Lynn Viehl - Darkyn 1 - If Angels Burn (v1.1) (37 page)

Thierry couldn’t understand why he didn’t suffer under her hands. Agony was an old friend now; it had walked the small space with him and patiently listened to his screams for Angel. Perhaps she was waiting, the way they had. They liked to draw it out, let the fear gnaw at him before the actual beatings. Sometimes in Dublin he went a whole day without pain. But they would always come with their crosses and their pipes and their prayers. They would always bind him with the biting wire and go to work, asking him the same things over and over.

Where are the others
?
How many are left
?
Where is Tremayne
?

Thierry knew he had told them nothing. He had sunk his fangs into his tongue more than once to keep the answers locked inside. The pain had helped at first. It reminded him of what others would endure if he betrayed the Kyn. But the pain never ended. It came to him on the night they broke his legs for the second time, because the first breaks had healed. His bones did not matter, and neither did his limbs. They could cut off his extremities. They could beat him to a pulp. As long as his head and his belly remained intact, he would heal.

They could keep him forever. They could go on doing this to him forever.

The woman came and spoke softly to him again.
Here we go, handsome
. Then she plied her deadly-looking instruments on his feet, her hands moving like hummingbirds, darting here, lingering there. It was beautiful, in a strange sense, to see her at her work. He could not see precisely what she did, but she moved with such grace and speed. The monks had not been nearly so fast nor refined.

He wanted to kill her for being so adept.

Heather
, she said to her apprentice.
Give him another dose
.

Thierry knew she used sorcery to keep him in the dream. She kept her witch’s brew in skinny blue glass tubes that turned clear after she jabbed their skewer ends into his arm. The apprentice did so now, and the foul brew took the spark of strength that had entered his limbs and stole his voice.

Perhaps she used it to demean him. It was the sort of magic aimed at sapping the heart and pride of a man. He had ridden to Jerusalem, had he not? And slain Saracens until their bodies had piled four- and five-deep. Men had feared his wrath, his sword. No one had ever taken him, not in training, not on the battlefield. That was where he should have died. Now he lay naked as a newborn babe under the bright light, and this witch was skinning him alive.

She looked up, her eyes tired over the edge of her veil.
This is the last one, pal. This one and we’re finished
.

So she intended to kill him this time. There was a time when Thierry might have wept with joy at the prospect of his demise. But they had taken his son and his Angel from him, and for that, they had to pay.

Alex had never heard a sweeter sound than the clatter of the last clamp on top of the other, soiled instruments in the cleanup tray. She looked across the table at Heather, who was sponging the residual blood from the bottom of Thierry’s feet.

“We’re done,” she said.

Heather pulled down her mask and smiled. “Should I go up and tell Mr. Cyprien?”

“You should go up and take a three-day nap. I’ve damn near worked you to death.” Alex eyed her patient. “Go on, Heather. I’ll finish up.”

Alex checked Thierry’s vitals, which were steady, and his pupils, which responded normally to her scope light. His respiration was a little faster than she liked, but the surgery was finished, so she didn’t need to sedate him again. She was actually looking forward to seeing him wake up and finding his legs and feet whole.

Hopefully they’ll work when he tries to walk
.

She picked up the instrument tray and carried it over to the autoclave for sterilization. Now that it was over, she considered telling Cyprien to get her on the next plane to Chicago. She had the files on the men who attacked Luisa Lopez, and the freedom to go after them. She knew each and every thing the men had done to her patient. She could assure that they enjoyed some of what Luisa had suffered.

Behind her, linens rustled, and she turned to check Thierry. He was still unconscious.

Alex dumped the instruments in an alcohol bath and went to the sink to wash. One of her gloves had split unnoticed and Thierry’s blood stained her palm. She stared at the red blotch, almost transfixed by it.

She couldn’t go back to Chicago.

She had already killed once. That had been—in the loosest sense of the word—self-defense. She had seriously injured the man in the bar, too, and no matter how she tried, she couldn’t feel bad about that. But if she went after Luisa’s attackers, it wouldn’t be self-defense or a well-deserved beating. It would be hunting them down, torturing them, and executing them.

