Thirst No. 5 (11 page)

His breathing concerns me. It’s shallow and irregular. Plus his pulse is thin and ragged. It’s possible the blow to his head is causing his brain to swell, which could lead to death if not treated. Still, I hesitate to take him to a hospital. I can’t forget the way he looked at me when he opened his eyes, the way he said my name. It was like he was happy to see me.

I decide to do something I almost never do.

Pricking my thumb with the nail on my index finger, I allow three drops of my blood to drip onto his egg-sized bruise. When I struck at Ray’s father long ago, and crushed his skull, he begged me to save him from dying. I told him the truth, that I couldn’t save him, I couldn’t heal, I could only kill.

But since then three significant events have changed who I am. First, my maker, Yaksha, gave me all his blood just before he died, which greatly enhanced every one of my abilities, while adding a few new ones. Second was the infusion of my daughter’s blood before she left this world. Kalika was a terrifying being, but she was also a goddess, and when her
essence entered me, a part of me opened up to worlds unseen. Finally, when Umara put my soul back in my body, she used a vial of Krishna’s blood to complete the process, and after that I no longer had to believe in a spiritual realm, I sensed it in my heart.

As my blood drips onto Mr. Grey’s ugly bruise, the swollen tissue immediately absorbs the red fluid as if it were hungry, and a sigh seems to go through the length of his body. Placing my hand on his wrist, I feel for his pulse and sit back and wait.

The transformation comes quick. Within minutes the bruise has shrunk in size and his breathing has deepened and gained strength. His pulse has improved as well. His heart steadies at sixty beats a minute.

“Mr. Grey,” I say softly. “Time to open your eyes.”

His long brown lashes blink as he looks up at me and smiles. “You didn’t kill me, Sita. I’m glad.”

“How do you feel?”

He tries to sit up and falls back down. “Weak. Dizzy.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“You’re the Last Vampire.”

“Who told you that?”

“My superiors. They told me about you and Matt. His father was Yaksha, greatest of all the vampires, and his mother was Umara, one of the ancient Telar.”

“Impressive. Who are your superiors?”

“That’s going to be a problem. I can lie to you or I can
admit that I can’t tell you.” He pauses. “I’d rather do the latter.”

“Are you working for the government?”

“I have nothing to do with the manhunt that’s chasing you.”

“Then how do you know about the manhunt?”

“My superiors told me about it.”

“Is that going to be your answer to every difficult question?”

“To a lot of them.”

“Why were you watching the Goodwins?”

“I was there to protect them. And I was hoping you would show up so we could meet.”

“What made you think I would show up?”

He hesitates. “The veil.”

“How do you know about the veil?”

“It’s famous, in certain circles.” He pauses. “Will you please not kill me if I tell you that my superiors belong to those circles?”

I sigh. “You’re not giving me a lot to work with. My friends don’t trust you. Come morning, if all I can tell them is your superiors sent you, they’re going to want me to get rid of you. And I mean get rid of you in a permanent sort of way.” I pause. “Give me something.”

Mr. Grey considers. “Tell Matt and Seymour and Brutran that I can help you guys find the veil.”

“You know where it is?”

“I know the next best thing. I know how to call off the manhunt.”

“How are you going to do that?”

He winces in pain and closes his eyes. He continues in a quiet voice. “There’s a bag I had with me, when I was outside the Goodwins’ house. It should still be there. It’s near the road, in a bunch of—”

“We found it, we have it.”

He’s surprised, which is in itself a surprise. Not much seems to startle Mr. Grey. Opening his eyes, he tries again to sit up. “Give it to me. I can help you.”

“Tomorrow,” I say, pushing him gently down. “The two who attacked the Goodwins cracked your skull. You have a serious concussion. You have to lie still.”

He feels his scalp wound. “It was worse earlier. Did you . . . ?”

“Yes. I gave you a few drops of my blood.”

He suddenly smiles. “Does that mean we’re going steady?”

