Chapter Fifteen
From his parking spot on Washington Avenue, Dominic had a clear sightline on the beige brick building that housed Sebastiani Security. On the other side of Hennepin, the Guthrie Theatre stood with its chest proudly out-thrust, but here, a mere five or six blocks down the street, drug dealers were plying their trade, and Sex World did brisk business.
In a back-handed way, Lukas Sebastiani had been smart to build his business here, because the security cameras glaring down from every light pole in the parking lot seemed prudent rather than pathological. Right now, the lot was full, but no one had come in or out of the building for hours. Tia Quinn’s Civic was parked closer to the building than he liked, with the driver’s door facing the entrance.
Now was the time. Fate wouldn’t give him a better chance to steal the garage door opener he’d seen her use to enter the mysterious storage facility down the road from Vamp Central.
He tied the bandanna around his head, covering his face, then pulled on the stocking cap and leather work gloves. Sliding the crowbar into the side pocket of his baggy jeans, he got out of the car and shrank into the shadows.
It didn’t take long to reach Tia’s car. He dropped to a crouch at the Civic’s passenger side, using the car’s body to hide from the view of anyone who might pass through Sebastiani Security’s well-lit lobby. There. The garage door openers—there were two—were clipped to the driver’s side visor, but they’d be easy enough to reach. He pulled the crowbar out of his pocket, gripped it like a baseball bat, and swung for the fence.
The window’s safety glass fractured but didn’t break. After a second, shorter swing, the glass finally shattered, sending small shards crumbling onto the passenger seat. He snaked an arm through the broken window, found the interior car door handle, and yanked.
After brushing most of the glass onto the floor, he edged his way inside, keeping his body low until he lay with his upper body resting on the passenger seat. Carefully avoiding everything in the console—a half-empty bottle of water, a small notebook, a couple of cheap pens, and an open bag of Skittles—he slid one of the garage door openers off the driver’s visor, then stuffed it in his pocket. As he reached for the other, he heard—felt—an ominous ka-thunk.
The automatic door locks.
“Hey!” Tia Quinn wrenched open the driver’s side door. “Don’t you dare take that camera.”
He hadn’t even noticed a fucking camera, but to disguise what he was really there to steal, he grabbed the strap.
She was stronger than she looked. As they played a vicious game of tug-of-war, a mighty tug jerked him into the driver’s seat. She swiped at the bandanna covering his face.
No. He threw up his arm to block her, clipping her face with his elbow. He heard a sickening crack.
“Shit,” she gasped, clapping both hands over her nose. The momentum knocked her backward, her head hitting the open car door with a hollow thunk. She fell, hitting the pavement hard, the camera bag still looped around her arm.
The blood flowing from her nose and temple was all that moved.
“Shit.” This wasn’t what he’d planned. Panicking, he scrambled out of the car. There was still no activity in Sebastiani Security’s lobby. Over at the Washington Avenue stoplight, a semi downshifted, then glided to a stop. Down the street, a food truck opened its awning, ready to serve breakfast.
The city was waking up. She…wasn’t.
He had no choice; he had to get out of here.
Quickly walking away, he abandoned Tia Quinn to the sun.
Leaving Scarlett and Coco snuggling, and an exhausted Lukas sleeping like the dead, Wyland escaped to the blessedly empty bathroom. He desperately needed a couple of minutes to himself—some silence—and this room had the only solid walls and door in the place. Leaning against the sink, he rolled his head, trying to loosen stiff neck muscles, then turned on the water faucet. There were two hand-sized bruises developing on his forearm. With Claudette handling the business end of the birth—Scarlett had come through labor like a champ—caring for Lukas had fallen to him.
The big man had a hell of a grip.
He took off his shirt, grabbed a washcloth from the stack, and turned on the hot water. Using some liquid soap he found in the shower enclosure, he freshened up, running the cloth over his face, neck, chest and underarms, then he put the shirt back on again. The abbreviated bath would have to do until he and Tia got back home.
He could really use some blood.
When he came out of the bathroom, Bailey handed him a glass.
“Thank you.” He sipped the rich, red nectar. Where was Tia? She’d promised to hand him his first glass of champagne. Jack and Rafe chatted in the kitchen. Sasha and Antonia were stretched out on the couch, either sleeping or passed out. Elliott and Claudette were in the bedroom, holding their granddaughter. “How is everyone doing?” Had Tia gone downstairs? Gone home? Maybe the second-hand pain had gotten to be too much for her to handle after all.
