.

“You—” is all she manages.

Planning is key in this job. I came up with a dozen scenarios of what was waiting for me in this house. The one I face is closest to scenario four. I know exactly what to do. I rip off the front of the bustier as she finally looks back to me. Her eyes dart to the daggers. I pull out two, and before my arms even reach the level, they float out of my hands. As fast as bullets, they fire right into her chest at the heart, exiting on the other side with blood in their wake. Bull’s-eye.

She doesn’t have time to react before I yank out two more, launching them to the same spot. Her body jerks violently a second time, blood splattering all over her shirt and out her mouth. Marianna collapses to the floor next to her henchmen.

I feel her eyes follow me as I walk over to the bed. The once-confident woman whimpers and presses on her wounds as blood pours between her fingers. I feel nothing—not rage, not sadness, just nothing—as I pull Bette out. Marianna whimpers louder as the long blade comes into view. I gaze down at her. How many people has she killed? Hundreds? Thousands? She tried to kill me and my partner just because he wouldn’t go to a book reading with her. I meet her eyes. They plead.

“Please. Do not,” she says.

I feel nothing. “I’ll tell Oliver you said good-bye.”

With all my strength, I bring the machete down onto her neck. With the silver coating, it slices through as if the flesh and bone isn’t there. Blood sprays like I’ve just turned on a sprinkler. Her head separates from the rest of her, blood spreading like wildfire over the floor. Her brown eyes glaze over. I yank Bette out of the floor with a groan. Then I throw up all over the nice bedspread.

Eleven

Playing Doctor

I run out of
that house as fast as I can carrying a sixty-pound duffel bag full of weapons. I left everything else—our clothes and other personal items—behind. God knows who else is in that house, and I don’t want to find out. The only piece of clothing I did take is Oliver’s jacket. We need a new place to regroup, and I don’t think visible bloodstains would help us go around undetected.

Oliver is still passed out in the back when I jump into the car. Practically before I close the door, I step on the gas and get the heck out of there. I want as much distance as I can get between us and anything with fangs before I stop.

Glancing in the mirror, I watch him. He looks worse. His skin is almost transparent now with a map of blue veins crisscrossing everywhere. I make it three miles down the road before the smart part of my brain takes over. I pull over. Oliver doesn’t stir.

I grab the thermos from the bag beside me and climb into the backseat. It’s a darn slaughterhouse back here, blood smeared and in pools on the interior. I lift Oliver’s head into my lap. What I wouldn’t give for one of his crude remarks right now, he’s so still and cold. With one hand I open his mouth to a pucker, and with the other pour down the blood. At first it pools in the hole for a few seconds, then slowly drains down his throat. I pour again. And again. The thinner blue veins disappear after the third time. I don’t know how much he’s absorbing because the wound on his back continues bleeding all over me. I pour a few more times until the thermos is empty.

His eyes remain closed, and he’s still a sickly shade of white, but the veins have disappeared and his cheeks are back to their full state. “Oliver?” I whisper. Nothing. Maybe this will work. “Oliver!” I shout as I slap his face as hard as I can.

His head jerks up along with the rest of his torso. He howls in pain. “Fuck!” His eyes jet around the car wildly, not sure where he is. They stop at me. “Where are we? What has happened?”

“We’re safe,” I say. “We got away after you passed out.” He groans in torment again. It’s so deep, it sinks into my bones almost causing me pain. “Your back’s really bad. It won’t stop bleeding.”

“I am starving,” he says in a low voice. “I am so hungry.”

“I gave you the last of the blood. I don’t know what else to do.”

“I need blood. Medical attention. It was a silver sword, the wound will not close on its own. And we need a safe location to wait for the others.” His eyes meet mine. Oh, crud. They’re as black as onyx. He’s vamping out. “Put me in the trunk. If I am seen
…
”

Don’t need to tell me twice. I race to the front, hitting the button to open the trunk. He all but tumbles out like a drunk, but at least he can move on his own. I so don’t want to, but I throw his arm around my shoulder to help him walk. His mouth is a mere foot from my neck. He’s dead weight, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Those eyes don’t leave my neck. “Where do we get this blood and medical attention?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. There is nothing in his world but my neck right now. We make it the ten steps to the trunk. I all but push him into it. He rests on his belly, closing his eyes. I slam the trunk shut. Now what?
Think!

I close my eyes, taking deep breaths. He’s just going to keep losing blood unless I get that wound closed. He won’t make it the few hours it will take for Dr. Neill to get here, and I don’t know of any vamp doctors. I’ll have to do it. I so hate my life.

