Forever, page 26
“I can’t leave now.” Lydia shook her head. “I have to stay and make sure he’s all right—”
“No, you don’t.”
“It’s my fault he’s hurt. It’s too much to explain, but I think I was somehow being followed, and I came up here because you told me to. I brought that soldier with me. When this male here came out, and I spoke with him, I saw the blaze of light, just like you told me I would—and then—the shooting—and—”
“I’m going to take care of him—”
“I need to—”
“He’s my fucking brother, okay?” Xhex snapped. When the female froze, it was a case of babble, babble, babble. “As much as I hate him, and in spite of the fact that I would move heaven and earth to avoid being anywhere near the asshole, I will, out of a misplaced loyalty—which, trust me, he doesn’t deserve—make sure he is cared for. Now get the fuck out of here because that”—she jabbed a forefinger at the metallic mess who was torn apart and full of bullet holes—“isn’t a man, sweetheart. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but I know we’re both clear that you need to stay alive for that mate of yours.”
“Your… brother?”
Xhex rubbed one of her eyes—and made the speck of dirt that was irritating it somehow worse. “Look, if you really are being followed, and there are no bullets flying around you right now? Take this goddamn opportunity and leave.”
“But… he’s your brother?”
“I don’t like it any better than you do.” Xhex took out her cell phone. “And I’m going to get him help, I promise. But that’s because it would bother the shit out of you if he died up here and I already know how much you’re carrying on your plate. Now please, do us both a favor and get the fuck out of here.”
Lydia brushed at the red robe that covered her, and as she did, the bottom half fell open. She was naked, it seemed.
Oh… so it’s like that, Xhex thought.
“What the fuck are you doing now, Blade,” she muttered under her breath. Then more loudly, she said, “Go. He’s in good hands.”
At that point, there was a squeak—and the wolven froze as she stared over at the half-man, half-metal carcass.
“What is that.” She pointed at the remains. “What… the hell is that?”
“You were the one shooting at it—damned if I know. But I’m going to find out and I have the right people to help me.”
Lydia glanced around. Then she refocused on Blade. “Will you let me know what happens to him?”
“Only if you leave.”
The female took a deep breath. Then she unclasped the red robe and let it drop to the ground. A moment later, a wolf was in the place where she stood—and that lasted little longer than a blink. Finally, she was gone, disappearing into the pines on fleet paws that made absolutely no sound.
As wolf calls echoed in the distance, like the female’s kind were howling out for her, Xhex refocused on her motherfucking brother: Blade’s eyes were open and locked on her.
“I knew you were faking it,” she muttered. “And what the fuck are you doing.”
“Well,” he said in that annoyingly superior voice of his, “currently, I am about halfway to bleeding out. Thank you for the inquiry—”
“You leave that female alone. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but her stakes are way too high, and she does not deserve to be fucked with.”
Blade coughed weakly and closed his lids. “Are you calling for help, then, or is your cell phone some kind of fashion accessory.”
“I’m not saving you unless you leave her alone.”
“Why do you care so much about a stranger, sister mine.”
Because I was in her shoes the night before last, with a mate who was dying and nothing on the other side of that death.
And Christ knew Blade was no kind of lifeboat—and if that wolven thought he was the one she was sent up here to find, because of something Xhex had said? Even if it was a big misunderstanding, Xhex wanted no part of that fucking karma.
“What’s it going to be,” she said. “Are you going to give me your word, or are you going to die? Either way, I’m fine with the outcome.”
Blade looked at her again. Narrowed his eyes. “Are you… okay?”
“I’m not hemorrhaging. You?” She took out her phone and waved it around, the glow from the screen strobing over her brother’s beautiful, cruel face. “What are we doing? Are you getting medical help, or am I waiting another fifteen minutes before I call the Brotherhood to figure out what that thing is over there. Tick. Tock.”
When he didn’t reply, she glanced over her shoulder and took in the majestic view. “What are you doing out here, anyway.”
“The same could be asked of you, sister mine.” He coughed again. Then he lifted a weak hand and brushed the blood off his mouth. “You know, the irony of fate is something worthy of a symphath.”
“How so,” she said with boredom.
“I cannot escape the conclusion, though you will no doubt not share it, that the two of us were meant to be here together, tonight… on this mountain.”
“So turn me into a savior, why don’t you. Don’t go near that female again.”
“Fine.” He smiled a little. “You have my word.”
For what it was worth, she thought to herself.
“Good answer,” she muttered as she initiated the call to Doc Jane. “You just saved your life.”
“You’re the one with the phone, sister mine,” he said between weak coughs. “Not me.”
THIRTY-FOUR
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Daniel woke up after logging five hours of passed-the-fuck-out on the bed. The instant his eyes opened, he realized he was alone—so he sat up and put his feet on the rug. A quick glance over at the bedside table, and the note was right there.
Picking up the slip of paper, he unfolded it and smiled as he read the short missive. There was something quaint about Lydia leaving him a note before she left for work, something so wholesome and old-fashioned in the gesture—and the words were just as sweet: She hadn’t wanted to wake him. She would be home early so they could talk. She was sorry to have missed him. She loved him.