Shit, he should have checked on her.
“The Sebastianis drowned themselves in liquor, but the pheromone intoxication meds Jack and I took worked like a charm.” She smirked. “Once again, the supposedly weak, puny humans are in better shape than the paranormals are.”
Sebastiani Labs had developed the experimental medication so Jack Kirkland, the first human they’d told about their existence, could keep a clear head working with so many incubi and succubi. “How’s your stomach?” Barely six months ago, trying to control her attraction to Rafe, Bailey had taken so much of the medication that she’d needed surgery for a perforated ulcer.
“It’s fine.” Bailey gave him a sharp nudge with her elbow. “Hey, watch out.”
“Hmm?”
“The window.”
The curtains were closed, but bright sunlight framed the window. Where was his brain?
Elliott, bleary-eyed but sober, came out of the bedroom and kissed him on both cheeks. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for being here, for—” his voice cracked “—taking care of my family.”
“Scarlett and Claudette did all the work.”
Bailey passed out flutes of Dom Perignon. Jack and Rafe came out of the kitchen, joining them.
“I’d like to make a toast.” Elliott raised his glass. “To the Ladies Fontaine. To Claudette, to Scarlett, and to Coco, my precious first grandchild.” He paused, blinking away tears. “And to our beloved Annika, ever with us in name and spirit.”
Wyland’s throat tightened. Annika’s senseless death still stung.
“And to Wyland, the rock upon which we stand. Salut, my friend.”
Jack and Rafe raised their glasses. “To Wyland.”
“Salut,” Bailey echoed.
When he managed to speak, his voice sounded like a rough gravel road. “To the Fontaines.” He took a quick sip of champagne, more for form’s sake than anything else. “When did Tia leave?” He should call Thane to make sure she’d arrived safely home. Even with muscle relaxants on board, she probably felt as physically beat up as he did.
“She didn’t,” Bailey said. “Leave, that is. She went downstairs to get her camera from her car.”
He glanced at the window, at the bright light framing the borders. Warning bells started clanging. “How long ago?”
Bailey looked puzzled. “She should be back by now.”
“How long ago?” he snapped.
“About an hour?”
He strode to the door, trying to stay calm. Tia was probably downstairs, in the building, talking with Chico or another Sebastiani Security worker. Perfectly safe.
But maybe not.
As he twisted the doorknob, Bailey caught his shirt from behind. “Wait. The sun—”
He jerked out of her grasp.
“Damn it, wait for some help.”
“Get it. I’m heading down.” He raced to the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time. When he reached the first floor lobby door, he hit the crash bar on the run. “Oh god.”
She was outside, crumpled on the pavement next to her car.
Covered with blood.
And the sun…oh god, the sun…
He started for the door, but someone stronger than Bailey grabbed him from behind.
“You’ll fry,” Jack snapped. “Wait here. Get ready to treat her.”
Wyland wrenched his arms away. Jack was right; he knew Jack was right, but—
The stairwell door crashed open again, and Bailey and Rafe hurried into the lobby. Rafe carried a colorful quilt.
“Wyland, we’ve got this.” Jack was already half out the door. “Rafe, follow me.”
Standing safe and worthless behind the lobby’s UV-treated windows, he watched Jack and Rafe cover the ten or so yards separating the building from Tia’s parked car. Rafe held up the quilt, blocking the worst of the sun’s burning rays, while Jack performed a quick head, neck, and back assessment. “Hurry, hurry…” he muttered. Jack’s actions were absolutely necessary—moving her prematurely could result in permanent injuries—but the sun…
So much blood…
“We’re taking her to the treatment room, right?” Bailey asked, propping the heavy steel door leading to Sebastiani Security’s working area with her body.
He nodded. “How’s your break room’s blood supply?” Until he could assess her injuries, he had no idea how much blood Tia would need to jump-start her recovery.
Bailey winced. “You just drank the last bag in the building. Blood bank is delivering later this morning.”
No blood?
The door alarm suddenly shrieked. Red lights flashed. After a couple of seconds, heavy boots pounded down the hall. “Finally,” Bailey muttered.
“What the hell, Bailey,” Chico complained as he reached the door. “You know better than to prop the security door—”
“Tia’s hurt. Get the gurney from the treatment room—”
“We won’t need it,” Wyland told them, watching Jack scoop Tia off the pavement and run toward the building.
