Twilight Phantasies

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jamey shook his head to clear it, but it only brought excruciating pain. He'd been out cold. he knew he had, but had no idea how long. He was on his back and his arms, still tied behind him, had gone completely numb. He tried to sit up, and the pain that knifed through his chest was like nothing he'd ever felt. He thought it would tear him in half. He stopped with his body half sitting up and half lying down. But remaining like that hurt still more so he drew a breath to brace himself, and that sent more pain through him.
Grating his teeth, he shoved himself farther up, relieved when he felt a wall to his right. He leaned against it, then sat still and let the pain slowly recede. It didn't go far. As the blood rushed into his arms, they throbbed and tingled and prickled unbearably. He'd have yelled if he could, but the tape remained over his mouth. His eyes were still covered, and his ankles still bound. His lungs felt funny, and it was more than just the stabbing pain that hurt every time he inhaled. They felt the way they feel after you go swimming and get a little bit of water in them. He kept having the urge to cough, but he was terrified to give in to it. If he coughed, with this tape over his mouth, he'd probably choke to death-especially if that weird feeling in his lungs was what he thought it was. He thought it felt as if something were sticking right into his chest. A blade, a sharp edged board he'd hit on the way down, something like that. And he thought that whatever kept trying to choke up into his throat might be blood. If it was, he knew he was in a lot of trouble.
* * * * *
She flung the file to the floor in disgust, and turned to leave the small office she'd discovered. She hadn't even made it to the lab itself, which she suspected lay beyond the padlocked door to her right. She needed no more of the revelations she'd found here. In Daniel's files she'd found what he'd termed "case studies." In truth these were detailed accounts of the capture and subsequent torture of three vampires.
Two had been taken in 1959, by Daniel and his then partner, William Reinholt. The pair were described as "young and therefore not as powerful as we'd first assumed." They were "relieved of a good deal of blood to weaken them, thus assuring the safety of my partner and myself. However, they were unable to sustain the loss, and expired during the night." Another study noted was of a woman who called herself only Rhiannon, and who was "entirely uncooperative, hurling insults and abuse constantly." Due to their last efforts, they took less blood from her, leaving her too strong to deal with.
Daniel returned to the lab after hours of "tests and study" to find his partner dead, his neck broken, the bars torn from the window and the "subject" gone.
Tamara felt like cheering for the mysterious Rhiannon. She felt like crying for the man Daniel had been. A monster, just as he'd told her. She hadn't realized just how accurate that confession had been.
She stopped herself from leaving, as appalling as she found the notes. She had to continue scouring the files if she wanted to find a clue as to where Jamey had been taken. She hoped to God there was one to find. She was beginning to think this her last chance. She had a terrible certainty in the pit of her stomach that if she didn't find Jamey soon, it would too late.
She returned to the file cabinet and pawed through more files. There was none with Jamey's name on it, but she halted, her blood going cold, when her fingers touched one with her own. Slowly she withdrew the file. It was thicker than any of the others. Something inside her warned her not to open it and look inside, but she knew she had to.
Moments later she wished she hadn't. Thumbing through the pages, she'd paused when she'd seen her parents' names on one, her eyes traversing a single passage before they became too blurred to read farther.
It has been decided that I should seek to gain custody of this child. She will act as a magnet for Marquand and possibly others of the undead species. The parents, as expected, refuse to cooperate. They are, however, expendable, and of less value than the countless lives which will be saved if this experiment bears fruit. A rare viral strain has been chosen. Their exposure will be carefully contained. Death will occur within twenty-four hours.
"No," she whispered. "Oh, God, no. . ." The file fell from her nerveless fingers and sheets spread over the floor. Tamara gripped the edge of the open file drawer, her head bowed over it. Daniel had killed her parents. For a moment she conjured their images in her mind, ashamed that they were blurred and indistinct. She barely remembered them. Her memories of them, too, had been stolen from her. Daniel's refusal to discuss them. . . to allow her to keep mementos of them. . . his constant advice that her mind didn't want her to remember, that she was better off forgetting.
She drew several short, panting breaths, and forced her eyes open. She blinked the tears away and glimpsed the polished grips of a handgun, protruding from beneath the files in the drawer. Just as she reached for it a hand closed on her shoulder and pulled her backward.
She whirled. "Curtis!"
His narrow gaze raked her, then the open drawers and scattered files. "Been doing a little exploring, Tammy?"