He stroked his thumb over her signature. Twice.
“You’re a sap. You’re a fucking sap,” he murmured.
In the bathroom, he took a shower and shaved. Then he brought the note with him into the closet and dressed in fresh clothes. It was clear she’d been in there earlier, a couple of her fleeces out on the center island, a pair of pants discarded like she hadn’t liked the way they’d felt or looked.
Just as he was about to leave, he doubled back to the sets of built-in drawers that ran down the center of the space. Going to the left side and pulling open the top panel, he looked down. His wallet was an unfamiliar artifact from a distant era, and as he opened the flap, he frowned at the driver’s license that was in the little clear plastic window.
It was like staring at an image of a son he’d never have: He felt like he’d aged an entire generation since the bureau had provided him with the fake ID.
Splitting the wallet’s interior slot wide, he said, “Oh, I’m rich. Two twenties.”
Going back into the drawer, he patted around the socks and underwear—until he was shoving what felt like half his arm into the space—and that was when he felt the key. The slip of metal was smooth and cool as he took it out, and as he put the motorcycle’s magic wand on his palm, he took a deep breath. Then he looked out toward the bedroom and thought about the guard who had been killed. And the fact that Lydia was refusing to stay inside.
He respected the confidence in herself, he really did.
It also made him nauseated with fear.
Two minutes later, he was pulling his leather jacket on, shoving his wallet into the ass of his too-baggy pants, and tucking a gun into an inside pocket by his chest wall. When he checked the rest of what he had in the coat—
He found a pack of Marlboros.
It was like getting pummeled from behind, and he even weaved on his numb feet.
Staring at the cigarettes’ eye-catching red-and-white label, with its iconic lettering, he was filled with a piercing regret—and the emotion found expression as he crushed the pack in his fist.
He tossed the ruined mess in the wastepaper basket on the way to the door.
Down at the kitchen, he grabbed a bagel to go that was set out on the sideboard in the little dining room, and then went into the kitchen, following a fast chopping sound that made him wonder if Chef was having a seizure. Sure enough, the guy was bouncing a knife on a cutting board like the thing had cast aspersions on his manhood.
“Is C.P. around?” Daniel asked.
“Do I look like her secretary?” The man glared over the scallions he was slicing. “And no, she’s gone. Said she would be back tonight or tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks.” The grunt he got in return was like a fuck-you left in the holster of the throat. “Listen, did Lydia have breakfast?”
As Chef looked up, Daniel held his palm out, all whoa-Nelly style. “Yeah, I know you’re not her secretary, either.”
“No, she didn’t have breakfast. She took a traveler of coffee with her.”
“Cool. Thanks.”
Another grunt. And Daniel turned away because he was not ready to have that knife trained on him.
Back in the little dining room, he packed up a second bagel in a napkin and took a couple of the mini-tubs of cream cheese from the basket of jams and spreads. Then he stole a sterling silver knife.
“Borrowed it,” he corrected under his breath as he left.
At the front door, he gave the security camera a little wave—and sure enough, the lock was sprung for him. As he stepped outside, he told himself he was glad the house was so tight—but then he looked over the lawn to where the body of that guard had lain.
And felt like they were all sitting ducks.
Down at the garage, he entered through the side door and then squared off at his Harley. He wished he could check in with Gus about what he was contemplating, but the guy hadn’t returned the call he’d made late last night—and honestly, his motivation for such a touch-base, outside of an I’m-really-going-to-miss-you, was bullshit. No one, not even his (former) oncologist, could tell him whether he was going to have enough energy to drive into town on his bike—or whether he was going to wrap himself around a tree on the way there.
Or get shot by someone. Anyone.
Maybe his old boss.
After Daniel hit the door opener, he threw a leg over his bike—and kept thinking about that mechanized soldier. He wouldn’t put it past Blade to have created subordinates that were automated. The control-freak fucker would appreciate the utter lack of insubordination—and it would explain why those hellish creations kept showing up wherever the operatives who worked for the guy were.
Then again, maybe they were a third party.
Either way, he’d never trusted his boss.
Putting the key in the ignition, he wondered whether the Harley was going to start. He wondered if he was going to remember how to shift. He wondered whether he was going to have the strength required to drive it at all. He wondered—
Started on a dime. With just one jam of his leg.
And then he was leveling the Harley on its tires, kicking free the stand, and revving the engine. The smell of gas and oil brought tears to his eyes, and so did the sound of the RPMs rising and falling.
Easing things into first gear, he was petrified, like he was an eleven-year-old taking something of his dad’s.
But oh… you never forgot how to ride a bike.
As the garage door automatically shut behind him, he proceeded down C.P. Phalen’s smooth driveway, passing into the chute that was created by the dual lineups of trees. When he got to the gates, they opened right away.
That was when he gunned it.