I pull out my cell phone and dial information. Within seconds, I have the address for an all-night pharmacy and peel rubber down the street, pulling into the parking lot five minutes later. Thank you, GPS. The realization that I’m covered in blood hits me when I step inside the store, but I can’t do anything about it now. The place is deserted except for the clerk, and he doesn’t look up from his magazine.

After grabbing a basket, I start going up and down the aisles grabbing items. As a former teacher I’ve had to take first-aid classes, though I’ve never had to put it to use before. I get the essentials: first-aid kit, gauze, gloves, tape, and rubbing alcohol. What he needs is stitches, but of course they don’t sell suture kits here. Instead I get a tube of superglue next to the air fresheners. I pick up a few more items like a packet of XL T-shirts, water, paper towels, and Windex before checking out. When the clerk finally peels himself from an article on Jessica Simpson, he visibly tenses. I do my best to pretend there’s nothing wrong, even though the blood on my shirt drips onto the white tile floor. He glances at my items, then at the blood.

“Are you okay, Miss?” he asks.

“Fine. Hit a deer. In a hurry.” He shakes his head but starts ringing me up. I keep a sweet smile plastered in my face. “Do you by any chance, know a good hotel close by?”

“Um, the Embassy Suites’re nice.”

“And where is that?”

Reluctantly, he gives me directions. I thank him and almost run out of the store without paying. I toss all but the Windex and paper towels into the front of the car. In the back, I proceed to wipe up as much of the blood as I can, scrubbing with all my might. The clerk watches me from the window inside. If I was him, I’d be on the phone to the police the moment a bleeding lady set a foot into his store, but he hasn’t picked up a phone as far as I can see. Maybe the deer story is more plausible than I thought. I just do a quick clean, sweat dripping off my nose, before driving off. It’s still noticeable, but not as severe as before. I can pull into the hotel without someone thinking I’ve had a dying man in the back.

Next step. I root around my bag for the cell phone. Kansas is pre-set one. It rings five times before someone picks up. “Hello?” George asks, still groggy from sleep.

“George, its Bea. Oliver’s been injured. It’s really bad.”

“What happened?” he asks, now awake.

I tell him. “I’m on my way to the Embassy Suites with him, but we have no blood and no coffin. He’s bleeding like crazy.”

“Okay, you need to calm down,” he says as if he should take his own advice. “I’ll rouse the team. They’ll be there in an hour or two. Were you hurt?”

“Not really.”

“Good,” he says, relieved.

“George, I really have no idea what to do here.”

“Just help Oliver anyway you can. We’ll bring everything he needs.”

“Bring some clothes. And weapons. The gang of vamps is definitely in Venus. We should find them soon.”

“Okay. Call when you get to the hotel.”

“I will.” I hang up. One hour, maybe two before we’re rescued. Just need to keep him alive until then.

I pull into the Embassy Suites’ parking lot. It’s a big place, eight stories of brick with a parking lot off to the side. The bored valets stand under the awning and watch as I park my own car. When I turn the engine off, I realize that my bloodstained hands quake. How long have they been doing that? I entwine the sticky fingers to stop them. It seems to work. The shallow breaths help too.

Crap, I’m really caked in blood. Smears run up and down my arms, neck, and cheeks. Marianna’s blood all but geysered over me, so it’s probably in my hair too. Bile rises into my throat again, and I almost can’t stop it from coming out. She … I can’t think about it now. I reach into the plastic shopping bag to retrieve the bottle of water. I pour it on my arms, my face, even my legs wiping as much off with the paper towels as I can. A lot sloughs off, enough not to arouse suspicion. Thank God I wore black tonight. The blood on my clothes is barely noticeable. I pull my coat back on, buttoning it up all the way before I run into the hotel.

The huge lobby is near empty with only the front desk attendant, bellboy, and a chatting couple on the sofa off to the side. The concierge smiles as I power walk over to her. “Good evening,” she says.

“Hello. I don’t have a reservation,” I start. I worked this story out between the pharmacy and here. “Is it possible to get a room for the night? I think my husband has food poisoning, and we won’t be able to make it all the way home tonight.”

“Does he need a doctor?” she asks.

“No. Can we get a room?”

The woman checks the computer. “Of course.”

After paying with the emergency credit card, I sprint back to the car to get the bags. I unzip the duffel, pulling out one of the guns and vamp pepper spray, stuffing them in my purse. I grab Oliver’s jacket and pop the trunk.

His eyes have returned to normal, but some of the veins have resurfaced. “You drive like a madwoman,” he says groggily.

“You have to get up,” I say.

He lifts his right arm up a few inches without help, but I do the rest. I fling his arm over my shoulder again, wrapping my other arm around his back. He groans in pain. My thigh and back muscles feel as if they’re on fire as I hoist him up. We both groan this time. He pushes, and I pull him out of the trunk. “I do not know how much more of this I can take,” he says through the pain.

