Love Bites (3 page)

He cast an apologetic glance at his victim, then used a hand at the back of the man's neck to tilt his head, nicely exposing the throat. The man stiffened and made a slight sound of protest as Etienne's teeth pierced his skin, but he relaxed with a moan as Etienne began to drink. The blood was warm and rich, nourishing. It was also much tastier than the cold bagged blood he'd become used to. It reminded Etienne of days gone by, and he partook of a bit more than he intended. It wasn't until his donor sagged weakly against him that he forced himself to stop. Easing the fellow into the rolling chair next to the woman crumpled on the floor, he checked him to be sure he hadn't done any lasting damage. He hadn't.

Relieved to find the man's heartbeat steady and strong, Etienne took the time to wipe his memory clean, then straightened, his glance catching on a container on the desk. He immediately recognized the object inside: a bullet. His hand moved to his chest to absently rub the still healing wound, then he reached out for the container and checked the label.

This was the bullet that had stopped his heart. The woman's removal of it had allowed his body to heal. Otherwise, he'd still be on the table. It was proof of his existence and couldn't be left behind.

Pocketing the bullet, Etienne did a quick search of the room. Finding the paperwork left behind by the EMTs, he realized he would have to find them, clear
the memory of the incident from their minds, and get their paperwork as well. He supposed there would be police reports and other things he would have to take care of too. It was going to be a bigger project than he liked, and one with which he would need help. The thought made Etienne grimace. He'd have to ask Bastien, which meant the family would find out, but there was no help for it. This incident had to be removed from public memory.

Resignation overwhelming him, Etienne collected his shredded shirt and suit jacket, and did one more quick search of the room to be sure there was nothing of his left behind. Then he borrowed one of the lab coats hanging from a peg by the door. He donned it, found a garbage bag for the bullet and his ruined clothing, then quickly left the morgue.

Bastien would have to be called in to help clean up. Etienne just hoped his older brother wouldn't tell their mother. Marguerite would have fits if she caught wind of this. She had gotten a taste of Pudge's suffering from Etienne shortly after his attempt to read the other fellow and, a very soft-hearted woman, she had agreed with Etienne that Pudge shouldn't be killed. But she hadn't had an alternative solution, and she'd been annoyed with Etienne for being unable to come up with more useful ideas himself.

Etienne grimaced as he made his way quickly out of the basement of the hospital. He hated failure in any form.

“Well, that was depressing,” Etienne commented as he led the way out of the crowded theater.

“It was supposed to be a comedy,” his mother Marguerite said apologetically. “It was advertised as a comedy.”

“Well, it missed that boat by a mile at least.” He clapped Bastien on the back. “Still, happy birthday, brother.”

“Thank you.”

Bastien sounded less than enthused, but Etienne couldn't blame him. After four hundred years, celebrating birthdays was probably a bit of a drag. Hell, after only three hundred, Etienne would gladly let his own pass without notice, but he knew he would be no more fortunate than Bastien at avoiding some sort
of celebration. Their mother would insist on marking their births every single year, no matter how many accrued. Marguerite Argeneau loved her children. She was glad they had been born and believed life was to be celebrated. Etienne supposed he should be glad she bothered. It was good to have family.

“Oh, dear. It's raining,” Marguerite said as they joined the milling throng under the building's awning. The theatergoers were obviously reluctant to brave the downpour.

“Hmm.” Etienne glanced out into it. His gaze flickered with disinterest over the autos moving slowly by, but halted rather abruptly on a car parked across the street. Recognition struck him like a bolt of lightning. It looked very like the car with which Pudge had run him down. That incident had occurred a couple of weeks before the shooting, but Etienne had walked away from it. His body had repaired in a few moments the broken femur and fractured skull he'd suffered. Fortunately, no one had witnessed the attack or his spontaneous healing.

As he watched, Pudge's vehicle's engine started, the driving lights came on, and it pulled into traffic. Etienne had just relaxed when his mother asked, “Was that him?” He immediately tensed again.

His mother knew everything. She had been fretting over the situation since the shooting. After being asked several times what he intended to do about his assailant, Etienne had been forced to admit that he
didn't know. He had tried to reassure his mother by promising he would be more careful and that it was all really amusing, but she hadn't taken the comment well at all. Now, here was Pudge making his life more difficult.

“No. I'm sure it wasn't,” he reassured her, then attempted to head off another lecture. “You two wait here, and I'll bring the car around.”

He left before they could debate the matter. The theater had no valet parking, but Etienne had been fortunate enough to find a spot a bare half a block away. He was grateful for that now, escaping as he was any chance of a lecture by rushing off through the rain. He nodded at the lot attendant as he passed the booth, then rushed to his car, pushing the button on his keychain to unlock the doors. He then pushed the second button to start the vehicle for him, a nifty little gadget he'd had installed just the week before in preparation for the coming winter. Winters in Canada could be bitterly cold, and there was nothing as nasty as getting into an icy vehicle.