Why had she doubted Eric, even for a second, she wondered silently. Why hadn't she gone straight to his home when she realized it must have been Curt who killed Daniel? He'd have helped her find Jamey. But it was too late for hindsight now. There was still an hour before full dark. And she still had to know where the boy was. "What have you done with Jamey, Curt?"
His brows shot up. "You have been busy. What makes you think I took the kid?"
She shook her head. "I don't think, I know. Where is he?"
"He's safe. Don't worry, I wouldn't hurt the kid. . . right away. I'd like to study him a little. Later. When I've finished with you and Marquand. Does that reassure you?"
She shook her head so hard her hair billowed around her like a dark cloud. "If you hurt him, Curtis, I swear to God-"
"You'd be better off worrying about yourself, Tammy." He took a step nearer her and she backed up. He took another. So did she. In a moment she realized he'd backed her up to the padlocked door. She stiffened. He pulled a key from his pocket, held it out to her. "Open it."
She shook her head again. "No."
"You want to see the kid, don't you?"
"Jamey?" She glanced furtively over her shoulder at the door. "He's in there?"
"Where else would I put him?"
Relief washed over her and she snatched the key from him, stabbing it into the lock and twisting. When it sprang free she jiggled it loose and shoved the door open. If she could just get to Jamey, she thought, they would be all right. It would be dark soon, and Eric would come for them. She moved into the darkened room. "Jamey? It's Tam, I'm here. It's all right... Jamey?"
The door closed and her heart plummeted when she heard locks being slid home. A flick brought a flood of light so brilliant she had to squint to see. She scanned the room, certain now that Jamey was not here. There was a table in the room's center, with straps where a person's ankles and wrists would rest, another at the head. Beside the table a chrome tray lined with gleaming instruments. Above it, a dome-shaped surgical lamp. She swallowed hard against the panic that rose within her. Beside it was the sickening realization that this was the room where the two young vampires had died at Daniel's hand, and where Rhiannon had been tortured to the point of a murderous rage before she'd made her escape.
She turned to face Curtis when she heard his approach, and in an instant he gripped her upper arms mercilessly. He pushed her backward, oblivious to her feet kicking at his shins, or her thrashing shoulders. When her back hit the table she sucked in her breath. "My God, Curt, what are you doing?"
He brought her wrists together, held them in one hand and reached for a bottle with the other. He twisted the cap off with his teeth, then held it under her nose. She twisted her head away from the frighteningly familiar scent, but her mobility was limited and his reach was long.
When her head swam and her knees buckled he set the chloroform down and shoved her roughly onto the table. A moment later she found her ankles and wrists bound tight. She blinked away the dizziness, then averted her face fast when he held pungent smelling salts to her nose.
"That's a good girl. Don't go passing out on me, now. It would defeat the whole purpose." She tried to bring the whirling room into focus, relieved when it stopped tilting and spinning. "You can summon him mentally, am I right?"
She pursed her lips, and refused to look at him.
He gripped her chin and made her face him. "Don't answer me, Tammy. I'm betting that you can. We'll soon find out, won't we?" He read her expression correctly and smiled. "You think I'm afraid of him, Tammy? I want you to call him. When he gets here, I'll be ready and waiting."
She shook her head. "I won't do it."
Curtis smiled slowly and Tamara felt a cold chill race up her spine. "I think you will," he said, bending over her to fasten the strap over her forehead, leaving her virtually paralyzed. "I think you'll be screaming for him to come by the time I'm finished." He reached to the tray, and she tried to follow his movements with her eyes. He lifted a gleaming scalpel, looked at it for a long moment, then twisted his wrist to glance at his watch. "Another twenty minutes ought to do it, honey."
* * * * *
Eric went completely rigid in his coffin as a shock of pain shot through him. Eyes wide with sudden alacrity, he flicked the latch and flung the lid back. He was on his feet in a moment, brow furrowed in concentration. He focused on Tamara. He called to her. He waited for a response but felt none.
For a brief instant he wondered if it was possible she believed what Rogers had intended she believe-that he had murdered her beloved St Claire. He dismissed the notion out of hand. She knew him too well. She was fully aware she need only look into his mind to know the truth. She wouldn't believe his guilt without giving him a chance to explain. Which was why he'd fully expected to find her waiting upstairs when he rose this evening. Instead, he sensed only emptiness. No doubt she was beside herself with grief, but he would not allow her to shut him out. He'd help her through, whether she wanted him to or not. Again he called to her. Again he received no response.
Roland rose with his usual grace, but when Eric glanced at his friend he saw an unfamiliar tension in Roland's face. He ceased his summoning of Tamara to ask, "What is it?"