The powerful surge of speed took his breath away—or maybe that was the blast of wind in his face. With perfect coordination, he shifted, and with growing confidence, he added more gas. And that was when it came back. As the bright, cheerful fall sun fell unimpeded by humidity or clouds onto the winding gray asphalt strip in front of him, a wave of high-octane happiness—akin to what he’d experienced after he pleasured Lydia—flooded his interior.
Yes. Fuck yes.
This was what he needed: Out of the hospital. Away from the drugs. Not consumed with side effects.
When his eyes teared up, he told himself it was because of the rush of fresh air in his face.
But it might have been the gratitude.
Either way, what a gift.
* * *
The Wolf Study Project’s quarter-mile-long driveway was right where Daniel had left it, and as he made the turn onto the organization’s property, he was grinning and thinking of the bagel he was bringing his woman—but he was also on high alert. Yes, this was about delivering her some breakfast, and yes, he loved being back on the bike, and sure, it was terrific that he had made it this far on his own steam—yet he remained worried for her safety.
Maybe he needed to ask C.P. to send one of her guards over to the building while Lydia was on site working. They could be discreet about it—and if his woman thought it was overkill, maybe C.P. could help him talk some sense into…
As the WSP headquarters came into view, he eased off on the gas. And then hit the brakes with a sharp jab.
With the engine still purring between his legs, and his hand cranked on the brake, he stared in shock at the place where Lydia worked. Then he cut the Harley’s engine, kicked out the stand, and dismounted.
The building had never been in pristine shape, but now it was totally run-down: The gravel parking area was choked with weeds, the single-story structure looked like it was growing a beard from all the vines, and there were branches down on its roof. One gutter had even been peeled off by some storm, and the exterior light sockets were empty of bulbs.
Walking over to the entrance, he cupped his hands to the glass and leaned in. The waiting room was picked clean of furniture. From Candy the receptionist’s desk, to the chairs and sofa in the open area, to even the magazines that had sat, faded and unread, on the coffee table… it was all gone.
He tried the doorknob. Locked.
Heading down the long side of the building, he went to the rear clinic entrance. Also locked—and the part of the facility where the wolves were treated had no windows so there was no checking what had been cleared out of that part of the operation.
The last thing he did, before he got back on his bike, was go to the window in Lydia’s office.
The venetian blinds were hanging all cockeyed, so he was able to get a look at the space. Inside… her desk was a dead zone, free of all computer equipment, paperwork, even her landline phone.
Back at his Harley, he jump-started the engine again and then looked over to the outbuilding where he’d briefly worked when he’d been fronting the role of a handyman. He didn’t bother going over and trying to open the double doors. It was either going to still be the mess of hardware and seventies-era equipment it had always been, or it would be cleaned out.
Either way, his conclusion was unchanged.
The Wolf Study Project had been closed down. For a while.
And Lydia had been lying to him about where she went every day.
THIRTY-FIVE
DANIEL HAD TO go into the Walters town center to get gas before he could keep going. As he drove into the tiny constellation of businesses, the bank, grocery store/diner combination, and private-branded pump station were the same as before—which seemed like a miracle, although that made little sense. Only his world, not the larger, commonly held one, had been upended since the spring.
Since ten minutes ago.
And of course, as he went by the diner, he glanced at the lineup of customers having breakfast in the windows—and thought about how he and Lydia had met up there by chance after his interview with her.
He had lied to her at the beginning of their relationship.
She was lying to him at the end of it.
But why?
At the station, he pulled into a pump and was distracted as he filled up, his mind whirling as he tried to keep his emotions in check. When he was finished, he twisted the cap back on his tank and knew where he was going to next—assuming he remembered the way.
Back on the county road, he followed the twists and turns, but the magic was gone. He was simply about getting himself from point A to B now.
When he came up to the house that Lydia had rented, he pulled off onto the shoulder, but didn’t go down the driveway. No reason to. There were children’s bikes in the front yard and a swing set off to the side. A minivan was parked by the back door, and a black Lab who was thick as a couch cushion got to his or her feet and started barking at him.
Well, guess she had given up her lease. He’d assumed she was still getting her mail there and that that was where she had gone when she’d brought her fall and winter clothes over.
Maybe she’d moved out then.
Hitting the gas, Daniel kept going, even though he wasn’t sure where to head next. That issue was solved quick. Candy, the WSP receptionist, had a small house just out of town, and even though he couldn’t remember her last name, he knew where her place was. Cutting the acceleration as he came up to her mailbox, he didn’t bother with a turn signal as he piloted the way onto her drive—
Another short stop.
Lydia’s car was in the driveway. Which might have been good news—the kind of thing that suggested the WSP had lost some funding but was still a going concern working out of Candy’s home—except he’d been told the sedan had been totaled when his woman had hit a deer.
The vehicle looked very structurally sound, not a ding or a dent on it.
Footing the bike forward, he left the engine at an idle, got off, and walked around the front of the car. Nope, no catastrophic damage. No obvious repairs—and besides, given that she’d told him it had been totaled, there should have been no way that kind of shit could have been fixed in a week or ten days, especially out here in the sticks.
