Kiss of Midnight

CHAPTER Thirteen

Police and transportation officials still aren’t certain what caused the apparent explosion last night. However, I spoke with a representative for the T just a few moments ago who assured me that the incident was isolated to one of the old, unused tracks, and that no injuries were reported. Stay tuned to Channel Five for more news on this breaking story as it—”

The dusty, late-model television mounted to a wall rack clicked off abruptly, cowed into silence solely by the force of the vampire’s supreme irritation. Behind him, across the length of a bleak, dilapidated room that had once been the asylum’s basement cafeteria, two of his Rogue lieutenants stood, fidgeting and grunting, as they awaited their next orders.

There was little patience in the pair; Rogues, by their addictive natures had puny attention spans, having abandoned intellect to pursue the more immediate whims of their Bloodlust. They were wanton children, little better than hounds in need of regular whippings and spare rewards to keep them obedient. And to remind them of whom they currently served.

“No injuries reported,” sniggered one of the Rogues.

“Maybe not to the humans,” added the other, “but the Breed took a damn big hit. I hear there wasn’t much left of the dead one for the sun to claim.”

More chuckling from the first idiot, followed by an expulsion of foul, blood-soured breath as he mimicked the detonation of the explosives that had been set off in the tunnel by the Rogue bomber assigned to the task.

“A pity the other warrior with him was left to walk away.” The Rogues fell silent as their leader turned at last to face them. “Next time, I’ll put the two of you to the task, since you find failure so amusing.”

They scowled, grunting like the beasts they were, their slitted pupils wild within the engulfing yellow-gold sea of their fixed irises. Their gazes turned down as he began to stride toward them with slow, measured paces. His anger was tempered only by the fact that the Breed had, indeed, suffered a healthy loss.

The warrior who fell to the bomb was not the actual target of last night’s assignment; however, any dead member of the Order was good news for his cause. There would be time to eliminate the one called Lucan. Perhaps he might even do it himself, face-to-face, vampire to vampire, without the benefit of weapons.

Yes, he thought, there would be more than a little pleasure in taking that one down.

Call it poetic justice.

“Show me what you’ve brought me,” he ordered the Rogues before him.

The two departed at once, pushing open a swinging door to retrieve the baggage left in the corridor outside. They returned an instant later, dragging behind them several lethargic, nearly bled-out humans. The men and women, six in all, were bound at their wrists and loosely shackled at their feet, though none appeared fit enough to even consider an attempt at escape.

Catatonic eyes stared off into nowhere, slack mouths incapable of screaming or speech drooped on their pale faces. At their throats, bite marks scored their skin where their Rogue captors had struck to subdue them.

“For you, sire. Fresh servants for the cause.”

The half-dozen humans were shuffled in like cattle—for that they were, flesh and bone commodities that would be put to work, or to death, whenever he deemed it useful.

He looked over the evening’s catch with little interest, idly sizing up the two men and four women by their potential for service. He felt an itchy impatience as he drew near to the lot of them, some of their bitten necks still oozing with a lazy trickle of fresh blood.

He was hungry, he decided, his assessing look lighting on a petite brunette female with a pouty mouth and ripe, full breasts straining against the dull teal green of her baglike, ill-fitting hospital garb. Her head lolled on her shoulders, too heavy to stay upright, although it was apparent that she was struggling against the torpor that had already claimed the others. Her irises were listless, rolling upward into her skull, yet she fought the pull of catatonia, blinking dazedly in an effort to remain conscious and aware.

He had to admire her pluck.

“K. Delaney, R.N.,” he mused, reading from the plastic name tag that rode the plump swell of her left breast.

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting her face up for his persual. She was pretty, young. And her freckled skin smelled sweet, succulent. His mouth watered greedily, his pupils narrowed behind the cover of his dark glasses.

“This one stays. Take the rest down to the holding cages.”

At first, Lucan thought the piercing trill was just part of the agony he’d been living for the past several hours. His entire body felt scorched, flayed, and lifeless. His head had, at some point, ceased pounding and now plagued him with a prolonged bell of pain.

He was in his private quarters at the compound, in his own bed; that much he knew. He recalled dragging himself there with his last ounce of strength, after he had stayed with Conlan’s body topside for the full eight minutes required of him.

He had stayed even longer than that, another searing few seconds, until the dawn’s rays had ignited the fallen warrior’s shroud and erupted in an awesome shower of light and flames. Only then did he move for the cover of the compound’s subterranean walls.

The extra time exposed had been his personal apology to Conlan. The pain he endured now was to let him never forget what truly mattered: his duty to the Breed and to the Order of honorable males sworn likewise into that same service. There was no room for anything else.

He’d let that oath slip last night, and now one of his best warriors was gone.

Another blast of shrill ringing from somewhere in the room assailed him. Somewhere too near where he rested; the splitting grate of it jackhammered into his already caving skull.

With a hissed curse that barely made it out of his parched throat, Lucan peeled his eyes open and glared into the dark of his private bedchamber. A small light blinked from within the pocket of his leather jacket as the cell phone rang again.

Stumbling, his legs lacking their usual athletic control and coordination, he dropped out of his bed and made a graceless lunge for the offending device. It only took him three tries to finally find the small key that would silence the ringer. Furious for the taxing that the brief series of movements had on him, Lucan held the glowing display up to his swimming vision and forced himself to read the caller’s number.

It was a Boston exchange… Gabrielle’s cell phone.

Beautiful.

Just what he fucking needed.

He’d resolved on the climb with Conlan’s body up those several hundred stairs to the outside that whatever he was doing with Gabrielle Maxwell had to stop. He hadn’t been entirely sure what he was doing with her anyway, short of exploiting every available opportunity he could find to get her on her back beneath him.

Yeah, he’d been brilliant at that tactic.