"I am not sure." Roland visibly shook himself. "Have you had word from our Tamara?"
"She doesn't heed my call."
"Go to her, then. She may be out of sorts after last night, but I have no doubt she'll see the truth when you tell it. If you-" He stopped, cocking his head to one side as if listening. "Damnation!"
Eric cocked one brow, waiting for an explanation, but Roland only shook his head. "I'm still uncertain. I shall go out for a time, see if I can puzzle it out. Will you be able to manage this on your own?"
"Of course, but-"
"Good. Give my regards to our girl."
Roland spun on his heel and left as Eric watched him go, wondering what on earth was the matter. Shrugging, he returned his concentration to Tamara. Why do you ignore me, my love?
He felt no reply, then suddenly another spasm of pain shot through him, stiffening his spine. He blinked rapidly, realizing the pain must be hers in order to make itself so completely known to him. Tamara! If you refuse to answer, I will come to you. I must know what-
No!
Her answer rang loudly in his head, and he frowned. You are in pain, love. What has happened to you?
Nothing. Stay away, Eric. If you love me at all, stay away. Again, intense, jarring pain hit, nearly sending him to his knees, and he knew someone was deliberately hurting her. Rogers?
"I should have killed the bastard the first time I set eyes on him." He fairly ripped the door from its hinges in his haste to get to her. He gained the stairs, and then the frigid night air. His preternatural strength gave him the speed of a cheetah, and beyond. He raced toward her, and would have gone right through the front door had not a quavering train of thought pierced his mind. It's a trap, Eric. Stay away. Please, stay away.
He paused, his heart thudding, not with exertion but with rage and fear for Tamara. A trap, she'd said. He used his mind to track her down, then moved slowly around the house, seeking another way in. He finally knelt beside a barred window, obscured from view by shrubbery.
Tamara lay strapped to a table beneath a blinding light. Her blouse had been sliced up the center, as had her brassiere. She still wore a dark skirt. Her feet were bare. Hot pink patches of tissue oozed blood the way a sponge oozed water, in various spots over her torso. One was on the breast from which Eric himself had tasted her blood. Another, at the same spot on her throat. Rogers had amused himself by taking tissue samples, Eric realized. He now stood aside, laying a prod like instrument down and picking up what looked like a drill.
"Even that baby didn't make you call him, huh. Tam? Well, I have other tricks in my bag. I could really use a bone marrow sample." He depressed the trigger, and the drill whirred. He release it, held it poised over her lower leg. "What do you say. Tammy? Do you call or do I drill?"
Tamara's face was deathly white. Her jaw quivered, but she looked Rogers in the eye. "Drop dead," she rasped.
Shrugging, Rogers lowered a pair of plastic goggles over his eyes and lowered the drill. With a feral growl Eric smashed the glass and ripped the first bar he gripped free of the window. In a second he was inside.
"Eric, no! Go away, hurry!" Her voice was unrecognizable. The stringy bark of an ancient cherry tree, the voice of sandpaper.
Eric lunged for Curtis, who dropped the drill and lifted something that looked like an odd sort of gun. Too fast, the dart plunged into his chest. He jerked backward, gaping like a fish out of water, and fell to his knees. He gripped the dart, pulled it from his flesh and held it up, looking first at it, and then beyond it, at Rogers's triumphant leer. The drug. He'd been expecting a syringe, not a gun. He forced himself to his feet and took an unsteady step toward Rogers. "You. . . will. . . die for this," he gasped. He took another step, then sank into a bottomless pool of black mists.
* * * * *
Roland moved in the night like a shadow, speeding over darkened streets, then stopping, listening and moving on. Ever closer to the boy. The faint sense of the boy had niggled at him since he'd arrived on Eric's doorstep. But it had been so faint he'd barely been aware of it, much less able to pinpoint the source. Naturally, he understood that the Chosen usually "connect" only with a single vampire. He was the only one who'd sensed Eric as a child. Others would have recognized him, had they encountered him, of course. But no others heard him calling. They didn't feel the pull. Just as with Tamara, Eric had been the one drawn. Roland felt her only through Eric.
This boy called out to someone. . . not to Roland. If he'd been summoning Roland the entire matter would have been so much simpler. As it was, with the faintest trace of a signal to go by, and the boy not even aware of transmitting it, he'd be lucky to find him in time.
