Blood Truth, page 28
Helania tried to sit up, and when the world spun, she debated letting that idea go. But as her equilibrium returned, she tucked the sheets around her naked body and shoved her hair out of her face.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Four o’clock.”
“In the afternoon? It only lasted three hours?”
“In the morning.”
“Oh.”
Boone sat on the bed carefully, as if he were trying not to put all his weight on the mattress. As they stared at each other, she felt the opposite from what the previous night at Remi’s had been like with him: Instead of him being unusually easy to talk to, now she was tongue-tied worse than ever.
But she had to speak. “I’m so sorry.”
He recoiled. “For what? You didn’t have any control over any part of it.”
Okay, so that was technically true. But as soon as she thought of what Boone had looked like, drugged on the floor in front of her sofa, she still felt responsible.
Helania stared him right in the eye. “It is important for me to say this and for you to hear it. I did not know my needing was coming. If I had, I would have sent you away or not even let you in. You need to believe me.”
“Helania, I totally believe you—”
“Do you?”
Boone shook his head in confusion. “Where is this coming from?
I’ve never doubted you about anything.”
Exhaustion made her more candid than she would have been otherwise. “I just want to make sure you know I’m not trying to force you into a mating or anything.”
“Whoa . . .” He leaned forward, as if he might be able to understand her better if they were closer together physically. “Why would I ever think that?”
“You’re a member of the glymera and have money. I don’t want you to think I’m looking for a free ride.”
“Are you—do you remember the conversation we had last night? About how I might be poor and I asked you whether that would be a problem?”
God, he was right, she thought. Her brain . . . nothing was working right up there. And yet it was still a good point to be clear on.
“I just think things need to be said out loud.”
Boone steepled his hands and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. “Fair enough.”
They sat in awkward silence for a time, and all she could think about was how she wished the night before had ended differently. If only his emergency with that human woman had lasted a little longer, daylight would have kept them apart, and then none of this would have happened.
“Doc Jane would like you to come into our clinic,” he said.
Helania shook her head. “There’s no need to. This isn’t the first time for me. I’ve always been fine afterward.”
“You need to be checked out.”
“Why?” As he just stared at her, her thought process slowly came around. “I’m not pregnant.”
“We had sex right before it hit.”
“I’m not pregnant.”
“You may be.”
“I’m not.”
As they got quiet again, she realized she was being unreasonable, but she couldn’t back down. The idea that she might be responsible for another living thing? She refused to contemplate the possibility—and she felt like as long as she didn’t open that door mentally, then that outcome would not be part of her destiny.
She was a hermit who could barely take care of herself. How in the world . . .
“Do you need to feed?” he asked.
Helania looked up at him. “Feed?”
As he popped his brows—like he was wondering if her mental lapse was something medically significant—she shook her head. “No, I don’t have to take a vein.”
“When was the last time you did?”
“Before Isobel died. She had a friend who let us take his vein, but I haven’t been in touch with him since she passed.”
“Eight months?”
“I don’t need to more than once a year, really.” God, if that wasn’t shining down on how infrequently she left the damn house, she didn’t know what a bright light was. “I’m fine—”
“Helania, you need to be—”
“I’m not pregnant.”
“I’m not debating this with you.” Boone surged to his feet. “Tomorrow at midnight, you are going to be out in front of this apartment building, where I will pick you up so we can go into the training center together.”
“I don’t have to be checked out—”
“You do. Because if you are pregnant, then it’s my young and I am going to make sure that the both of you are taken care of on every level there is.”
As he stalked out of her bedroom, Helania stared after him. She wanted to call him back, but to what end? So they could argue over something that wasn’t happening? They had both just been through a version of hell, and what they needed was food, sleep, and a break. More talking was not the answer.
Besides, there was nothing to talk about.
She wasn’t pregnant.
Boone arrived back at his father’s house—wait, it would be Marquist’s house now, and he needed to remember that—in a foul mood. He hated conflict to begin with, and it turned out that that non-affinity was even more intense when it had to do with Helania.
Everything had gone badly around his departure from her.
But damn. She was so determined not to have his young that she wasn’t willing to take care of herself. What the hell?
As he came stomping up through the snow, he was hoping the front door was locked again. He wanted to take his entire body and break something down with it, leaving bloodstains on the wood and bruises on his flesh.
Unfortunately, the frickin’ thing opened right up.
Inside, he went straight back to the kitchen, following the dense, floury aroma of baking bread that permeated that whole wing of the house. As he passed through the polishing room and the pantry, he stopped in front of the butler’s suite of rooms. Everything was open, for once, and he walked into the sitting room/office area.
Well . . . look who had moved out.
Several discarded cardboard boxes and a roll of tape were in the center of the faded Oriental rug, and a stack of leather-bound books was sitting on the armchair by the fireplace, ready for relocation. The ledgers for the household accounts were still open on the serviceable desk, the ink pot and old-fashioned pen that the head of staff had always used in their ready position on the blotter. But the sepia photographs of what he had always assumed were Marquist’s sire and mahmen were gone. And so, too, were his personal effects from the side tables.