“You’re weird. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“My superiors.” His eyes close and his breathing deepens, sleep forcing itself on his beaten body. “Sita,” he whispers.

I lean close. “Yes, Mr. Grey?”

“I’m happy to be here . . . with you.”

He blacks out and I’m left alone with my thoughts. Rising from the bed, I huddle in a chair in the corner of the room, determined to stay awake to keep an eye on Mr. Grey. I’m not a neurologist but I know enough about head injuries to be concerned.
Even with an infusion of my blood there’s an excellent chance his concussion could drag him into a coma from which he might never awaken. It’s critical I monitor his heartbeat and breathing. I’m exhausted but long ago I learned how to rest without sleeping.

I sit quietly, eyes closed, and think of Krishna’s eyes.

Unfortunately, the memories of the Nazis and the war intrude on my meditation. Dark thoughts that would keep any man or woman awake until dawn. The nightmare of Auschwitz: the trainloads of refugees; the screams in the gas showers; the mountains of corpses; the ovens; the stink of burning flesh. It was more than seventy years ago and it still feels like yesterday.

No, I think. I won’t sleep tonight.

I
have only ten days left, I think miserably. Ten days to rescue Anton Petit, a key leader in the French Resistance, from the Nazis’ Gestapo. Ten days to finish mapping the minefields on and off the coast of France. The pressure on me is immense. Yet, ironically, even the leaders of the British and American forces don’t realize how much they are depending on me.

Only a mid-level officer on General Eisenhower’s staff named Lieutenant Frank Darling knows who I am and
what
I am. It’s Frank who’s told me that in ten days the massed might of the Allies will attempt to storm Normandy’s beaches. Of course, it could be nine days, or eleven or twelve, depending on the weather.

Anton, a dear friend, is key because he’s the only member of the French Resistance who has complete knowledge of their
plans to disrupt the Nazis prior to and immediately following the invasion. Just his luck that he was captured six hours ago while quietly sipping coffee at a café outside the most famous museum on earth, the Louvre. Anton’s casual behavior—I should call it foolhardiness—was typical of him. With the fate of his nation hanging in balance, he screamed at me that he absolutely could not miss his morning coffee and cheese sandwich, before vanishing out the door.

I love Anton, I truly do, but a part of me worries I will kill him when I rescue him. Like many French men he can be terribly stubborn.

Ah, but he’s wonderful in bed.

I must keep him alive, I remind myself, even as I stare across the dark cobblestone street at the unimposing three-story building where he is being held captive. I’m in the southwest corner of Paris, on the fringe of the city, studying what used to be an elementary school. What’s interesting about the structure is how few of the local population know it’s a Gestapo stronghold. A secret entrance, which opens two blocks away, is the reason it has gone overlooked. But the fact it even has such an opening makes me think it was used by French intelligence before the country was overrun.

Whatever, the gray brick wall around the building is tall and I happen to know that its hidden front and back yards are choked with layers of barbed wire. Up top, on the roof, what looks at first glance to be a simple ornamental tower is really
a machine-gun nest manned by three Germans. The men are clever and manage to keep themselves, and their .30-caliber weapon, out of sight.

But I know they’re there. And I know they’ll probably have to die if I’m to enter the building. Yet I’m reluctant to kill them. Eventually their bodies will be found, which will create a fuss, and besides, I’ve been listening to them while I’ve been studying the building, and all they seem to care about is their girlfriends back home. Plus they hate Hitler. Every time his name comes up one of them is obliged to fart. They’re Nazi soldiers, true, but they’re not Gestapo, the secret-police arm of Hitler’s insane war machine. I can only assume they’re on loan to the Gestapo from some idle division.

Of course, if they were Gestapo, I’d enjoy killing them. I’d probably even drink their blood. It’s been a while since I’ve fed.

I know Anton is being held in the elementary school because Ralph and Harrah Levine, roommates of mine and close friends, saw him being dragged into the building. Yet, despite my supernatural hearing, I can’t hear Anton inside. For that matter, I can’t hear anybody being tortured, which leads me to believe the building has several deeply buried basements. I shudder to think what’s going on in them. Anton used to tell me he didn’t fear death, but pain was another matter. Brave men do not necessarily hold up under torture any better than cowards.

