Lynn Viehl - Darkyn 1 - If Angels Burn (v1.1) (5 page)

“Your boss, M. Cyprien, had me kidnapped.” She wanted it straight, for the statement she’d make to the police. The Frenchwoman nodded, and dull heat rose into Alex’s throbbing face. “Is he out of his fucking mind?”

“That, you must discuss with Mr. Cyprien tonight. For now, you should eat something.” The dark cameo ring she wore flashed as she gestured toward the tray.

Since Blondie was obviously a resident of la-la land, Alex turned to Phillipe. “Kidnapping is a federal offense. Let me out of here, right now, and I won’t press charges.” Oh yes, she would. La entire Fontaine was going to jail for this little stunt.

“Phillipe does not speak English.” Éliane smiled. “Nor do any of the other staff.” She went to the door. “I will return for your tray in an hour. Bon appétit.”

“For God’s sake, you can’t do this. I’m a doctor. I have patients.” Alex tried to follow, but Phillipe blocked her again. “Get Cyprien and tell him I want to talk to him,” she called over his shoulder. “Now!”

Éliane came back for the tray as promised, but only repeated that her boss would see Alex later that evening. Alex tried a different tack and told her about Luisa and the other people who were depending on her back home.

“These people, they will go to someone else to treat them,” Cyprien’s assistant said, dismissing everything with a wave of her hand. “Mr. Cyprien cannot.”

“Of course he can see another surgeon. There are thousands of them in the South—”

She shook her head. “Regrettably, none of them are quick enough.”

Everything became clear in that instant.

Six months ago,
Time
magazine had sent a reporter to interview Alex. She’d brushed him off, but someone at the hospital had gotten chatty about how quick she was with a scalpel. The reporter decided on a different spin, and had surreptitiously timed Alex against twelve top surgeons performing the same procedure.

The article had had a particularly cheesy title: ALEXANDRA KELLER, FASTEST SCALPEL IN THE WORLD.

“Just because I’m quick doesn’t mean he’ll heal faster.” Alex grabbed Éliane’s arm as she went to the door. “Tell him that.”

“You can tell him yourself.” With a surprisingly strong grip, she removed Alex’s hand. “Tonight, at dinner.” She waved at the armoire across from the bed. “You’ll find suitable garments in there. Please be ready by seven p.m.” Out she went, and Phillipe shut the door in Alex’s face.

Sheer curiosity made Alex open the armoire. Dozens of fancy-looking gowns hung inside, a row of low-heeled pumps lined up beneath them. Silk lingerie filled the drawers at the base.

The expensive assortment—and there were a few labels that made her mutter “Holy shit” when she read them—didn’t bug her as much as discovering everything, right down to the high-cut panties, was exactly her size.

Alex stayed in her own clothes, which earned her a frown from Phillipe when he opened the door at seven p.m. on the dot.

“
Vous êtes très’têtue
,” he murmured as he inspected her. The scar running down his jaw turned a little pink.

“Bite my ass.” She looked down both sides of the hallway outside the door, but all she saw was more doors. “Where is he?”

Phillipe gestured with a large, callused hand toward the left, and paced Alex as she stomped off in that direction.

They went down some marble stairs, through a labyrinth of corridors tastefully decorated with more paintings and antique pieces, and ended up in a cavernous formal dining room.

A crystal chandelier the size of a Volkswagen engine hung from the center of a baroque ceiling mural. The medallions carved in the wall plaster had been gilded to look like suns, and the table was a slab of gold-shot white marble resting on six sturdy brass columns. Pale pink orchids erupted from the froth of baby’s breath and fern that made up the table’s centerpiece.

No food on the table, she noticed, and only one place had been set with exquisite eggshell-thin porcelain.
Lifestyles of the Rich and Felonious
.

“Uh-uh.” Alex shook her head as Phillipe pulled out a chair for her. “Go get your boss.”

“Sit down, Dr. Keller,” a deeper male voice said from behind her. When she whirled, there was no one there. Then she spotted the intercom discreetly set into one of the wall panels. “My assistant has prepared a delicious meal for you. Crab-meat crepes, with stuffed artichoke, I believe.”

“I’m not hungry.” Alex considered picking up a knife until she saw how closely Scarface was watching her. “Can we get on with it? I have patients waiting for me.”
And cops to call. And charges to press
.

“Perhaps it is better that you not eat yet. Phillipe,
apportez-la-moi
.”