Going deeper inside, Boone entered the bedroom. Although he had been in the front office area before—back on the nights when he’d had to go to the butler for spending money—he had never proceeded any farther. Private space was private space. He had been taught that since birth. But given that the butler clearly was no longer butle’ing for the household, so to speak?
No reason not to look around.
The bedroom had a twin mattress on a nineteen fifties wooden frame against the far wall. The matelassé quilt was precisely arranged and folded up over the pillow. The night stand on the right had a single lamp on it, a coaster for a glass of water, and a charging stand that Boone was willing to bet had been forgotten in the rush to move up a floor and down many, many rooms to the best suite in the house.
Heading over to the bureau, he opened the top drawer. Well, what do you know. Rows of boxer shorts and undershirts. Next one was full of starched button-downs. On the bottom were a hundred pairs of bundled black socks.
Marquist had left his butler uniform behind.
To confirm this, even though it didn’t really matter to Boone and he already was sure of the answer, he crossed the bare wooden floorboards and opened the narrow closet door. Sure enough, there were about ten different black suits. Some overcoats. A heavy black robe.
Probably leaving it all for the next hire. And what a line in the sand, huh.
Once the staff, now on the hiring side of things as the estate’s owner. Boone stood there, staring into the closet, for a long while, and he supposed he was waiting for some kind of anger to take over. It really seemed like he should care more about this extraordinary turn of events.
Especially given the fact that he might just have the next generation of his bloodline to think about.
The longer he considered everything, however, the more he questioned what he had ever gotten out of this august background of his. Sure, the money had been nice, but none of it had been his. And the house was fine, if you liked museums and stage sets that were designed to impress. But he couldn’t say that there had been many other benefits.
Cursing, he left the set of rooms and went out to the kitchen. As he entered, the doggen who were busy preparing Last Meal stopped everything they were doing, each one of them freezing in mid-chop, mid-stir, mid-mix.
That was when the sadness hit him. He had known these wonderful, loyal males and females all of his life. Some had been hired by his mahmen. A couple had been inherited from his grandparents. And they were staring at him in a combination of panic and mourning.
“It’s all right.” He smiled at them in turn. “It’s all going to be fine. He’s going to have to keep you on, so nothing will change for you.”
Thomat, the chef, lowered his blade. “May we prepare something for you, my Lord.”
My Lord. The nomenclature that referred to the head male of the house.
“Thomat, it’s not like that.” Boone walked forward and stopped opposite the doggen, the counter that separated them a metaphor for their different stations. “But I thank you for the honor. You have been . . . all of you have been so wonderful to me.”
“This is your house, my Lord.” Thomat shook his head. “No one else’s. Now, it would be our pleasure to serve you.”
“I’m not even a guest here. I’ve been ordered by the King to stay under this roof for the next thirteen nights. So I will serve myself.”
When he offered his palm as a measure of respect, the doggen stared at it. Then Thomat stepped back from his side of the counter . . . and bowed so low, his toque nearly brushed the lamb he’d been trimming.
As Boone looked around, he noticed several other members of the staff had come in. And every single doggen was bowing to him as well.
Closing his eyes, he wanted to tell them they were going to have to move on. But he didn’t have the strength. Still, he was surprised by how touched he was by the show of loyalty and respect.
It warmed the heart, it truly did.
* * *
Helania passed the night hours cleaning everything she could get her hands on. She started with her bed and her towels, stripping everything and filling her washing machine with a big load. Then she hit the bathroom with the Scrubbing Bubbles, getting down on her hands and knees and all but rubbing through the layers of tile to the frame of the building. Next on the elbow grease docket was her kitchen. She emptied out her refrigerator, took the shelves to the sink, and sponged them with soap and hot water until they gleamed. She also handwashed the floor, the fronts of the cabinets, and all the drawers.
She even took out the tray the silverware was in and vacuumed what was underneath. When that didn’t go far enough, she put the forks and the knives and the spoons on the counter and wiped out the tray itself.
In the sitting area, she pulled the duvet cover off the sofa. Threw that in the wash. She vacuumed the rug and then went around and reorganized her needlepoint pillow supplies. When she got out the step stool and Swiffer’d a cobweb from the corner up at the ceiling, she was ashamed of how long it had been since she had really paid attention to the place.
It had been well before Isobel had passed.
Had been killed, she corrected herself. As she had Boone. Sometime around dawn, she ran out of steam. Sitting on the bare sofa and listening to the dryer do its business on the duvet, she fought against emotions that were just below the surface.
Isobel would know how to handle this, she thought as she put her hand on her flat stomach.
If her sister were alive . . . Isobel would know what to do. About the possibility of pregnancy. About the situation with Boone. About these tears that seemed determined to break through her self-control.
“Why did you have to go?” she said hoarsely.