He was only a few feet away when he started the car this night. He was reaching for the door handle when it revved to life, and that's what saved him. Had he been inside the vehicle, the explosion might very well have finished him. As it was, he was caught by the blast, a red hot wave that picked him up and threw him back several feet. Etienne smelled burnt flesh,
pain radiated through him, then he felt and knew nothing.

 

“Hey, you're back!”

Rachel glanced up from her overdue paperwork and smiled at Fred and Dale, who wheeled in a covered gurney. It was her first day back since the night she'd been so sick she'd fainted on the job. She'd woken some time later to find Tony kneeling over her, weak, pale, and claiming he'd caught her flu bug because he didn't feel well, either.

Rachel didn't recall much about fainting. She had a vague dreamlike memory of Dale and Fred bringing someone in, but didn't recall anything more than that, and there had been no new bodies about when she regained consciousness. Positive that it had all been part of some fever-induced hallucination, Rachel had decided bed was the place for her and called in a replacement. She'd asked if Tony wanted a replacement as well, but he'd felt better after a couple of moments and insisted he would be fine.

Rachel had been sick as a dog for a week. She'd suffered some of the strangest dreams too, filled with handsome, silver-eyed corpses that sat up on gurneys and spoke to her. But those had stopped as she started to feel better, and for the first time since she'd got the job on the hospital morgue night shift, Rachel was glad to be coming to work.

Well, mostly glad. She was a morning person and
genuinely hated working nights. She liked daylight. Working all night then sleeping all day was annoying and made her moody, and she couldn't seem to sleep in the evening. It was only after her shift, when Rachel dragged her exhausted self home, that she was able to sleep, and then it was interrupted slumber, up and down, waking then falling back to sleep.

“I hear you were pretty sick. This isn't much of a welcome back. Sorry,” Dale said as Rachel grabbed a table and wheeled it over next to the stretcher.

“What is it?” she asked curiously.

“Crispy critter.” Fred tugged the sheet free to reveal the charred remains of a burn victim.

“House fire?” Rachel asked with a grimace.

“Car explosion. He was caught in the blast,” Dale answered.

“Yeah.” Fred stared at the body, then shook his head. “Strange thing was, we thought there was a heartbeat. We got him in the ambulance, no beat. Then, halfway here, there's another beat. Then no beat again. The guy couldn't decide if he was dead or not, I guess. The doc pronounced him dead when we got here.”

Rachel glanced curiously at the corpse, then took the clipboard Dale held out.

“Where's Tony?” the EMT asked as he watched her sign the necessary papers.

“He's off. Sick.”

“Caught your flu bug, did he?” Fred chuckled.

“Not from me. From his nurse friend.” Rachel watched them shift the body to the steel table, then she returned the clipboard.

“So, I hear we're not going to have your smiling face around here at night anymore,” Dale said. “Congratulations.”

“Congratulations?” Rachel stared at him blankly.

“On getting the assistant coroner job. Tony told us about it last time we were here.”

Rachel's jaw dropped. “What?”

Fred and Dale exchanged glances, but it was Fred who finally said, “Er…Tony said Bob was going to tell you as soon as you got back to work. Bob told you, right?”

Rachel just stared. Bob was Robert Clayton, the coroner. He worked the day shift but often dropped in to give instructions and get reports at the beginning of the night. He hadn't done so tonight. “Jenny told me he called in sick today too. I guess it's his turn to have the flu,” she said.

“Oh, shoot, we ruined the surprise.”

Rachel continued to stare, but she found herself grinning. She had gotten the assistant coroner's job. She would be off the night shift soon. She'd got it! “Guys!” Rachel began excitedly, then hesitated and asked, “This isn't a joke, right? You aren't pulling my leg?”

Both men shook their heads but looked apologetic. “Nope. You got the job. Just try to act surprised when
Bob tells you. I don't want to get Tony in trouble.”

Dale grunted as she launched herself at his chest. Catching him in a hug, she squeezed as tight as she could and laughed happily. “I got the job! Thank you, thank you, for telling me. Man! This is great news. No more nights. No more trying to sleep through buddy next door mowing his lawn. No more not being able to go out with friends 'cause I have to work. This is brilliant!”

“I take it you're happy, then?” Fred laughed as she released Dale and turned to hug him.

“Oh, you'll never know,” Rachel said blissfully. “I absolutely, positively
hate
the night shift.”

“Well, we'll miss your smiling face,” Dale said. “But we're glad you're happy.”

“Yup. Just remember to act surprised when Bob tells you,” Fred said, patting her shoulder. He glanced at Dale. “We should get back to work.”

Rachel stood, smiling as they left, then turned to the gurney and surveyed her guest. She would have to remove his belongings if there was anything left intact, then strip him, tag him, and move him to one of the freezer drawers. She couldn't do it by herself; she'd need help moving the body.