That was the hell of it, Roland thought as he paused again to try to feel the signals the child was sending. They grew weaker with each passing moment. The knowledge that the child's life was ebbing overlapped the pull of him like an alarm sounding in Roland's head-like one of Eric's security contraptions. If only his sense of the boy was clearer! If only the boy was reaching those invisible fingers out to him instead of someone else-someone who apparently wasn't listening. Roland hadn't known it was possible for one of his kind to ignore the desperate cries of a child, a child likely to expire before this night's end.
* * * * *
Eric opened his eyes and found himself strapped to the same table Tamara had previously occupied. His hands, feet and head were bound just as hers had been. Unlike her, he was still fully clothed. No doubt the bastard had been uncertain how long his drug would be effective, and was unwilling to risk personal injury. He hadn't wanted Eric waking until he was fully restrained. . . as if these measly straps would make a difference. Eric pulled against them, shocked when the effort left him limp and even dizzy.
He's drawn vials of blood from you, Eric. It's why you 're so weak.
The explanation came to his mind from Tamara's, and with it a lingering pain, a weak, shaken feeling and utter desolation. He wanted to see her, but couldn't turn his head. He tried to attune his groggy senses to hers and they finally began to sharpen. He knew Curtis was still in the room. It was why she hadn't spoken aloud.
What has the bastard done to you?
Nothing so terrible, came the weak reply. I'll be all right.
I feel your pain, Tamara. I cannot see you, and keeping things from me only frightens me further. Tell me. Tell me all of it.
He felt her shudder, as if it had passed through his own body. He. . . took little patches of skin. It burns, but the scrapes aren't deep. He drew blood from me, too.
Eric sensed her pain, certain there was more. The jolts of pain he'd felt earlier hadn't been caused by superficial abrasions. He had an instrument when I arrived-a rod shaped device he brandished over you. What was it?
She hesitated for a long moment. It is. . . charged. . . with electricity.
Rage flooded through Eric. He would kill Curtis Rogers for this, he vowed silently, even as Tamara continued. He killed Daniel. He wanted me to believe it was you, but I could never believe that. He's taken Jamey, Eric. I don't know what he's done with him-
Her thoughts ceased abruptly with Curtis's approaching footsteps. He leaned over Eric. "Finally awake? Drug didn't last quite as long as I'd hoped, but then, it's still experimental."
"You push me too far, Rogers."
"Not a hell of a lot you can do about it at the moment, is there? I am going to need some samples from you, too, you know. A little bone marrow, some cerebral fluid. Then we'll see just how much sunlight is bearable."
Eric felt the terror Tamara experienced as Rogers described his plans in explicit detail. He also felt the weakening effects of the drug waning. His strength began to seep back into his limbs.
"Curt, you can't do this to him. Please, for God's sake, if you ever cared about me, let him go."
Rogers stepped away from the table. Eric couldn't turn to look, but he knew the bastard was touching her. He felt her shiver of revulsion, and he heard the chilling words. "You haven't figured it out yet? I never did care about you. . . except as a research subject. A half-breed vampire, Tam. That's what you are. The only thing you're good for is scientific study. Oh, maybe you're good for a few other things, too. I intend to find out before I'm finished with you."
She sobbed involuntarily, and Eric jerked against his restraints. The movement brought Rogers back quickly. "Hmm, you're still a little too lively for my tastes," he drawled, rattling instruments on a tray. A moment later Eric flinched as a needle was driven into his arm. He felt the life force slowly leaving his body with every pulse of blood that rushed into the waiting receptacle. In moments he was sickeningly dizzy, and too weak even to flex his fingers. He felt himself slipping from consciousness. His heavy lids fell, and vaguely he heard Tamara crying, "Stop it, Curtis, please. My God, you're killing him. . . ."
* * * * *
Tamara struggled against the straps he'd tied around her, but it was useless. Her hands were bound behind the chair, her ankles tied to the chair legs. Her entire body pulsed with pain, due to the dozens of scrapings he'd taken from her skin. She was dizzy from the loss of the blood he'd drawn, and weak and shaken from the jolts of electricity he'd sent through her to try to force her to summon Eric. She'd refused, but it had done no good. Eric had felt her pain and rushed to her side. She should have known he would. He'd come to help her, and now all she could do was sit and watch while Curt drained the blood from him. Eric grew whiter and perfectly limp. Finally Curt removed the needle. He lifted Eric's eyelids and flicked a penlight at them, then nodded, satisfied.
