Crimson Death
Page 200
I watched Domino struggle for breath, and knew no matter how much pain I was enduring, it wasn’t as bad as what he was feeling. He looked at me with those fire-colored eyes, and what I saw in them was failure. Drowning in his own blood and all he was thinking was that he’d failed me. I did not want that to be his last thought. I tried to tell him with my eyes that he hadn’t failed me. I couldn’t speak and I didn’t want to try to talk to him mind-to-mind; I was afraid it would make everything worse.
The blond stood in front of him, wrapped one hand around the hilt, and braced the other against Domino’s chest. He pushed as he pulled on the hilt, and just that extra pressure on his chest made us both start to choke, our bodies shaking and starting to convulse.
The man sitting on me tried to hold me down and keep me from hurting myself, I think. “Get it out of him, now!”
“It’s stuck on a bone, or something,” the other one growled.
“If she dies . . .”
The blond tore it out of Domino’s chest, blood gushing around it as his body fell to the floor. It bowed my spine, made me try to breathe and not be able to, and then suddenly I could breathe. My chest still ached, but it wasn’t a sharp pain anymore. I breathed and it hurt to do it, but I could do it. Shallow breaths hurt, but . . . I tried a deeper breath and it wasn’t painful. Another one and it was better. Other things were better, too. I thought of Nathaniel and knew he was standing with Damian beside him, and Dev was there, too. I could feel them now, and they could feel me. They knew at least some of what was happening to me now. I was afraid to open up the link as completely as I could, because I didn’t want the shapeshifter who was touching me to sense what I was doing.
The shapeshifter in question said, “That’s it, calm, even breaths. You’ll be all right.”
I didn’t want him to comfort me. I didn’t want him being nice even when I knew it was a means to an end. For some reason they didn’t want me dead, so he’d work to keep me alive, but that was the only reason I wasn’t bleeding out on the floor with Domino. I turned to look at him. He wasn’t moving at all now. He just lay there on his side, but he’d fallen at an odd angle, unable to cushion or direct it. His neck was hyperextended, which would make breathing even harder, or maybe easier. I didn’t know anymore. But I could see his face, see his eyes too wide as he struggled to breathe, that awful wet sound coming from his chest, or his throat. Blood coated his chin and mouth. I could still taste his mouth on mine. He shook, or shivered; a gout of blood spilled out of his mouth and the horrible wet rattling breathing stopped. I saw his eyes go, watched him dying inches from me.
I screamed. I screamed for help. I screamed, because there was nothing else I could do. The man on top of me popped me in the side of the face the way you hit a cat that was chewing something, not to hurt, just to startle. It made me look away from Domino to him.
“No screaming,” he said, and took a syringe out of his jacket pocket. He removed the plastic that covered the needle.
“After the screaming she already did, they’ll just think it’s more sex,” the other one said.
I didn’t look at him but kept my eyes on the man with the needle. I did not want to let him give me whatever was in the syringe. I didn’t even have to know what it was, to know that much. I must have telegraphed something, because when I tried to hit him, he blocked me with his arm and settled his weight more solidly on my waist. He had to weigh over two hundred, maybe closer to three; I was pinned unless I moved him. All I could do was try to struggle enough to keep him from using the needle. I’d alerted Nathaniel and the others; they’d tell Edward and Nolan, and the other police. They knew what rooms we were in; if I could delay long enough, maybe help would come.
I still didn’t know what they’d done to Ethan, other than that he wasn’t supposed to be dead. I wanted to look behind me and see for myself, but the man sitting heavy on my waist leaned down toward me with the needle. I put my arms up the way you did when you sparred except my arms were probably his target, so it was hard to know what part of me to protect.
“I promise you the drugs will just knock you out, nothing else.”
“Your word of honor?” I asked.
He looked a little surprised, and then said, “Yes.”
“For me to take your word, you’d have to be from a century where that really mattered, and this is not that century.”
“My original century was, Miss Blake. I give you my word of honor that this will only make you sleep.”
“I believe you,” I said.
“Then put down your arms and let me give you the shot.”
“Nope, I don’t want to be unconscious.”
“We can hit you until you’re unconscious,” the younger one said.
“You don’t want to kill me, and hitting someone repeatedly in the head until they’re unconscious is a good way to do that by accident.”
“But I do want to kill you. I want to kill you so very much,” he said, as he walked closer to us so I could look up at both of them.
“But you won’t, at least not here and now.”
“And why won’t I?”
“Because someone else wants me alive, and that someone else has enough power over you to make your friend afraid of me dying here and now.”
“You gave away too much,” he said to his friend.
“You shouldn’t have used the weapon on one of her moitié bêtes. It could have killed her.”
“He was better than I thought he would be, and the other one was coming through the door.”
“So you admit that you couldn’t take him without resorting to a magical weapon,” the one sitting on me said, and there was derision in his voice. I’d thought they were partners but was beginning to think they didn’t really like each other. It didn’t mean that they weren’t work partners, but it did mean that they weren’t a completely united front. Division in the ranks always gave opportunity to find people you could turn; traitor was only a bad word if they were betraying you. If they were helping you betray the other side, traitor could be a very good word.
The young-looking one snarled at his friend, an edge of growl in it that sounded too deep to come from his thinner chest. He looked in shape, but it was the shape of someone who hadn’t hit all their secondary growth spurts yet, and now he never would.