I need to get Anton out. Now.

To see the precise extent of the barbed wire, how far it stretches beyond the wall, I’ll have to leap to the top of the brick barrier. Chances are I can take a second leap and reach a door of some kind, but there will probably be outside guards, and if I have to stop and deal with them—for even a few seconds—the three men on top will become aware of my presence and open fire. Their bullets don’t worry me so much as how I’ll be forced to retaliate. Once again, they seem like good old boys, I don’t want to send them home to their girls in body bags.

My thoughts turn to the secret entrance two blocks away and I fade back into the night, momentarily leaving the old school alone. A friend in the Resistance told me about the hidden entryway but didn’t explain exactly where it was. I’ll have to scan every building I run into in a two-block radius, look for signs of a mysterious gate. Anton had said the entrance was accessible by car.

The time is two in the morning and this portion of Paris has a strict curfew. I’ve searched less than three blocks when I bump into two German soldiers. They’re smoking and sharing a bottle of wine on a park bench when I appear, but quickly jump to attention and demand to see my papers. They’re impressed by my good looks. One calls me
Fräulein
, the other
Mademoiselle
. Naturally, I speak perfect German and French, and I’m tempted to flirt in their native tongue, but then I’ll have more explaining to do. There’s no good reason for a blond
and blue-eyed Fräulein to be wandering the streets of Paris in the daytime, never mind at night.

They smile as I hand over my Alys Perne passport. The taller of the two men takes it. The short one continues to smile but puts his hand on his handgun. German soldiers can be friendly, especially to a pretty girl, but they are well trained. They may like what they see but they are already suspicious.

“You are out late, Fräulein,” the tall one says in decent French.

“I was with a friend. You may know him—General Hans Straffer?”

They both stiffen at the name, exchange a hurried look. “Did the general drop you in this neighborhood?” the tall one asks.

“Yes.” I nod down the road. “My apartment is not far. I told him I wanted to stretch before sleeping so he let me out a few blocks away.” I pause. “Is there a problem, officers?”

They’re not officers but they don’t mind the title. Still, they are alert and hastily speak in German to each other, assuming I can’t understand what they’re saying. The tall one prefers to let me go but the short man wants to call General Straffer to verify my story. His opinion holds sway and the tall one asks if I will accompany them to a nearby “office.”

“It was General Straffer’s assistant who dropped me here,” I say. “I’m afraid the general is asleep now.” I add with a wink. “After the night we shared, he must be sleeping very deeply. It would be a mistake to wake him, don’t you think?”

The short one wants to know the name of Straffer’s assistant. The tall one translates for him.

“Lieutenant Jakob Baum,” I say. “You must know the lieutenant. He has that striking mustache and commanding voice. He reminds me of the Führer.”

Hitler is not necessarily a favorite of front-line German soldiers, but I have a feeling the short man might respond favorably to the reference. Also, I’m sizing Lieutenant Baum up the same way Straffer’s staff has, which I hope will give both men confidence that I’m telling the truth.

Unfortunately, the short man still wants to make a call. He insists I come with them to their nearby office. Office, I think. Christ, there could be a dozen men inside the place, if not a hundred. I have to end this here, in the street, one way or the other. I back up a step, as the short one reaches to take my arm, and let the power of my will enter my voice. I speak in fluent German.

“I am not some whore you can order about in the night,” I say. “I am not just a friend of General Straffer, I am his lover. And yes, I know what you are thinking, that he is married and will leave me the moment he leaves Paris, but it is not so. He has given me his word we are to be married come July in Berlin, and he is a man of his word. And he has pledged to protect me from any harm, come what may. Now both of you, stop and think how he will react when I tell him how shabbily you have treated me this night.” I pause. “I won’t be surprised if you are shot come morning.”