Unbitten (45 page)

Henri stood up and turned to Roland, who was digging in his
pocket for another stake, and scanning the line of trees on
the edge of the pasture. Henri did not hesitate. He bounded
towards Roland, again unashamedly using his vampire
strength and speed. In his last leap, he landed on Roland
and slammed him to the ground, and put a knee in his chest.

“You shot Jo,” he said, his voice strangled
with emotion. “What the fuck were you
thinking?” he snarled.

Roxanne was crying, her forehead on the ground, fists
pounding what was left of Pierre.

The witches kept walking, kept calling.

Tristan ran up to Roland and Henri. “Marquis!”
he shouted. “Get off!”

“This man does not deserve to be armed!” Henri
shouted back.

Tristan reached beside Roland and snatched up the launcher.
“Enough,” he said. “We’re done with
this now.” He looked out to where Jo lay, and then to
the body on the litter.

“Call an ambulance,” he said to Roland, his
voice brooking no argument.

Henri stood up, but he growled a low growl at Roland that
told him all he needed to know.

Like before, Roland seemed briefly to come back to himself.
He peered into the darkness ahead of him and saw Henri,
already back with Jo, leaning over her as she lay on the
ground, not moving. Roland pulled out his phone and called
emergency services.

“What about the one in the forest?” he asked
Tristan. “There were two of them, maybe more!”

“Not our concern right now,” Tristan answered,
glaring at Roland. Tristan walked quickly to Jo and Henri,
wanting to assess how badly she was hurt.

“She’s unconscious,” Henri said
accusingly to the chief of
gendarmes
. “Shot
by your man.”

Tristan knelt by Jo and felt for the pulse in her neck.

“Heart is going strong,” he said to Henri.
“Can you stop the bleeding?”

“I’ll try,” said Henri, grateful for the
tone of apology in Tristan’s voice, and of concern
for Jo.

Tristan stood, watching them for a moment, then headed for
the witches.

Henri reached into his pocket where, ever the prepared
vampire, he had a packet of bandages of all shapes. He had
never made one large enough for the stake wound in
Jo’s side, but anything he had was better than
nothing. He pulled her jacket back and pulled up her shirt.

“Holy shit,” he said. “The stake went
straight through, Jo. Unfortunately it took bits of your
jacket and shirt right with it, so there’s a real
danger of infection.” He talked to Jo as though she
were awake and listening to him. As though her eyes were
open, and she was present, conscious, alive.

He wiped the wound with one bandage, trying to get off the
hunks of ripped fabric and chunks of dirt, and then put two
bandages over it, side by side, which at least covered the
gaping hole. Then he rocked her gently so that he could
quickly press bandages on the exit wound, which was still
bleeding profusely.

“Come back to me, Jo.” he said, close to her
ear. “I can’t lose you like this. I need you to
stay with me. You know I will never, ever bite you. You
know this!” and he stayed with her, talking calmly in
her ear, until he heard Tristan calling.

“Marquis! If you please–” yelled Tristan.

Henri’s ears ached from all the shouting and the
bird-calling. He put his hand along Jo’s jaw, brushed
a tendril of hair back for the tenth time, and told her
he’d be right back. He ran a few steps, then came
back, and picked her up. He carried her to where Tristan
was, standing by the litter, now that the witches had
finally come to a standstill, though still singing their
raucous song.

Jo’s head lolled against his shoulder. She was out
cold. Henri tried to tell himself that maybe it was best,
that if she were conscious, the pain would be terrible.

“I wondered,” said Tristan, “if by any
chance you have a way to communicate with these
women?”

Henri shook his head. “Human languages, that I can
do,” he said. “Not bird calls.” Henri
looked at the body on the litter. “Is that
Callie?” he asked.

Tristan nodded. “Her parents sent photographs,”
he said. “She barely looks like the same
person–she’s so pale. But yes. It is
Callie.” Tristan flicked his eyes over to Henri to
see his reaction, but Henri’s emotions were running
so wild within him that he was covering it up with his
interested-observer scientist’s face.

The witches increased their keening until Henri and even
Tristan had put their hands over their ears. Tristan tried
several languages to speak to the witches, including some
Portuguese that he was quite proud of, but not for an
instant did they veer from the language of birds.

Henri was looking at Callie. He reached up to touch her, in
a kind of farewell gesture, to clasp his hand on hers.

Callie’s hand was warm.

Henri said to the witches, “Stop!” and they
stopped, chattering amongst themselves like sparrows, but
no longer shrieking. “Put her down!” and they
did.

Henri, and then Tristan, squatted down and looked at
Callie. She was ghostly pale, it was true, but as each of
them put their hands on her–on an arm, the forehead,
the neck–it was plain that she was, in fact,
absolutely alive, if not fully conscious. When the hands
touched her, she stirred slightly.

Henri felt an overwhelming sense of relief. His brother
might be irresponsible, derelict, and generally useless,
but at least he was not a murderer.

“Callie is alive,” he whispered to Jo.

Roland stood next to Tristan, still glancing at the
launcher but his attention mostly on Callie.

“We need to get her to the hospital,” Tristan
said, and the others agreed.