It would make her exactly like them.

Cyprien wanted her to stay. Being a doctor to the Kyn wasn’t her idea of a decent medical career, but he was right: they had no one. She couldn’t imagine facing an eternity without hope of living in a whole, functioning body. If she turned her back on them, and these lunatics kept catching and torturing them, then it could happen.

Cyprien, his face gone, blindly wandering through the centuries alone. Alex couldn’t think of it without feeling sick.

By the time she finished washing up, she knew what she would do. She’d mail the files Cyprien had given her to the detective in charge of Luisa’s case. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t even what she wanted to do, but it was justice. As for her talent, she didn’t have to let the killers go free. Every city had toll-free numbers to call in crime tips. She could use them to report whatever she learned and remain anonymous.

She felt a lot better when she returned to the table. “I think I just figured out three-quarters of my life,” she told Thierry as she absently loosened a too-tight strap around his right upper arm. “Now all I have to do is decide if I stay here or I find somewhere else to hang up my shingle.”

Thierry’s arm twitched.

“Oh, you’re not ready to come waltzing with me yet, big guy.” Alex turned to get a syringe, and frowned as the scent of gardenia wafted around her.

Straps ripped; hands grabbed her from behind. Alex caught a glimpse of a furious face before she flew through the air and landed on top of a gurney, which flipped over, dumped her on the floor, and collapsed on top of her. She was struggling to push it aside when she saw the legs and feet she had restored appear in front of her face.

“Thierry, no.” She reached up blindly.

“Witch.” His dark face disappeared behind a giant fist, and a huge explosion of pain turned all the lights out.

Michael saw a pale hand under the twisted metal remains of a table and a supply cabinet. Rage snarled inside him as he ripped his way through the rubble to get to her.

“Here, Phillipe.” He tossed a cabinet aside and found her beneath. She was making a low, keening sound. He knelt beside her and kept his voice gentle. “Alexandra, open your eyes.” He brushed a tangle of hair away from her face. “Look at me.”

The sound she was making was a name. “Thierry.”

Michael lifted her out of the mess and carried her to a space his seneschal had cleared. The entire basement looked as if a hurricane had ripped through it. Carefully he lowered her onto the floor and checked her for injuries. Aside from a large bump on her forehead and a bruise that spilled over her right cheek, there were none.

The bruise made his hands clench.

“I’m okay.” She tried to sit up.

“Be still.” Michael put an arm around her for support. “What happened?”

“I finished.” She looked around, her eyes dazed. “I was cleaning up. He was unconscious. Then I was sailing through the air and crashing into things. He was over me and then… bam, lights out.” She grimaced. “Is he okay?”

“Thierry escaped. He’s gone.”

“Shit.” She pressed a hand to her head. “He must have been playing possum. There was no time to react. He came at me like the wrath of God.”

Her insistence on walking this line between human and Darkyn was, in part, responsible for Thierry’s escape. Had she been Kyn, she would have been strong enough to hold him off, long enough for Michael and his men to get downstairs.

Michael looked up at Phillipe. “Take the men and find him. Arm yourselves, and do what is necessary.”

His seneschal nodded and left.

“Wait a minute.” Alex used his shoulders to balance as she struggled to her feet. “What do you mean, necessary?”

“Thierry killed two of my men before he fled.” He thought of how close Alexandra had come to death. “Nothing will stop him.”

She shook her head. “He’s just confused.”

“He’s mad. He will only leave bodies in his wake.” When she started to walk upstairs, he caught her arm. “You cannot go after him. You are hurt.”

“I’m fine. I didn’t just spend three weeks putting him back together so your goons could take him apart.” She gave him an impatient look. “I’ll find him, and talk to him, and calm him down.”

He shook his head. “He’s too dangerous.”

“I can handle him.” She took her tranquilizer gun and began loading it.

His temper exploded, and he went after her. “You do not decide what happens here.” When she aimed the gun at his chest, he slapped it out of her hand.

She gaped at him. “What are you, jealous?”

“You’re still human enough to die, you idiot woman,” he roared.

“Of course I am.” Alex blinked. “What has that got to do with it?”

