Phantom Shadows

“Stop beating yourself up,” a male voice said.



It sounded familiar to Bastien, but he couldn’t quite place it, muffled as it was. It felt as though someone had stuffed cotton in his ears.



“I can’t help it,” a woman responded. “I’m failing . . . everyone.”



That voice was one he would always be able to identify. Dr. Melanie Lipton’s warm tones wrapped around him like a soothing blanket and eased the pounding in his head. They also tempted him into cracking open his eyelids.



Bright light pierced his eyes, driving him to squeeze his lids closed again.



What the hell?



“You aren’t failing anyone,” the male insisted. “Look how much you’ve helped me and Joe.”



Dr. Lipton answered with a sad laugh. “Yeah, I’ve really helped you.”



Bastien didn’t like the defeat that colored her voice. Melanie was the strongest, bravest human in the network. The only human gutsy enough to work with the vampires on a daily basis.



“You have,” the male insisted. Cliff. One of the young vampires who had followed him when Bastien had led the uprising against Roland and the other immortals. “I haven’t had a single episode since you started administering the drug.”



“You said it makes you feel sluggish.”



“Hey, sluggish is better than murderous. I’m not hurting people. That’s exactly what I hoped for when I came here.”



“I didn’t even create the drug,” Melanie despaired. “I just watered down the one our enemies developed.”



“And you’re the only one around here who thought to try it.”



“I’m sure someone else would have eventually.”



Cliff snorted. “I’m not.”



“Joe doesn’t like it. I had to give him enough to make him sleep before we brought Bastien in here.”



“I heard.”



“The virus seems to be progressing more rapidly in him. He was turned eight months after you were and you aren’t exhibiting nearly as much hostility as he is.”



Cliff swore.



“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”



“No, it’s . . . Knowing I’m not as bad off as he is, that I may not lose it as quickly as he is or as quickly as Vince did . . . It’s a relief, you know? But I feel guilty as hell saying it.”



“You shouldn’t. It’s completely understandable and Joe wouldn’t hold it against you. I’m sure he would feel the same way.”



Silence fell, heavy with despair.



Melanie sighed. “How are the—”



“Shh.”



“What—?”



“Shhhh.”



Bastien strained to hear whatever Cliff heard, but his ears still felt funny.



“Reordon’s leaving. He went ahead and scheduled the meeting.”



“When is it?”



“In an hour. Bastien’s going to be pissed.”



“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. I tried to talk Mr. Reordon into delaying it and—”



“You could try the antidote.”



“No. I can’t. Not without knowing all of the possible repercussions. And it may not even be an antidote.”



“You won’t know the repercussions until you try it on someone. Try it on me.”



“Absolutely not. It could kill you, Cliff. Or trigger a psychotic break. One tranquilizer dart drops you—and any other vampire—like a stone. Yet it takes several to sedate an immortal. When I found a stimulant that looked like it might work, I had to multiply its strength exponentially. Any human injected with it would die instantly. It could kill the immortals, too. I don’t know what it would do to a vampire or how it might affect your fragile mental state.”



Bastien tried to open his eyes again. Knifelike pains pierced his cranium, eliciting a groan.



“Bastien?” Melanie queried.



A chain rattled.



“Too bright,” he muttered through clenched teeth.



He heard small, sneaker-clad feet cross the room. The lights dimmed.



Sighing, he cautiously opened his eyes.



Melanie moved to stand beside his bed or cot or whatever the hell uncomfortable surface supported him. Beneath a white lab coat, she wore a baby blue University of North Carolina Tar Heels T-shirt that hugged bountiful breasts and jeans that molded themselves to full hips and shapely thighs. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a ponytail that made her look like a college student.



“How do you feel?” she asked.



“Like someone dropped an anvil on my head.”



Pretty brow furrowed, she touched his wrist to gauge his pulse and glanced over at the clock on the wall.



Her emotions flowed into him, courtesy of the gift with which Bastien had been born. So much concern. He wasn’t worth it. But he devoured the sweetness of it like a piece of German chocolate pie after a long, long fast.



Relief replaced some of her concern. “Your pulse is strong.”



And running faster than usual thanks to her nearness and her gentle touch.



Her eyes met his. Something skittered through her. He felt it, but wasn’t sure . . .