Tristan stood up to get his cell out of his pocket, and saw
that the witches had melted back into the forest. He could
hear a faint cawing, but otherwise, all trace of them was
gone. None of the humans had seen the blur that followed
the witches into the forest; it was dark, their attention
was taken up with Jo and with Callie, and Roxanne had had
no desire to attract their notice.

The ambulance bumped over the pasture on its way back to
the driveway, with Callie Armstrong and Jo inside, riding
side by side, with Angélique and Henri also crammed
in back. He had not given the emergency services people any
choice about that. Only once did Jo’s eyes open, but
she saw Angélique and her eyes softened, and then
she look at Henri and smiled slightly, before she faded
back out.

Roland was sitting in the grass, the impact of what he had
done finally getting through.

“I don’t know what came over me,” he said
to Tristan. “I am so sorry, Tristan. And ashamed. My
first taste of combat, and I…”

Tristan looked at his friend. He had royally screwed up, no
two ways about it. “Let’s get out of
here,” he said, clapping Roland on the back. “I
don’t know about you, but I could use a nip, and
perhaps a bite to eat.”

They turned when they heard footsteps along the gravel,
coming from the direction of the stable. It was David.

“Good evening!” he said, sounding like the
aristocrat he was, but not looking much like one. His hair
was tangled, his clothing disheveled, as though he had just
returned from camping several days in the forest without
any gear.

“Can you tell me–is everyone all right?”

Tristan slid his finger around to the trigger on the
launcher. If he was not mistaken, there was a stake in it,
loaded and ready to go.

“We don’t know yet,” said Tristan,
speaking easily. “Pierre Aucoin, from the
village–he is not with us any longer.” He bowed
his head for a moment, although he kept all his senses
focused on David, alert for any sudden movement. Roland
bowed his head as well.

“I don’t think I knew Pierre,” said
David, and he likely did not, as he had no friends in the
village and paid no attention at all to the people who
lived there.

“Jo was accidentally hurt, and is headed to the
hospital, along with…Callie Armstrong.”

David froze.

Tristan let the moment drag, and then drag further. He
waited to see what David would do, knowing that he could
outwait him.

Sure enough, David croaked, “Callie Armstrong?”

“That’s right,” said Tristan, rather
enjoying himself. He let the words hang, and waited again.

“Callie Armstrong is on the way to the
hospital?
” David asked.

“Is that a surprise?” asked Tristan, his tone
soft, as though he were talking about a change in the
weather. He fingered the trigger, his body ready to react.

David sagged. His shoulders slumped down, and he put his
face in his hands. “Thank God,” he murmured.

Interesting, thought Tristan. When people hear that things
are not as bad as they had feared, their reactions are so
unpredictable. I’d have guessed he would be capering
around the grounds, shouting and singing, on top of the
world.

“And Henri?” David asked.

“Henri went with Jo and Callie in the
ambulance.”

“Thank you,” said David. He ran a hand through
his tangled hair, and took off at a trot towards the
Château. He was hoping to find a straggling guest, a
drunk one, and have another go. The big problem of Callie
was done with, it appeared, but nevertheless, his urge for
more of that tasty alcoholic blood was as strong as ever.

He did not pause to wonder about it, he just began to hunt,
even as the slayers with their launcher watched him go.

“More trouble coming from that one,” said
Tristan quietly. “But hopefully not tonight.
Let’s go have some dinner. And–what time is it
in America? Two in the afternoon? I have a call to
make!” and Tristan gestured to Roland to go ahead so
he could have some privacy, and tell Jessica every detail
of what had happened. He could not wait to see her
pixilated image and hear her sultry voice. Just the way she
said “launcher”….

The hospital staff was in a bit of an uproar. Henri’s
bandages had caused a huge ruckus among the doctors and
nurses, since they had never seen anything remotely like
them before–bandages that weren’t just for
protection, but that actively, and rapidly, heal wounds!
More than one doctor had tried to get Henri alone and talk
business, because they knew a whopping opportunity when
they saw one.

And Henri had rearranged the schedules of nearly everyone
working on the sixth floor, insisting that Jo and Callie
have only the best of everything. One sour look from a
nurse and she was banished; any hint of patronizing
behavior from a doctor, and he was gone as well. The
Marquis de la Motte was running the sixth floor of the
hospital like his own private fiefdom.

The next day, Jo was on fewer painkillers, and able to
talk.

“Jo. How are you feeling?” Henri asked, the
minute her eyes opened.

She smiled at him. “It’s nothing,” she
said, but even Jo could hear the minimizing in that, and
almost managed a laugh, except it hurt way too much.

“Next time, don’t run right at the armed
people,” Henri said, his voice low and serious, but
unable to keep from smiling, or from putting his hand in
her hair, or rubbing her arm.

“He was going to kill you,” said Jo, her eyes
wide.

Henri nodded. He looked at her tenderly, afraid to ask, but
knowing that he had to.

“You know…about me,” said Henri.

“Yes,” said Jo. “I know.”

She did not turn away, and she did not change her
expression, which was full of the warmth and love and trust
she felt for Henri, vampire or not. They were ready for a
new start, one with no secrets, no jealousies, no fear.

His hand tightened on her arm, and he moved closer, and put
his face next to hers, kissing her cheek, then,
irresistibly, her lips.

She kissed him back, the heat from his touch flooding her
body as she opened her mouth to him, and reached up with
one arm to pull him closer.