He held the door open, ignoring the sting of the sun. Tia’s body sagged in Jack’s arms; she appeared to be unconscious. Head wound, left temple. Stitches, possible concussion. Nasal fracture. Between the head wound and the broken nose, her face was so covered with blood he couldn’t assess her burns.
“Unconscious,” Jack confirmed, carrying Tia into the shadowed safety of the lobby and through the propped security door. “Broken nose, gash on her temple, a knot on the back of her skull. Looks like first and second degree burns.” Jack strode into the treatment room, gently laying Tia on the exam table as Bailey flicked on the overhead lights. “There’s blood on her driver’s door, and the passenger window’s broken. Looks like she interrupted a burglary in progress.”
Everything in his body clenched up tight—jaw, diaphragm, fists—but he shoved back the rage, swallowed the helplessness down. Pulled chilly professionalism around him like a protective cape.
“I’ll get your bag from upstairs.” Rafe was already half out the door.
There wasn’t much in the bag that wasn’t available here in the treatment room, but having it here wouldn’t hurt. As soon as he was certain Tia was stable, they were high-tailing it to Memorial. Thankfully, the door alarm went silent.
“Need me here?” Chico asked, hovering outside the treatment room door. “I can process the scene, pull the security tapes from the parking lot.”
Jack gave a curt nod. “Go ahead.”
Wyland stared at the smear of red blood on Jack’s white dress shirt. “Do you have a phone to assist with evidence collection?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Jack pulled it from his pants pocket.
Wyland fumbled with his own phone, flipped on the voice recorder, and set it on the counter. His physical exam would be taken into evidence, as well. He went to the sink and washed his hands. “Speaking of security cameras…how could someone lying unconscious in the parking lot in broad daylight possibly escape someone’s notice?”
Jack looked grim. “We’ll find out.”
“Damn right you will.” He turned toward his patient, toward all the blood. The lilac perfume she’d applied last night was barely noticeable anymore, but the scent of VampScreen lingered, thank the universe. Pulling the telescoping examination lamp closer, he turned it on, gloved up, and did a thorough exam, narrating for the record. No apparent spinal injury. Hematoma on the back of her skull, probably from hitting the pavement. The nasal fracture was a simple break, with no significant deformity, but the swelling and bruising would get worse before it got better. A dozen or so stitches should be sufficient to close the gash on her temple. Jack had accurately pegged the burns—mainly first degree, with some blistering along her left ear, neck, and collarbone. They’d be painful, but they’d heal. Reaching for a small penlight, he carefully lifted her swollen eyelid, shining the light at her pupil before flicking it away. “Normal contraction,” he noted.
As he checked the other eye, she tensed, then jerked her head away. “Stop that.”
Relief coursed through him. She was conscious again—and if she could move her neck like that, it probably didn’t hurt very much. “Can you hear me?”
“Of course I can hear you. You’re standing right next to me.” She pushed his arm away. “Get that light out of my eyes, damn it.”
“Let me finish examining you.”
“My head hurts.” Wincing, she reached for her nose. “Where are we? What happened?”
“We’re in the treatment room at Sebastiani Security,” Jack said. “What do you remember?”
She shoved up onto her elbows. “That little prick! Did he get my camera?”
“What little prick?” Jack asked.
His blood pressure started to climb, like the rollercoaster he’d seen at the fair.
“I went out to my car to get my camera. When I got there, I found this…this…masked dude lying across my front seat. He’d broken my passenger side window, and was taking my camera. We…scuffled.”
“You risked your safety for a bloody camera?” he snapped.
“It’s a very nice camera. And I wanted the pictures I had on the disk.” She looked at Jack. “Did he get it?”
“No,” Jack said. “I found it on the pavement. I put it in the back seat.”
“I hope it didn’t break,” she fretted.
“We’ll check.”
The rollercoaster crested. Started barreling down. “Fuck the bloody camera! Tia, you could have burned to death!”
She recoiled.
“Wyland.” Bailey jerked him away from the exam table and into the farthest corner. “You need to calm down and let Jack do his job,”
He hissed at her—a full-on vampire hiss, with fangs flashing. “When is he going to start doing it?”
“She’s hurt, she’s scared. She’s the victim, and right now, he’s talking about what she wants to talk about.” She took both gloved hands and squeezed them. “Give him time. Now, settle down. Breathe with me.”
He obeyed, filling his lungs with air. In and out. One more time. And another. When his fangs retracted, Bailey released her death grip on his hands. Jack was doing his job, comforting an assault victim and obtaining important information at the same time.
Now he had to do his.