Phillipe guided Alex back out of the dining room and down another flight of stairs, this time leading into a basement level.

She saw no hot-water heaters or tool racks in Cyprien’s basement; in fact it was nicer than the upper levels. The antiques here were museum quality, the carpets spotless and intricately woven by some skilled Persian hands. Everything was in very dramatic shades of black and gold and red, bordello colors, but somehow it worked. Medieval paintings of castles and knights adorned the walls, but the colors appeared as fresh as if they’d been painted yesterday. She noted the draped easel in one corner, smelled the faintest traces of oil and turpentine. A huge old book, bound in dusty brown leather, sat by an armchair. The air-conditioning was so cold it made the air crisp. It was obvious that this was where the man lived, and where he worked.

Maybe he’s afraid of being bombed
. Alex saw a strange arrangement of crimson velvet curtains hanging from the ceiling around a four-poster bed. Another scent caught her attention, and she scanned the room, trying to identify it and the source.

“I am here, Dr. Keller.” A curtain twitched. “You should prepare yourself for this.”

Prepare, my ass
. Alex had seen people so badly injured and mutilated that they no longer resembled anything even remotely human. Was he really worried that his sagging jowls would shock her?

As she strode toward the bed, she was finally able to identify the odd odor—roses, like the stationery he’d sent her—and the closer she got, the stronger the smell became. As if Cyprien were lying in a bed of roses.

Maybe he was. After the way he’d behaved, snatching her like kidnapping was covered under his insurance as a physician referral, nothing would surprise her.

Phillipe got in front of her—for a big husky guy, he could move like lightning—and kept her from pulling open the curtain.

“Move.” She scowled up into his blunt face. “Oh, for—Cyprien, call off le pit bull, would you?”

“Phillipe.”

Scarface backed off, but not before he gave her a distinct, warning glance. Alex jerked aside the curtain and looked inside.

There weren’t any roses on the bed, only M. Cyprien. And he didn’t have sagging jowls.

He didn’t have a face, period.

“Sweet Christ Almighty.” Alex leaned over him, reaching for the mass of twisted scar tissue that covered the front of his misshapen skull. It was completely healed, and had covered his forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks, chin. His straight hair was black from crown to nape, but had turned completely white all around his face. His ears were gone, and his mouth was an uneven hole at the bottom. “What the hell happened to you?”

“It is difficult to explain.”

“Try.” She ignored the annoying way Phillipe was hovering beside her and began gently palpating Cyprien’s raddled flesh to feel the distorted bone beneath it. His eye sockets weren’t empty, and there was no sign of epidermal hemorrhage or edema. No indication of any inflammation or infection, either; his twisted skin felt cool to the touch. The only thing she could smell was roses.

“I had an unfortunate accident.” The hole stretched out, as if Cyprien was trying to smile. “You’re not frightened by my appearance.”

“I’m not easily spooked.” But she was. Her fingers told her he had suffered a very thorough facial smash of all the bones in the front of his skull, but the breaks were all different, as if he had been repeatedly thrown into a metal grate at various angles. And how had he escaped brain trauma? She’d never seen a patient with such injuries who had been allowed to heal like this. Next to him, Luisa Lopez was a supermodel. “Mr. Cyprien, am I the first physician to examine you?”

“No, there was another. He told me he could do nothing for me.” The ruin of his face only accentuated the beauty of his voice, a low baritone made silky by his French accent. “That was after he threw up on my bed.”

Alex’s cast-iron stomach was fine, but she wasn’t too sure about how well her ears were working. “Are you saying you’ve never been treated for these injuries?”

“It was not possible.” His hand lifted, long fingers fanning out over, but not touching, the worst of the scar tissue, which had buried his eyes. “As you can see, I am something of a medical challenge.”

“To say the least.” She performed a more thorough examination, surveying the map of ruin from the top of his cranium to the rather precise line at his throat where the scars abruptly ended. What her hands were telling her, however, couldn’t be true. “Who or what did this to your face, sir?”

“I was severely beaten, many times over, and then subjected to… immersion in a corrosive liquid.” He moved his hand—the elegant, pale hand of an artist—and brushed some white hair back from his right cheek. “I remained unconscious for some time, and when I awoke, my injuries had healed.”

That he wasn’t dead was a miracle, but what he was telling her didn’t jibe with his condition. Unless he had lain in a coma for months, and he had some unusual bone structure or… “Do you suffer from Paget’s disease?”

“No.”