She was surprised when Curt glanced at his watch, and then moved to close the shutters. "I think it will be safer to work on him during the day, don't you, Tam?" He brushed away the broken glass, seemingly unconcerned about the bar Eric had wrenched free. He turned to a cupboard, pulled out a fresh bottle and syringe, and Tamara flinched automatically. "Easy, now," he said softly. "I want to get a few hours' sleep. I know he isn't going anywhere, but I have to make sure you stay put, too, don't I?" He gripped her arm and sank the needle, far more deeply than was necessary, into her flesh. She stiffened, trying to resist the drowsiness that began creeping up on her. Curt let his hand move over her breasts before he drew away. She would have pulled her tattered blouse together if she'd been able to move her arms. His touch made her want to vomit.
"I hate you. . . for this," she managed, before she was unable to resist the lure of sleep any longer. Her head fell forward.
She had no idea how much time had passed when she lifted it again. The dark spaces between the shutters showed gray now, rather than black as before, so she feared dawn was approaching. Her arms ached from being pulled behind her, and her head throbbed so forcefully she could barely focus her vision.
When she did, she saw Eric lying exactly as he had been earlier, as pale and still as. No. She wouldn't complete the thought. He was all right. He had to be. She mustered all of her strength and hopped her chair toward him. "Eric. Wake up, Eric, we have to get out of here." That he didn't respond in the slightest did not deter her. She reached the table, and turned so her back was at his side. She bent almost double and strained her legs until she managed to lift the chair on her back. She groped with her fingers, felt his at last and gripped them. "Do you feel me touching you? Wake up, Eric. Untie me. Come on, I know you can do it. You wake enough to push your damned hidden button, you can wake enough to loosen a simple knot. Our lives depend on it, Eric. Please." She sucked in a breath when she felt his fingers flex. "Good. That's it." She angled her hand so the knot touched his fingertips, and continued speaking to him softly as she felt his fingers move. She knew it was a terrible effort. She felt the energy he forced into just moving his fingers. And then she felt the strap fall away from her hands, and she heard him exhale.
Instantly she bent and freed her feet. She stood, turned to Eric and reached down to release the straps that bound his ankles, then his wrists. When she bent over his head, releasing the final strap, she stroked his cool face with her palm. "Tell me what to do, Eric." She wanted to help him, but wasn't certain how. Hot tears rolled down her face to drop onto his.
His eyes fluttered, then remained open. "Go," he whispered. "Leave me. . ." The lids fell closed again. "Too late," he finished.
"No, it isn't. It can't be. Don't do this, Eric, don't leave me."
She caught her breath as a memory surged like a flash flood in her mind. In her imagination it wasn't Eric lying on the table. It was Tamara, a very young Tamara, small and pale and afraid. Her wrists were bandaged and she knew that the bandages wouldn't help. She was going to die. She felt it.
Until the tall, dark man had appeared beside her bed. She knew his face, even then. She didn't know his name, but it didn't matter. He was her friend. . . she'd seen him before, even though she'd pretended she hadn't. She sensed he, didn't want to be seen, and she didn't want to frighten him away. He used to come and look in on her at night. He made her feel safe, protected. She knew that he loved her. She felt it, the way you can feel heat from a candle if you hold your hand near the flame.
She was so glad to see him there with her. But sad, too, because he was crying. He stayed beside the bed for a long time, stroking her hair and feeling very sad. She wanted to talk to him, but she was so weak she could barely open her eyes. After a while he did something. He hurt himself. There was a cut on his wrist, and he pushed it to her lips.
At first she thought he wanted her to kiss it better, the way her mommy used to kiss her hurts sometimes. But as soon as the blood touched her tongue she felt something zap through her. . . just like when she'd touched the frayed wire on the lamp once. Except this didn't hurt and it didn't scare her the way that had. It zapped just the same, though, and all at once she knew he was giving her the medicine that would make her better, and she swallowed it.
She felt herself get stronger with every sip. A long time later he pulled it away, and wrapped a clean white handkerchief around his wrist. He slumped in the chair near the bed, and he was almost as white as the hanky. He felt weak and tired, and she felt strong and better. She knew she would be okay. And when she looked at him again, she knew his name. In fact she knew all about him, somehow. She sat up in bed, and listened as he told stories and sang lullabies. He was her hero and she adored him. It broke her heart when he finally had to go.
Tamara shook herself, and brushed at the tears. "I remember," she told him. "Oh, Eric, I remember."
His only response was a slight flicker of his eyes. His lips formed the word Go.
"Not without you," she told him.