Over on the table, Tia was describing what happened. “We fought for the camera, pulling the strap back and forth between us. The bandanna covering his face started to slip. When I made a grab for it, he threw up his arm and hit my nose with his elbow.”
Of course she’d grabbed for the bandanna.
“It hurt like hell. I remember falling back, but—” she shrugged “—nothing after that.”
“There’s a smear of blood along the top edge of your driver’s door,” Jack told her. “I think you hit your temple coming down.”
“I don’t remember anything after that.” She shot him a sullen glance. “Nothing until Wyland’s damn flashlight.”
As Jack took pictures of Tia’s injuries, Wyland gathered the equipment he’d need to clean and stitch her wound. Though the pre-assembled suture packs contained the basics, he set out extra sterile water, gauze pads, a small-gauge syringe and some Lidocaine. No matter how careful he was, the sutures would probably leave a scar.
“Are you okay staying here?” Jack asked Bailey. “I’d like to check in with Chico.”
“Go ahead.”
Bailey chatted with Tia, keeping her occupied while he stripped off his soiled gloves, washed and dried his hands, then gloved up again. As he approached the examining table, Tia stared at the tray he carried. “Bailey just told me there’s no blood here in the building.”
“No.”
“How about painkillers?” she asked hopefully.
He gestured to the Lidocaine. “You won’t feel a thing.” When he unwrapped the syringe, she went pale. Shit. “Tia, are you afraid of needles?”
“I wouldn’t say afraid. Exactly.” Squaring her shoulders, she gave him a wobbly, determined smile. “I’ve been hurt worse than this playing hockey.”
Where? If she had a single suture mark on her body, he hadn’t found it yet. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Go ahead,” she said, patting him on the arm. “You’re the most experienced doctor on the planet.”
Who was she trying to reassure, him or herself? Bloody hell. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”
“Okay,” she squeaked through chattering teeth.
He gently wiped the blood from her face, but her breathing changed as he approached the wound. Too fast, too shallow. She was dangerously pale, and using energy she couldn’t spare to block her thoughts. “We’re going to Memorial.” If he could get some blood into her first, she’d feel less anxious, and start healing more quickly. She didn’t have any symptoms of a brain bleed, but it wouldn’t hurt to get a head CT just to make sure. He removed his gloves and grabbed his phone. If he called ahead, a machine would be available as soon as they arrived.
Less than two minutes later, he grimly hung up. The ER was treating four patients right now, two of them vampires in critical condition. “I’ll have to treat you here,” he said.
“It’s okay, Wyland.”
The trust in her eyes just gutted him, slicing him open and spilling his entrails onto the ground. He was already dreading causing her a moment’s more pain, but it couldn’t be helped—
Yes, it could.
He had everything he needed, right here.
Time slowed as he removed his watch. He cradled her cheek with his right hand, and lifted his bare left wrist to her mouth.
She jerked her head back. “No.”
“Drink.”
“No. You don’t want this.” She looked at Bailey, still standing next to the wall. “You’ve got some drugs here, right? Some Valium or Xanax?”
“Sorry, no.”
Damn it, he should have known she’d refuse. She’d noticed his reluctance to share his blood when they’d slept together. She’d agreed with his reasons.
But she’d heal more quickly if she drank his blood. And…everything had changed. “Tia. Tia, look at me.”
The trust in her eyes…
He shoved the guilt aside, and gave her a mental push. Drink. Drink from me.
Her brow wrinkled. There was a pause, as if she was wondering whether to obey the voice slithering into her head. “Ow,” she said.
“You have a concussion.” He gave her a harder push: Damn it, drink.
She obeyed, plunging her tiny, sharp fangs into his wrist. Fleeting pain lanced through him, quickly becoming pleasure as she suckled his lifeblood with strong, rhythmic draws. He drowned in sensation as she drank, each swallow pulling them closer, until… There. There it was, that delicate, mental tendril.
So…close…
He reached for it. Made the connection. Felt the indescribable mental click as their neural pathways joined.
Wyland, damn you…
Sleep.
She fought him, but her eyes finally closed. Damn it…
He waited several seconds, then lifted her eyelid to make sure she was out.
“You’re going to pay for that,” Bailey warned.
“I know.” No doubt they’d have words when Tia woke up. No doubt he’d have second, third, and fourth thoughts about what he’d just done, and why. Pulling the lamp closer, he stroked her hair out of the way, thoroughly irrigated the wound, and reached for the syringe.
But right now, he had work to do.