Was it excitement or nervousness?



It must be the latter. Not that he could blame her. The first time he had met her, he had decapitated a man in front of her. They had met and spoken many times since, but how could she forget such a first impression?



Releasing his wrist, she turned and walked away. “Let me get you some more blood and a cold pack for your head.”



She was through the door before he could tell her not to bother.



“Man,” Cliff said when the heavy door closed behind her, “you had us worried there for a minute.”



Bastien tugged his gaze away from the door and sought the vampire.



Cliff stood a few feet away, a manacle around one ankle. The chain attached to it was titanium and as big around as Bastien’s forearm, keeping the young vampire from straying more than a couple of yards away from the wall behind him.



“What the hell?” When Bastien sat up, invisible sledgehammers assaulted his brain. He pressed the heel of one hand to his forehead and held his breath until the pain eased.



The slender young man shook his head and reached up to twist one of the short dreadlocks he had recently begun to grow. “It isn’t what you—”



The door opened as Dr. Lipton returned. Bastien saw several heavily armed guards posted outside the room before she closed it again.



“Who’s brilliant idea was this?” he demanded and motioned to his shackled friend. “Why are we in the holding room?”



Melanie paused. “Actually, it was my idea.”



He frowned. “Oh.” Damned if his mind didn’t go blank.



Thankfully, Cliff jumped in. “That Reordon prick ordered the guards to lock you up in here, but Dr. Lipton wouldn’t let them and made them take you to the infirmary instead.”



That must have gone over well.



Melanie shrugged apologetically. A blood bag in one hand and an icy gel pack in the other, she approached the gurney upon which he sat. (No wonder it was so damned uncomfortable.)



“When I heard what had happened,” Cliff continued, “I wanted to go see how you were doing, but Reordon said hell no and—long story short—Dr. Lipton argued with him until they reached this compromise.”



“It was the best I could do,” she admitted.



Bastien took the blood and waved away the cold pack. “Thank you. I’m surprised Reordon didn’t chain me up, too.”



“He wanted to. But I needed to remove the bullets and clean your wounds. They weren’t healing properly because of the drug. And Richart wouldn’t hear of it.”



Bastien paused. “Richart protested?” He had taken for granted that the Frenchman loathed him as much as all of the other immortals did, and Richart really hadn’t done anything to make him think otherwise.



She nodded. “He was actually quite emphatic in his defense of you. Mr. Reordon wouldn’t let the fact that you had supposedly killed several humans drop until Richart pretty much made him drop it.”



Bastien grunted. “I didn’t supposedly kill them. I did kill them. At least, I assume I did. Isn’t the drug strong enough to kill a human?”



“Yes,” she confirmed.



A tinny version of Nine Inch Nails’ “The Perfect Drug” filled the air.



It wasn’t until Bastien reached for his back pocket that he realized the hunting clothes he wore were not his own.



Melanie fumbled with a pocket of her lab coat and withdrew his cell phone. “Your clothes were ruined. Richart loaned you those.”



Okay. This was just bizarre. Why was Richart suddenly doing him so many favors?



Bastien couldn’t remember the last time anyone other than Ami or Melanie had done something nice for him with no strings attached. So, what was Richart’s game? What did he want?



Bastien’s fingers brushed Melanie’s when she handed him the phone. His heart skipped a beat at the brief contact. “Yeah?” he answered.



“It’s Tanner.”



Bastien hadn’t seen Tanner Long since the Immortal Guardians had ended Bastien’s uprising. Tanner had been one of the humans who had aided him. The human, he should say. Tanner had been Bastien’s go-to guy. He had been invaluable, the equivalent of an immortal’s Second.



And Tanner had been a friend.



Bastien had not had a friend in a very long time. Which was why he had kept his distance from Tanner ever since the Immortal Guardians had taken both into custody. Tanner was being groomed to become a Second, or personal assistant, to an immortal. If Tanner displayed any friendliness or sympathy toward Bastien, the other Seconds and members of the network would ostracize him. He didn’t deserve that. Not after all he had been through.



“You there?” Tanner’s voice came over the line again.



“Yeah. Just . . . surprised to hear from you.”



“Changing your number and not giving me the new one will do that, asshole, but we’ll discuss that later.”