“Everything.” He pulled back his sleeve and bared his wrist.

“Let’s talk about this.” She recoiled. “Cyprien, you’re not thinking clearly. No.
No
.”

“The time to think about it and talk about it is over. I know you have been starving yourself. You must face what you are, Alexandra, and you will never do that until you feed.” He grabbed her by the back of the neck, held her in place, and pressed his wrist to her lips. “You will take my blood, Alex.”

Because of the grip he had on her, Alex couldn’t turn her head. “No.”

“Bite me.”

Alex’s mouth was pressed tightly to Cyprien’s wrist. She could feel the heavy rush of the blood in his veins against her lips. Saliva pooled in her mouth, and her fangs emerged, full and aching with emptiness. Still, somehow, she kept her jaw clamped shut.

“With you, it must always be the hard way.” Cyprien dragged her over to the empty exam table and threw her on top of it. Alex was too weak to fight him and the restraints he strapped over her arms and legs.

“You know how many ways I can hurt you?” she snapped.

“Too many.” He put his wrist to his mouth, bit into it with his own fangs, and then pressed it against her lips again. “Now, drink.”

A little of his blood seeped into her mouth. From all the hype, it was supposed to be like drinking ambrosia. Only it wasn’t. It was blood, and it
tasted
like blood.

So much for the Anne Rice bullshit
. The taste made it a little easier to keep her mouth shut.

“
Femme têtue
.” He took his wrist away, put it to his mouth, and sucked.

Alex wiped the back of her hand across her lips. “I won’t do it. Do you—”

Cyprien sprawled on top of her. He held her head with one hand and pinched her nose shut with the other. Alex’s eyes went wide a fraction of a second before he clamped his mouth over hers.

Blood flowed from his mouth into hers. Alex choked, but he kept her from taking in any air by keeping her nostrils pinched shut. It wasn’t kissing like last night, though. He was doing it to get his blood down her throat. Alex strained at the straps holding her down, but she couldn’t get an arm free. She tried to spit the blood out, but being flat on her back and unable to breathe made it impossible. Cyprien stayed on top of her, keeping his mouth sealed over hers, his glacier blue eyes staring directly down into hers.

Flesh to my flesh, blood to my blood
.

Why she stopped fighting, Alex would never know. She simply did. She swallowed the blood from Cyprien’s mouth, and when that was gone, she let her head fall back against the table. No euphoria this time; she shuddered as she felt his blood slam into her desiccated stomach like a hot fist. She didn’t taste blood in her mouth anymore; she only felt it spreading through her, like the warmth he had given her last night. Better than the warmth.

Way
better.

Alex turned her head and saw the wound on his wrist had already healed over. Her fangs ached. She wanted to sink them into him and have more. More and more and more…

“Master, it is Tremayne. He will be here in twenty minutes.”

Éliane’s voice calling to him from the top of the stairs worked better than a bucket of iced holy water. Cyprien rolled off her and reluctantly released the straps. It took Alex a few seconds to climb off the table, and by the time she did a faint red mist had descended over everything.

Son of a
bitch.
He did it to me
again.

Alex didn’t waste time with words. She threw her fist and hit Cyprien in the chest. Drinking the blood he’d forced down her throat put a little extra power behind the punch, and he went flying across the room, where he crashed into a storage cabinet. Glass shattered; liquid splashed. He was back on his feet in a blink, wiping the fresh blood that trickled from his mouth.

He didn’t yell; he didn’t try to hit Alex back. He held out his long, slim artist’s hand. “Come here, Alexandra.”

Oh, shit. This is the part Anne Rice got right
.

She wanted to. She might be a blood-dependent fanged mutant, but she still had needs, and Cyprien could stroke every one of them until they sat up and begged.

She could do things his way. Take his hand, follow his orders, kiss his amazing ass for the rest of forever. He’d love it, and he’d make sure she loved it. And somewhere along the way, Alex was pretty sure she’d lose what was left of her soul.

“I’m going after him,” Alex told him. She retrieved her tranquilizer gun. “If you try and stop me again, I’ll shoot you first.”

“Don’t get close to him,” was all he said.