3 Blood Lines (8 page)

Something that might have been a smile twisted the ancient mouth. “Magic.”

“There’s no such . . .” Except obviously there was, so he let the protest die.

The smile flattened into an expression much more unpleasant. “Des . . . troy them.”

As he had been while opening the workroom door, Dr. Rax found himself shunted off into an enclosed section of his mind while his body obeyed another’s will. Only this time, he was conscious of it. The fog was gone.

He watched himself gather up the linen wrappings and carry them over to the sink.

“That . . . too.”

Fighting to stop himself, he lifted the strip of hieroglyphs from the worktable and added it to the rest. When he went into the darkroom, he knew the creature was using his mind—fire would have been an Eighteenth Dynasty solution, chemicals were not. A bottle of concentrated ascorbic acid dissolved the rotting fabric sufficiently to wash the entire mess down the drain and although his hands trembled, he couldn’t prevent them from pouring it. His heart ached at the destruction of the artifacts and the anger gave him strength.

Slowly he jerked his body around and met eyes so dark there was no telling where the pupil ended and the iris began. “That wasn’t necessary,” he managed to gasp.

The eyes narrowed, then widened. “A good thing for me . . . your god has not recognized . . . its power.”

“What the hell . . .” He had to stop to breathe.
We sound like a couple of badly tuned transistor radios. “. . .
are you talking about. My god?”

“Science.” The ancient voice grew stronger. “Still only an aspect. Not strong enough . . . to save your ass.”

Dr. Rax frowned, his thoughts tumbling over themselves in an attempt to pull order out of the impossible—that was not a phrase a dynastic Egyptian would use. “You speak English. But English didn’t exist when you were . . .”

“Alive?”

“If you like.”
The son of a bitch is enjoying this. He’s allowing me to talk to him.

“I learn from the ka I take.”

“From the ka . . . ?”

“So many questions, Dr. Rax.”

“Yes . . .” A hundred, a thousand questions, each fighting to be first. Perhaps the loss of the artifacts could be made up. He began to shake with barely suppressed excitement. Perhaps the holes in history could be filled. “There’s so much you can tell me.”

“Yes.” Just for an instant, something very like regret passed over the ancient face. “I’d enjoy . . . shooting shit with you. But, unfortun . . . ately, I need what you can tell . . . me.”

Dr. Rax started as an ancient hand wrapped around his wrist, the grip almost painfully tight.
I learn from the ka I take.
And the ka was the soul and a young man had died this morning and English hadn’t existed . . . “No!” He began to slide into the black depths of ebony eyes. “But I freed you!”
There’s still so much I don’t know!
And that gave him the strength to fight.

The grip tightened.

His free arm flailed, slamming his elbow into the cupboards, knocking the empty bottle off the counter, accomplishing nothing.

But he fought all the way down.

He lost the fight question by question.

How and why and where and what? And finally, who?

 

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“But how can you know?”

Vicki shrugged. “Because I know crazy and I know you.”

Henry threw himself down beside her on the couch and caught up both her hands in his. “Then why do I keep dreaming of the sun?”

“I don’t know, Henry.” He desperately wanted reassurance, but she didn’t know how much she had to give; this was going to take more than a “poor sweet baby” and a kiss on the nose. He looked, not frightened exactly, but vulnerable and his expression sat in a knot at the base of her throat, making it hard to swallow, hard to breathe. The only comfort she had to offer was the knowledge that he wouldn’t face whatever this turned out to be, alone. “But I do know this, we aren’t going down without a fight.”

“We?”

“You asked me for help, remember?”

He nodded.

“So.” She traced a pattern on the back of his hand with her thumb. “You said this has happened to others of your kind . . . ?”

“There’ve been stories.”

“Stories?”

“We hunt alone, Vicki. Except for during the time of changing we almost never associate with other vampires. But you hear stories. . . .”

“Vampiric gossip?”

He shrugged, a little self-consciously. “If you like.”

“And these stories say that . . . ?”