"Too. . . weak." It cost him terribly just to utter the words. His face showed the strain. "Go on."
"Never," she whispered. "Not if I have to carry you on my back, not if I have to crawl, Eric. I'd sooner slit my own wrists than leave you here with-" She broke off there.
He forced his eyes open once more, and met her gaze. "No. You... too weak. . . could lose too. . . much." Ignoring him, Tamara brought her gaze to the tray, and snatched up a scalpel. "No. . ." He put as much force as he had behind the word. "Could. . . die-"
She grated her teeth and pulled the blade over her forearm. She forced the small cut to his mouth. Too weak to fight her, Eric had no choice but to swallow. Her blood flowed into him slowly, but with the samples Curt had already taken, she soon felt weak and dizzy. Her head swirled and the room slowly began to spin. Eric shoved her away from him, snatching up the strap that had bound her before, and jerking it tight around her arm, above the cut.
She vaguely heard the door open, just before she was jerked away from Eric. Curt spun her around and slammed a fist into her temple, sending her to her knees. Blinking slowly as the ceiling rotated above, she tried to see what was happening. Eric was on his feet. Curt was snatching a hypodermic from a shelf. He stood crouched and ready. Eric fell into a similar stance and they circled one another, wary, each ready for the other to spring.
She had to help Eric, she thought through a haze. He didn't stand a chance against Cult's new drug, and if Curt got the best of him this time, she didn't doubt he'd kill him. She couldn't just sit here and watch to see which of them was still breathing after this battle. Eric could not lose. It was that simple. If he did, they would both die here, in this chamber of horrors. And what would become of Jamey?
Unnoticed by either man, she slid backward across the floor toward the door Curtis had left wide. When she reached it she gripped the knob and hauled herself to her feet. Dizziness swamped her and she staggered, but with a desperate lunge she made it to the file cabinet, praying it was still unlocked. She heard something crash to the floor in the laboratory. She heard shattering glass and clanging metal. She yanked on the top drawer and it slid open. She reached inside, groping blindly as she looked over her shoulder, certain Curt would emerge at any second. Her hand closed on the smooth walnut grips and she slowly withdrew the handgun. Stumbling, she made her way back to the doorway. Curt's back was toward her. He stood between her and Eric, who was backed to the far wall, facing her. She thumbed the hammer back.
"That's enough, Curtis. Put the syringe down or- Curtis!" He lunged at Eric, making a sweeping attack with the syringe. Tamara's finger clenched on the trigger, and before she was aware of it, she'd shot twice.
Curt jerked like a marionette whose strings are tugged suddenly, then slumped slowly to the floor and lay still.
Eric slammed flat against the wall as if he'd been punched. Tamara saw the blood spreading across his chest, and then he, too, slumped to the floor.
"Eric!" she shrieked, and dropped the weapon. "My God, Eric!"
* * * * *
Outside an abandoned, crumbling building Roland paused. The boy's signal had been stronger than ever only a second ago. Now it had faded completely. Had the child died? In desperation Roland went inside, his night vision showing him the small form lying weakly against a wall.
He knelt beside the boy, a flick of his fingers snapping the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles. He took the blindfold away, and gently peeled the tape from pale lips. He gathered the child up in his arms and strode from the building, even as his senses sharpened to ascertain the problem.
The child was slipping into what modern medical people call shock, his blood pressure dangerously low, his skin cold and clammy. He was bleeding internally from a lung, punctured by a broken rib. He had a bruise on his brain-a concussion, that is-but Roland didn't believe that injury to be serious.
Cradling the child in one arm, he removed his cloak with the other, and quickly wrapped the boy in it. Warmth was vital. As was speed. He raced with the child to the nearest hospital. As they sped through the night the boy opened his eyes. "Who are you?" was all he said, and that softly.
"I'm Roland, child. Don't worry. You'll be fine."
"Eric's friend?"
Roland frowned. "You're Tamara's Jamey, aren't you?"
He nodded and settled a bit, then his eyes flew wide. "Is she okay?"
"Eric is with her," Roland replied.
They sped into the emergency room, and were immediately surrounded by nurses, with forms to be filled out and endless questions. One took the boy from him and placed him on a table. "Call my mom," Jamey said softly. Roland nodded, searching his memory for the child's last name. Bryant, he recalled Tamara saying. He went to the desk and asked for a telephone.
As he waited, he realized that Tamara must be the missing link. It was she the boy had been unconsciously summoning. She hadn't heard. She wasn't even one of them. Perhaps, though, she was meant to be.