A glance at her watch showed it was nearly midnight. Beth should be arriving soon, a part-timer who filled in when someone was ill. The woman was really getting the hours lately. Normally Beth was the most dependable of workers too, arriving early and willing
to work late, but today she'd had car trouble and called in to warn Rachel she'd be late. The woman was waiting for a friend to pick her up and drive her.

She'd be in within the half hour. Once here, Beth could help strip the body, but in the meantime, Rachel herself could remove his possessions and tag him. She glanced down at the unfortunate fellow, then stilled. He didn't seem to be in quite as bad a shape as he had first appeared. In fact, he seemed a
lot
better. When she had first glanced at him, he had seemed almost completely charred, with very little flesh. Now, a lot of the charred color seemed gone. In fact, Rachel realized, it was flaking off, and a lot of it now lay on the metal tabletop. Reaching out, she brushed at the skin on his face, fascinated to see the blackened flesh crumble, revealing healthier skin beneath. She'd never seen anything like it. He was shedding dead flesh like a snake.

Rachel straightened and stared, her heartbeat accelerating. How was this happening? Or was what she thought happening at all? Perhaps that wasn't charred flesh brushing away; perhaps something had been blown onto him by the blast. Perhaps he hadn't been badly burned at all, he just looked as if he had. Rachel knew it was silly; Dale and Fred were excellent EMTs. Still, she found herself looking for a pulse in his wrist. When more of the charring crumbled beneath her fingers, she feared it might interfere with getting a pulse, and she bent to press her ear to his chest instead. At
first she felt foolish looking for life in a dead man, but then a thump sounded. Rachel straightened with amazement, then lowered her ear again. Silence followed for an extremely long time, then another thump.

The door banged behind her. “Get away from him! He's a vampire!”

Rachel straightened and whirled gaping in surprise at the man standing in the open doorway. He looked quite mad. It wasn't just the army fatigues he wore under the huge trench coat he opened, or the fact that he had a rifle swinging from a strap over his shoulder and dangling under one arm, or the ax that hung from the other. All of it, plus his wild eyes and his very expression, screamed escapee from the booby hatch.

Rachel eyed him warily and raised one hand. “Now, look, friend,” she began in reasonable tones. It was as far as she got. The man charged forward and shoved her aside.

“Didn't you hear me? Get away, lady, get away! He's a vampire. A monster. A beast of the night. Demon spawn. A hell-breathing bloodsucker. I have to dispatch him.”

Rachel grabbed the gurney to keep from stumbling, her eyes wide as the man unstrapped his ax and hefted it over his shoulder with both hands. She couldn't believe it. The fool really intended on cutting the head off her corpse. If he was a corpse, she reminded herself. She had heard a heartbeat. Her gaze
shot to the man on the table to see that even more of the charring had flaked onto the table. Rachel could make out his features more clearly and he appeared familiar to her.

Without stopping to consider the action, Rachel threw herself between them and shouted “No!” even as the crazy man brought the ax down. She realized her mistake at once. It really would have been smarter to have pushed the man off balance or something. His swing barely slowed, and Rachel's breath left her in a stunned “Unh” as the ax struck. It happened so fast, she hardly felt any pain.

Her attacker cried out in shocked horror and pulled his ax free, but it was too late. Rachel knew as she sagged back against the table, it had been a killing blow. She would bleed to death very quickly.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean…” The man shook his head in horror, then stumbled forward.

Despite herself, Rachel instinctively flinched away from his reaching hands. Regret and sadness covered his face.

“Let me help you. I want to help you. I really never meant to hurt you. Why didn't you stay out of the way? It's him I…”

The man's voice died abruptly as a familiar squeak reached Rachel's ears. She recognized the sound of the door to the hall opening, and guessed by the gasp that sounded—not to mention her attacker's expression—that she was right. The squeak sounded again
and was followed by the tap of rushing footsteps in the hall.

“I
am
sorry,” her attacker said as he turned a tortured expression back to her. “I really am. I never meant to hurt you. Help is on the way, but I have to go. Hang in there,” he ordered as he stumbled away. “Whatever you do, don't die. I couldn't live with that.”

Rachel stared after him, wanting to cry out, but she didn't have the strength. A moan from behind made her instinctively try to turn. She managed, but that was where her strength gave out. She found herself slumping over the explosion victim's face.

 

Blood, sweet and warm. Etienne sighed as he swallowed. It eased the agony cramping his body. He needed the nourishing fluid trickling into his mouth, and even his guilt at this woman taking the blow meant for him didn't stop his enjoyment of it. He needed her blood desperately and was grateful.

“Etienne!”

He recognized his mother's voice but couldn't seem to see where it was coming from. Then the warm body lying across him was suddenly lifted away, and he opened his eyes in protest to see his mother bending over him.