Yet Alex could feel intact, solid bone structure under the skin. It had healed into new surfaces, the angles and dimensions of which were the stuff of nightmares.

“Are you sure no one treated you while you were unconscious?” He might have been operated on by an incompetent. Or a psychopath.

“Quite sure. It was only one night.”

She took her hands away. “If you’re going to lie to me, Mr. Cyprien, I can’t help you.”

“I spontaneously heal. Call me Michael.”

“Uh-huh.” Alex couldn’t help the laugh. “And I can set fires with the power of my thoughts. Want me to start up the fireplace?”

“Phillipe,
j’ai besoin d’un couteau
.”

The
couteau
turned out to be a long, sharp dagger, the hilt of which Phillipe placed in Cyprien’s hand.

“Wait a minute.” She stepped between them, trying to grab the knife. “I don’t need you cutting yourself up on top of this. I can’t imagine what you went through, but there are doctors who can help you.” He needed a shrink, badly, but she’d have to get him to a hospital first for a full head series. Could bone shards lodged in his brain be responsible for his crazy behavior?

“I am willing to prove my claims, Doctor.” Cyprien slashed the blade across his palm, then turned it to show her the wound. Blood ran sluggishly down to his wrist.

“Brilliant.” She grabbed his wrist and applied direct pressure. Then her fingers tensed as the gash’s edges began to pull together and close. In less than a minute, the wound disappeared.

She smeared blood on his arm, wiping it from the cut. Which was no longer there. “Nice trick, Mike. How did you do it? Rubber knife? Wired foam padding?” She looked around the bed, checking for special effects gear.

“I am not deceiving you.” After a small hesitation, he handed her the dagger.

Alex studied the blade, which felt real enough, but had been coated with bronze or some dark metal. “Okay, it’s not rubber. So what did you use? A packet of blood, fake skin? How did you get it to close like that?”

Cyprien extended his arm. “Cut me yourself.”

Did he think she’d get all female and shriek that she couldn’t? She was a surgeon, for Christ’s sake.

Phillipe touched her arm. “
Ne lui nuisez pas, ou je vous tuerai
.”

“What?”

“He wishes you to be gentle,” Cyprien assured her.

“Sounded more like a death threat to me. Give me your other arm.” When he did, she prodded his skin with her fingertips, selected a spot, and made a quick, shallow slash just above his elbow.

The cut she made closed and disappeared.

Alex poked the newly healed skin, looking for latex, rubber, and a fake blood packet. She found only flesh, tissue, and bone.

“God.” The knife fell from her hand as she backpedaled, but Phillipe’s big hands landed on her shoulders. She squirmed away from him before she faced the thing that had kidnapped her. “What are you?”

“I am a victim of brutality, Doctor. Nothing more.” Cyprien sat up, and the sheet fell away from his bare chest. From the neck down, he could have easily graced the cover of any romance novel. From the neck up, he was a poster boy for Clive Barker. “Because of my… ability, I cannot seek conventional treatment. Surgery is almost out of the question.”

Almost
. “That’s why you brought me here. You think I can operate fast enough on you to beat that kind of healing?”

“If you cannot,” Cyprien said, “then my face is lost forever.”

On the other side of the Atlantic, the stark cliffs of the Irish coast stood stoic sentinel, holding back storm-boiling seas. Rain ignored the cliffs, however, streaming past them and hurtling down not in sheets but in buckets and then vats, flooding the dirt roads until they were winding rivers of free-flowing mud. Crooked javelins of lightning pierced the ugly charcoal clouds, slicing through one billowing, angry mass to leap out and impale another.

The local farmers huddled under woolen covers in their modest cottages, thankful for their warm beds and the stout locks on their windows and doors. The storm had come up from the south, from Dundellan, and only a fool or a fiend would venture out on such a night.

Lucan had been many things since his bitch of a mother had whelped him into the world, but never a fool.

He steered the van around the curve of the private drive and parked directly in front of Dundellan Castle. Earl Wyatt-Ewan, the original owner, had rewritten his will to leave it and the bulk of his estate to Richard Tremayne, a distant English cousin. Wyatt-Ewan’s closer, disappointed relatives questioned the validity of the new will, and as the earl’s family were known to be uniformly long-winded and tiny-brained, everyone expected an extended legal tussle. Yet over the next year, each of the Wyatt-Ewans had, one by one, died in very tragic but completely unrelated accidents. Some said the castle—and the distant English cousin—were cursed because of this.