The instant the words left her, her eyes shot to the cloak she wore to hide herself at Pyre. And it was then that anger simmered as she realized she should have been out looking for her sister’s killer.
Who had not been found yet.
Helania looked around at her sparkling-clean apartment. One night of losing focus was allowable, but no more than that. She was not pregnant, and no matter how protective Boone was feeling, she was going back to work down at that club tomorrow evening.
She had her dead to ahvenge. And sitting around and being weepy and ridiculous was not going to serve that larger purpose.
Reaching into the pocket of her sweatshirt, she took out her phone. She had silenced the ringer because she’d needed time to get her head straight—which had evidently translated into her getting her living quarters straight.
As she turned the unit over, she braced herself to see a bunch of notifications that Boone had called or texted, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Part of her wanted to talk to him. Part of her didn’t—
No calls from him. No texts, either.
Staring at the blank screen, she was struck by a hollow ache in her chest. But what could she expect? She’d wanted space.
He was giving it to her.
The following evening, Helania leveled the muzzle of her ninemillimeter at a target far down the gun range. She was in shooting dock 4, ear protection on, an open box of bullets on the counter in front of her, an empty one on the concrete ground by her feet.
Focusing on the center of the bull’s-eye—which radiated out from the outline of a torso—she steadied her arms in front of her and squeezed off one . . . two . . . three . . . fourfivesix—
“—closing in fifteen minutes. We are closing in fifteen minutes. Please begin to pack up now.”
Lowering the gun, she hit the switch on the cubicle’s wall, and the target rushed to her like a dog called home, its bottom bending back against the draft created by the speed. When the heavy paper was in front of her, she unclipped it and stared at the holes she had made.
All of them were concentrated in the center of the concentric circles, off by only one ring . . . two at the most.
“You’re damn good with a gun.”
As she looked over at the attendant who’d approached her, she marveled once again at how the mufflers on her ears managed to dim the gunshots while allowing voices to come through.
Stripping off her ear protection, she said, “I’m okay.”
“Better than most.”
She smiled because she felt like she had to, and actually, she had nothing against the guy. He was the nice older one who wore a US Veteran hat and always had on some kind of concert T-shirt from the eighties. With baggy blue jeans and a weathered face that had her thinking he was in his late sixties, early seventies, he looked like he was well familiar with manual labor, long hours, and AC/DC.
“You want me to walk you to your car?” he said. “It’s late.”
“I’ll be all right, but thank you.”
“Keep your gun loaded and out. I’ll watch you on the monitor like I always do. Nice girl like you, I’m glad you know how to shoot.”
With a curt nod, he limped back down the lineup of vacant docks. She was pretty sure he was missing one leg and had a prosthetic, but she hadn’t asked. And she did appreciate his concern for her. Usually.
Tonight, it made her uncomfortable, although not because she was threatened by him in any way. She just wondered why she got special attention. Was it because he sensed a weakness in her?
Somehow, she didn’t want that question to be answered. Inner strength was very important to her all of a sudden.
Holstering her gun at her hip, she packed up the unused shot in her nylon bag, threw out the empty box of bullets, and pulled her parka on. On her way to the exit, she went by the glassed-in kiosk where the attendant sat and waved at him. He pointed to a grainy black-and-white TV that sported an image of the parking lot and gave her a thumbs-up. She nodded in return.
Outside, she walked over to a ten-year-old Toyota truck. She and Isobel had bought the thing new by pooling their savings. Though they could always dematerialize places, vehicles—especially those with a flatbed—were really handy for big shops, when you were moving, and on those rare occasions when you simply felt like driving somewhere.
As she got behind the wheel, she hit the clutch, put the gearshift in neutral, and started the engine. Out on the road, she headed for home . . . and wondered whether she was going to end up there. So many detours: She could go to the grocery. She could hit the twenty-four-hour Target for cleaning supplies. She could just drive around until she needed gas.
At which point, she could get some gas and keep driving around.
Yet she knew Boone was waiting for her and wouldn’t leave until she showed up at her apartment. Even though he still hadn’t reached out, he was indeed the kind of male who, if he made an appointment with someone, always showed up. Well, except for that diner thing, and he’d certainly had a valid reason for missing that meal.
He would be in front of her building, just as he’d said.
God . . . she really wanted to drive away, drive far, far away. The idea of going to some clinic to be poked and prodded at had no appeal whatsoever, and she was struggling with the balance of interests. It was her body, but Boone wasn’t wrong. If she were pregnant, half of what was inside of her was his.
Part of him.
So he had some rights in all this.
Not that she was pregnant, of course. What were the chances, really.
Sure, they had had sex beforehand, but it had been hours before.
At least four. Maybe six.
Shit.
Ten minutes later, Helania pulled into the parking lot around the back of her building. Getting out, she shouldered her nylon bag and walked through the packed snow to the rear entrance. She used her key to get in, and then took a right and went down the stairwell to the basement floor.