He raised the weapon he’d taken out of Domino’s chest, and it didn’t look magical. It looked like a short sword, but the blade was almost pyramid shaped and the blade wasn’t . . . It seemed heavier and oddly shaped. I tried to look at the blade coldly, trying to see the magic in it and not Domino’s blood all over it. If I looked at it clinically I wouldn’t start screaming again—maybe.
The blond stood in front of him, wrapped one hand around the hilt, and braced the other against Domino’s chest. He pushed as he pulled on the hilt, and just that extra pressure on his chest made us both start to choke, our bodies shaking and starting to convulse.
The man sitting on me tried to hold me down and keep me from hurting myself, I think. “Get it out of him, now!”
“It’s stuck on a bone, or something,” the other one growled.
“If she dies . . .”
The blond tore it out of Domino’s chest, blood gushing around it as his body fell to the floor. It bowed my spine, made me try to breathe and not be able to, and then suddenly I could breathe. My chest still ached, but it wasn’t a sharp pain anymore. I breathed and it hurt to do it, but I could do it. Shallow breaths hurt, but . . . I tried a deeper breath and it wasn’t painful. Another one and it was better. Other things were better, too. I thought of Nathaniel and knew he was standing with Damian beside him, and Dev was there, too. I could feel them now, and they could feel me. They knew at least some of what was happening to me now. I was afraid to open up the link as completely as I could, because I didn’t want the shapeshifter who was touching me to sense what I was doing.
The shapeshifter in question said, “That’s it, calm, even breaths. You’ll be all right.”
I didn’t want him to comfort me. I didn’t want him being nice even when I knew it was a means to an end. For some reason they didn’t want me dead, so he’d work to keep me alive, but that was the only reason I wasn’t bleeding out on the floor with Domino. I turned to look at him. He wasn’t moving at all now. He just lay there on his side, but he’d fallen at an odd angle, unable to cushion or direct it. His neck was hyperextended, which would make breathing even harder, or maybe easier. I didn’t know anymore. But I could see his face, see his eyes too wide as he struggled to breathe, that awful wet sound coming from his chest, or his throat. Blood coated his chin and mouth. I could still taste his mouth on mine. He shook, or shivered; a gout of blood spilled out of his mouth and the horrible wet rattling breathing stopped. I saw his eyes go, watched him dying inches from me.
I screamed. I screamed for help. I screamed, because there was nothing else I could do. The man on top of me popped me in the side of the face the way you hit a cat that was chewing something, not to hurt, just to startle. It made me look away from Domino to him.
“No screaming,” he said, and took a syringe out of his jacket pocket. He removed the plastic that covered the needle.
“After the screaming she already did, they’ll just think it’s more sex,” the other one said.
I didn’t look at him but kept my eyes on the man with the needle. I did not want to let him give me whatever was in the syringe. I didn’t even have to know what it was, to know that much. I must have telegraphed something, because when I tried to hit him, he blocked me with his arm and settled his weight more solidly on my waist. He had to weigh over two hundred, maybe closer to three; I was pinned unless I moved him. All I could do was try to struggle enough to keep him from using the needle. I’d alerted Nathaniel and the others; they’d tell Edward and Nolan, and the other police. They knew what rooms we were in; if I could delay long enough, maybe help would come.
I still didn’t know what they’d done to Ethan, other than that he wasn’t supposed to be dead. I wanted to look behind me and see for myself, but the man sitting heavy on my waist leaned down toward me with the needle. I put my arms up the way you did when you sparred except my arms were probably his target, so it was hard to know what part of me to protect.
“I promise you the drugs will just knock you out, nothing else.”
“Your word of honor?” I asked.
He looked a little surprised, and then said, “Yes.”
“For me to take your word, you’d have to be from a century where that really mattered, and this is not that century.”
“My original century was, Miss Blake. I give you my word of honor that this will only make you sleep.”
“I believe you,” I said.
“Then put down your arms and let me give you the shot.”
“Nope, I don’t want to be unconscious.”
“We can hit you until you’re unconscious,” the younger one said.
“You don’t want to kill me, and hitting someone repeatedly in the head until they’re unconscious is a good way to do that by accident.”
“But I do want to kill you. I want to kill you so very much,” he said, as he walked closer to us so I could look up at both of them.
“But you won’t, at least not here and now.”
“And why won’t I?”
“Because someone else wants me alive, and that someone else has enough power over you to make your friend afraid of me dying here and now.”
“You gave away too much,” he said to his friend.
“You shouldn’t have used the weapon on one of her moitié bêtes. It could have killed her.”
“He was better than I thought he would be, and the other one was coming through the door.”
“So you admit that you couldn’t take him without resorting to a magical weapon,” the one sitting on me said, and there was derision in his voice. I’d thought they were partners but was beginning to think they didn’t really like each other. It didn’t mean that they weren’t work partners, but it did mean that they weren’t a completely united front. Division in the ranks always gave opportunity to find people you could turn; traitor was only a bad word if they were betraying you. If they were helping you betray the other side, traitor could be a very good word.
The young-looking one snarled at his friend, an edge of growl in it that sounded too deep to come from his thinner chest. He looked in shape, but it was the shape of someone who hadn’t hit all their secondary growth spurts yet, and now he never would.
He raised the weapon he’d taken out of Domino’s chest, and it didn’t look magical. It looked like a short sword, but the blade was almost pyramid shaped and the blade wasn’t . . . It seemed heavier and oddly shaped. I tried to look at the blade coldly, trying to see the magic in it and not Domino’s blood all over it. If I looked at it clinically I wouldn’t start screaming again—maybe.