“Shut up,” I say, out of breath. I prop him up on the bumper. “We’re almost there. Here, put this on.” I reach down and gather my purse, the bags, and his coat. He manages to stand, and I help him on with the coat. But if he doesn’t stop wincing, I’ll cut off his lips.

We stumble like a pair of drunks through the parking lot with me close to carrying him along with the bags. All of his two hundred muscled pounds lies against me like a Roman column. My poor shoulders will be beyond sore tomorrow.

“Is he okay?” one of the valets asks as we pass.

“Food poisoning,” I manage to say.

The bellboy rushes toward us, mouth agape. “Do you need help, ma’am?” he asks. The jerk stops right in front of me. I cease walking. “Should I call a doctor?”

“No. All he needs is a toilet and some sleep,” I say, sidestepping him.

“Sir?” the bellman asks.

“I will be fine. Never eat raw oysters, my son,” Oliver says with a small smile.

This is good enough for him. The bellman gets on the opposite side and puts Oliver’s free arm over his shoulder too. Oliver bites his lower lip to stop the whimpers. The weight is literally lifted off my shoulders by half. We both carry him through the lobby past the stunned people and into the elevator.

“Perfect end to a perfect night, right my love?” Oliver says when the elevator doors close.

I smile at the bellman. “We’ve had worse, pookie.”

The doors open onto the fourth floor, and we haul him down the hallway to room 408. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor, sir?” the bellman asks as I find the room key.

“If I have not improved in an hour, I am sure my wife will phone one,” Oliver says.

Handing Oliver off to the man, I open the door. First I turn on the light. “Let’s get him face down on the bed,” I say, resuming my supportive position. We toss Oliver on the red and gold comforter.

“Is there anything else I can do?” the bellman asks.

“No, I can take it from here,” I say hustling him out of the room. I do put a twenty in his hand before shutting the door on his face. I lock every lock before spinning around to my patient.

“Nice lad,” Oliver says.

“We have to close that wound ASAP.” I yank off my jacket and kick off my shoes before tossing the contents of the bags onto the bed next to him.

Oliver flips his head to watch me. I open the gauze, superglue, kit, and gloves. “Done this before, have you?” he asks with a weak grin Number Four.

Ignoring him, I move to the other side of the bed with the scissors from the kit in my hand. “I have to cut your shirt off. It may hurt.” He bites his lip when I lift up his arms to remove the coat. The shirt underneath is so drenched in blood it sticks like tape to his torso. Making sure not to touch the wound still weeping blood, I cut the shirt vertically and lay it open, getting the full extent of the damage. Wow. Freddy sliced at least two feet from shoulder to hip. The flesh creases like swollen lips with a gaping gash an inch deep. Every centimeter is bloody.

“This is not how I envisioned the circumstances of you tearing my clothes off.”

I ignore him again. “I need to clean you up or I won’t be able to see what I’m doing,” I say more to myself than him.

I gather the white towels from the bathroom, soaking them in water before returning to my patient. He smiles weakly as I reach him. “Ripping my clothes off and now a sponge bath. It is as if you have been reading my mind.”

“Will you please shut up?” I bark.

He doesn’t utter a word as I delicately wipe over hard muscles and broad shoulders that comprise his back. This is intimate, I know it, but I feel nothing. This must be how doctors do it, shutting off everything but the logical side of their brain. No wonder they’re such jerks. His hands clench when I pat around the wound. When I’m done, the towel resembles a maxi-pad. I toss it to the floor. Now comes the part I’m dreading. I open the superglue and slap on the surgical gloves.

“Superglue?” Oliver asks.

“It was used in Vietnam in combat situations when suturing would take too long or was unavailable.” Thank you, History Channel.

“Fascinating.”

I stare at the wound. Okay. Here goes.

I position my body above his, hands and instruments ready. But I can’t move. I can’t. Shoot. Blood continues to run down his alabaster flesh, slowly draining his life force out, but I still can’t move. My hands tremble again. I am not going to glue pieces of my friend’s flesh together in a room at the Embassy Suites. It’s too surreal. I close my eyes and shake my head. I can’t do this.

“What is the matter?” Oliver asks.

I close my hands into fists then open them again.
Just do it
. He could die if I don’t. I have no choice. I open my eyes. “Nothing. This will hurt.” Here goes. My hands move this time. I push together the loose edges of his skin and squeeze the glue between them. Oliver winces again, and my gag reflex spikes. I swallow the bile back down. “I think I’m going to be sick. You need to distract me. Talk to me.”

“About what?” he asks through the pain as I move up the next inch.