It was the rest of his objectives he was beginning to suck at, so long as Gabrielle was in the picture.

He had it all planned out in his head, the way he was going to deal with the situation. He would have Gideon go to her apartment that night, tell her in logical, understandable terms all about the Breed and about her destiny—her true belonging—within the vampire nation. Gideon had a lot of experience dealing with females, and he was a consummate diplomat. He would be gentle, and he sure as hell had a better way with words than Lucan himself. He could make sense of it all for her, including the very real need for her to seek sanctuary—and, eventually, a suitable mate—at one of the Darkhavens.

As for Lucan, he was going to do what was required for his body to heal. A few more hours of recovery, a much-needed feeding tonight—once he was able to stand up long enough to hunt—and he would come back stronger, a better warrior.

He was going to forget he’d ever met Gabrielle Maxwell. For his own sake, if not for the Breed as a whole.

Except…

Except, he had told her just last night that she could reach him on his cell phone whenever she needed him. He had promised he would always answer her call.

And if she was trying to get a hold of him now because the Rogues or their walking-dead Minions had come sniffing around her again, he figured he damned well needed to know.

Lying in a supine sprawl on the floor, he punched the Talk button.

“Hello.”

Jesus, he sounded like shit. Like his lungs were made of cinder and his breath was ash. He coughed and felt his head split with pain.

Silence held for a second on the other end, then Gabrielle’s voice, hesitant, anxious. “Lucan? Is that you?”

“Yeah.” He worked to force sound from his arid throat. “What is it? You okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I hope it’s all right that I called. I just… Well, after the way you left last night, I’ve been a little worried. I suppose I just needed to know that nothing had happened to you.”

He didn’t have the energy to speak, so he lay back, closed his eyes, and merely listened to the sound of her voice. The clear, rich tones washed over him like a balm. Her concern was an elixir, something he had never tasted before—hearing that someone was worried about him. The affection was unfamiliar, warm.

It soothed him, despite his fierce need to deny it.

“Time…” he croaked, then tried again. “What time is it?”

“Not quite noon. I wanted to call you as soon as I got up this morning, but since you generally work the evening shift, I waited as long as I could. You sound tired. Did I wake you up?”

“No.”

He attempted to roll onto his side, feeling stronger just for the few minutes on the phone with her. Besides, he needed to get his ass out of its sling and back onto the street, starting tonight. Conlan’s murder had to be avenged, and he meant to be the one to dispense justice.

The more brutal that justice, the better.

“So,” she was saying now, “everything’s okay with you, then?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Good. I’m relieved to hear that, actually.” Her voice took on a lighter, teasing tone. “You ran out of my place so fast last night, I think you left skid marks on the floor.”

“Something came up. I had to go.”

“Hmm,” she said, after he let the silence stretch out, not volunteering to elaborate. “Top secret detective business?”

“You could say that.”

He struggled to put his feet beneath him, and winced, both at the pain lancing through his body and for the truth he couldn’t tell Gabrielle about what had really made him race out of her bed. The stark reality of the war that lay ahead of him and the rest of his kind would land on her plate soon enough. Tonight in fact, when Gideon paid her a visit.

“Listen, I have yoga class tonight with a friend of mine, but it lets out around nine. If you’re not on duty, would you like to come over? I could cook you dinner. Think of it as a raincheck for the manicotti you missed earlier this week. Maybe we’ll actually eat the food this time.”

His facial muscles burned with the involuntary pull of his mouth as Gabrielle’s flirty humor wrung a smile from him. The suggestion of the passion they’d shared together was wringing something else from him as well; and the flare of his arousal amid all of his other agony didn’t hurt half as bad as he wished it had.

“I can’t see you, Gabrielle. I have… things I must do.”

Chief among them, getting some blood into his depleted cells, and that meant keeping her as far away from him as possible. Bad enough she tempted him with the promise of her body; in his current state, he would be a danger to any human who was fool enough to get near him.

“Don’t you know what they say about all work and no play?” she asked, a world of invitation in the purr of her voice. “I’m a bit of a night owl, so if you get off work and decide you want some company—”

“I’m sorry. Maybe another time,” he said, knowing full well there would be no other time. He was standing on wobbly legs now and managing a halting, painful step toward the door. Gideon would be in the lab and that was all the way at the end of the corridor. Sheer hell to make that in his condition, but Lucan was more than willing to try. “I’m sending someone over to see you tonight. He’s a… an associate of mine.”

“What for?”

His breath rasped out of him in a labored wheeze, but he was walking. His hand swung out and caught the latch of the door. “Things are too dangerous topside right now,” he said in a strained rush of words. “After what happened to you downtown yesterday…”

“God, can we forget that? I’m sure I was just overreacting.”

“No,” he said, cutting her off. “I’ll feel better knowing you’re not alone… having someone look in on you.”

“Lucan, really. It’s not necessary. I’m a big girl. I’m fine.”

He ignored her protests. “His name is Gideon. You’ll like him. The two of you can… talk. He will help you, Gabrielle. Better than I can.”

“Help me—what do you mean? Has something happened with the case? And who is this Gideon guy? Is he a detective, too?”

“He will explain it all to you.” Lucan stepped out into the corridor where dim lights illuminated polished tile floors and crisp chrome and glass fixtures. From behind the door of another private apartment, Dante’s metal music thumped heavily. Trace smells of oil and recently fired weaponry filtered out from the training facility down one of many hallways that spoked off the main corridor. Lucan weaved on his feet, unsteady amid the sudden barrage of sensory stimulation. “You’ll be safe, Gabrielle, I swear to you. I have to go now.”

“Lucan, wait a second! Don’t hang up. What is it you’re not telling me?”

“You’re going to be all right, I promise. Goodbye, Gabrielle.”