“That sometimes when we get too old, when the weight of all those centuries becomes too much to bear, we get so we can no longer stand the night and finally give ourselves to the sun.”

“And before that happens, the dreams come?”

“I don’t know.”

She closed her hand around his. “All right. Let’s take this one step at a time. Have you gotten tired of living?”

“No.” That, at least, he was sure of and the reason for it stared at him intently from less than an arm’s length away. “But, Vicki, as much as I have changed, the body, the mind is still basically human. Perhaps . . .”

“Perhaps the equipment is wearing out?” she interrupted, tightening her grip. “Planned obsolescence? You start heading toward your fifth century and the system starts breaking down?” Her brows drew in and her glasses slid down her nose. “I don’t believe that.”

Henry reached over and pushed her glasses back into place. “You can’t disbelieve the dreams,” he said softly.

“No,” she admitted, “I can’t.” She sighed deeply and one side of her mouth quirked up. “It’d be useful if you lot did a little more communicating, so we weren’t approaching this blind—maybe put out a newsletter or something.” He smiled at that, as she knew he would, and he relaxed a little. “Henry, less than a year ago I didn’t believe in vampires or demons or werewolves or myself. Now I know better. You
aren’t
crazy. You
don’t
want to die. You are therefore
not
going to give yourself to the sun. Q.E.D.”

He had to believe her. Her no-nonsense mortal attitude slapped aside the specter of madness. “Stay till morning?” he asked. For a moment he couldn’t believe the words had come from his mouth. He might as well have said,
“Stay until I’m helpless.
” It meant the same thing. Did he trust her that much? He saw that she understood and by her hesitation gave him time to take back the request. He suddenly realized he didn’t want to take it back. That he did, indeed, trust her that much.

Four hundred and fifty years ago he’d asked,
“Can
we
love?
”

“Can you doubt it?
” had been the answer.

The silence stretched. He had to break it before it pulled them apart; pulled her apart, forced her to hear what he knew she wasn’t ready to hear. “You can tie me to the bed if I start to do anything stupid.”

“My definition of stupid or yours?” Her voice was tight.

In for a penny in for a pound. “Yours.” He smiled, planted a kiss on her palm, and turned to face the window. If Vicki thought him sane, then he had to think so, too. Perhaps why he dreamed of the sun was of less immediate concern than how he dealt with the dreams. “More things in heaven and earth . . .” he mused.

Vicki sagged back against the sofa cushions. “Christ, I’m getting tired of that quote.”

Vicki had seen a thousand dawns and seen none of them the way she saw this one.

“Can you feel it?”

“Feel what?” Half asleep, she lifted her head off Henry’s lap.

“The sun.”

A sudden shot of adrenaline snapped her awake and she jerked forward, peering into his face. He looked very intent, brows drawn down, eyes narrowed. She glanced at the window. Although it faced south, not east, the sky had definitely begun to lighten. “Henry?”

He blinked, focused, and shook his head when he saw her expression, his smile both reassuring and slightly embarrassed. “It’s all right, this happens every morning. It’s like a warning.” His voice took on the mechanical tones of a dozen science fiction movie computers. “You have fifteen minutes to reach minimum safe darkness.”

“Fine.” Vicki stood, still holding his wrist. “Fifteen minutes. Let’s go.”

“I was making a joke,” he protested as she pulled him to his feet. “As warnings go, it’s not really that definite. It’s just a feeling.”

Vicki sighed and shot an anxious glance out the window at the streaks of pink she was sure she could see touching the edges of the city. “Okay. It’s just a feeling. What do you usually do when you feel it?”

“Go to bed.”

“Well?”

He studied her face for a moment—his intent expression back—sighed in turn, and nodded. “You’re right.” Then he pulled his hands free, spun on his heel, and walked across the living room.

“Henry?”

Although he stopped, he didn’t turn, merely looked back over his shoulder.

I don’t have to stay if you’re sure you’re all right.
Except he wasn’t sure. That was why she was there. And while he might be regretting making the offer—she recognized second thoughts in his hesitation—the reason he’d made it still existed. It seemed that if they were to both get through sunrise, she’d have to treat this like any other job.
The client fears that under certain conditions he may attempt suicide. I’m here to stop him.
With a start, she realized he was still waiting for her to say something. “Uh, how do you feel?”

Henry watched the parade of emotions cross Vicki’s face.
This isn’t any easier for you, is it?
he thought. “I feel the sun,” he said softly and held out his hand.

She took it with what he’d come to recognize as her working expression and together they made their way to the bedroom.

The first time Vicki had seen Henry’s bed, she’d been irrationally disappointed. By that time she’d known he didn’t spend the day locked in a coffin atop a pile of his native earth, but she’d been secretly hoping for something a little exotic. A king-size bed—“
I bet your father would have loved to have one of those . . .
”—with white cotton sheets and a dark blue blanket was just too definitively normal looking.

This morning, she shook free of his hand and stopped just inside the closed door. The soft circle of light from the lamp on the bedside table left her effectively blind, but she knew, because he’d told her on that first visit, that the heavy blue velvet drapery over the window covered a layer of plywood painted black and caulked around the edges. Another curtain just inside the glass hid the wood from the prying eyes of the world. It was a barrier designed to keep the sun safely at bay and a barrier, Vicki knew, that Henry could rip down in seconds if he chose. Her body became the barrier before the door.

Standing by the bed, Henry hesitated, fingers on shirt buttons, surprised to find himself uncomfortable about undressing in front of a woman he’d been making love to—and feeding from—for months.
This is ridiculous. She probably can’t even see you from there, the light’s so dim.
Shaking his head, he stripped quickly, reflecting that helplessness brought with it a much greater intimacy than sex.

He could feel the sun more strongly now, more strongly than he could remember feeling it before.
You’re sensitive to it this morning. That’s all.
God, he hoped it was all.

For Vicki, watching the flicker of pale skin as Henry moved in and out of the circle of light, standing guard at the door suddenly made less than no sense. “Henry? What the hell am I doing here?” She walked forward until his face swam into focus and then reached out and laid her hand gently on his bare chest, halting his movement. “I can’t stop you . . .” She scowled, recognizing the words as inadequate. “I can’t even slow you down.”

“I know.” He covered her fingers with his, marveling as he always did at the heat of her, at the feel of her blood pulsing just under the skin.

“Great.” She rolled her eyes. “So what am I supposed to do if you make a run for the sun?”

“Be there.”

“And watch you die?”

“No one, not even a vampire, wants to die alone.”

It could have sounded facetious. It didn’t. Hadn’t she realized only hours before that was all she had to give him? But she hadn’t realized, not then, that it might come to this.

Breathing a little heavily, wishing the light was strong enough for her to see his expression, Vicki managed not to yank her hand free.
Be there.
Bottom line, it was no more than Celluci had ever asked of her. Only the circumstances were different. “Jesus H. Christ, Henry.” It took an effort, but she kept her voice steady, “You’re not going to fucking die, okay? Just get your jammies on—or your tuxedo or whatever it is the undead sleep in—and get into bed.”

He released her and spread his arms, his meaning plain.

“Fine.” She pointed at the bed and glared at him while he did as he was told. Then, pushing her glasses hard against the bridge of her nose, she perched on the edge of the mattress. If she squinted, she could make out his features. “Are you okay?”

“Are you daring me not to be?”

“Henry!”

“I can feel the sun trembling on the horizon, but the only thing in my mind is you.”

“You’re just a bundle of clichés this morning.” But the relief in his voice had made it sound like truth. “What’s going to happen? I mean to you?”

He shrugged, his shoulders whispering against the sheets. “From your side, I don’t know. From mine, I go away until sunset. No dreams, no physical sensation.” His voice began to slow under the weight of dawn. “Nothingness.”

“What should I do?”

He smiled. “Kiss me . . . good-bye.”

Her lips were on his when the sun rose. She felt the day claim him. Slowly, she pushed herself back up into a sitting position.