2 Sean Hayden (17 page)

No lights were on, and the smoke was unbelievably thick. I could see a group of firefighters at the end of the hall holding a hose and soaking whatever they could, trying to douse the flames. I could vaguely make out the door of our hotel room, or most of it anyway. It looked like it had been blown apart from within. I knew Thompson was either in deep shit or dead. I ran the length of the hall and came up behind the group of firefighters. One of them turned, saw me, and did a double take. He tapped the lead hose-man and shouted something in his breathing apparatus mask. The man turned and aimed the hose at me after lessening the force of the water. I felt the cold water douse me and I looked down. Most of my skirt had burned away as well as my suit jacket. Gratefully, the water put me out before the flames burned through my white shirt.

I made a
move out of my way
motion with my hands and they stepped aside. I jumped through the jagged remnants of the door and rushed into the hotel suite. The blast had started in the living room and the rest of the apartment was ablaze. It had to be a couple of hundred degrees in the room. I felt something cool on my back. The firefighters stayed at the door and blasted me with as much water as they could. If Thompson had been in this room when the blast occurred, he was dead. I tried to swallow past a lump in my throat, then a thought crossed my mind. I gave a silent prayer, to whoever would listen, that he hadn't.
Please let him have been on the shitter
. I made my way to his room (or what was left of it) and kicked open the door.

Flames shot out just like before when the oxygen filled the room. The bed was a mass of cinders and my heart leapt at the fact he wasn't in there and sank at the fact he wasn't in there. He had to be in the bathroom. I sped through the room and opened the door. He lay in the shower with the water running full force. He'd put a wet towel over his head, but he wasn't moving. I ran to him and grabbed his hand. He didn't move. Without thinking I pulled. I'm strong, but I'm tiny. It became a problem of leverage. I propped him against the wall and pushed my shoulder into his stomach. I let him flop over onto my back and lifted with my legs. I had him, but I could barely keep my legs from slipping out from underneath me. The floor was too wet. Carefully, I kicked off my inappropriate rescue shoes and hoped my feet would get a little better traction.

They did. The difference was marginal, but it helped. I carried Thompson as quickly as I could through the bathroom door and through the apartment. When they saw me, my firefighter friends doused us both with water, keeping the flames from igniting our clothes. I could barely make out their faces through the plastic of their breathing apparatuses, but I could see their surprised looks. I could only imagine what the scene looked like to them. I desperately tried not to slip as I walked past them.

"Let us help," came a muffled yell from the man with the nozzle.

"Just keep the fire away from me until I get him to the stairs!"

He nodded and maneuvered the hose back around and settled it on my back. I wanted to run, but I didn't think I could with Thompson on my back. The walk took hours, or maybe it just felt that way. Finally, we reached the door and safety. The stairwell had been constructed entirely of cement blocks with metal stairs. There wasn't anything to burn, the problem was the smoke. I didn't need to breathe, but Thompson did. I don't think you could kill a lycanthrope with smoke inhalation, but I'm sure he wouldn't be a happy camper if and when he woke up.
Shut up, Ashlyn
. He would be alright. He had to be, or I'd kill him myself.

Carrying Thompson on my back through the hallway was difficult. Carrying Thompson on my back down stairs proved fucking insane. The floor was dry, so it minimized my chances of slipping, but just the sheer awkwardness of the situation started jerking on my sanity. I had inhuman strength and speed, but I couldn't use the speed or I'd drop him. I needed to get him out of there now and I didn't know what to do. The firefighters couldn't help, Thompson was out cold, and I was alone. Panic started to flow through me like a small electrical charge. It thankfully ignited a fire under my butt. I leapt from mid stair down to the landing and we hit with a large thud. Thompson didn't fall. This I could work with. I griped him a little tighter and tried it again, but this time I jumped the stairs.

My flight from the landing above to the landing below, echoed through the well. Loud and effective I could handle. Finally, I got the rhythm down enough I didn't have to stop long between jumps. I could only imagine what the
thump, thump, thump
would sound like to anybody who happened to be close enough to hear it. I'll be honest, right at that moment in time I didn't give a fuck. Getting Thompson out of there occupied every thought process I had. I couldn't lose another partner, I just wouldn't. I was going to find the fucker who'd shot me, and the bastard who blew Thompson up, and I was going to shred them like pulled pork, cover them in barbeque sauce, and serve them up for Sunday lunch.

The panic surging through me gave way to anger. In the past anger had done things to my body that I can only describe as horrific. My talons grew longer and I sprouted bone-like protuberances (sounds way better than horns) from my forehead. I can't explain it, and I hate to even think about it, but as the anger flowed through me I could feel it happening again. The thumping noise of my landings on the metal stair platforms gave way to
thump, chink
as my talons struck milliseconds after my feet. I could feel the fangs I'd been born with grow a little longer and I had to open my mouth so they didn't pierce my bottom gums.

Normally, I would take time to calm down and let the changes revert back to my normal state, but I didn't care. My only thoughts were of the man on my back and his safety. I hit the bottom landing of the stairs, kicked open the fire door and charged through the lobby like a raging bull. I didn't even bother with the front door. When I got close enough I jumped through the plate glass hotel lobby and landed amid a shower of glass and fire. Everyone stopped and stared at the diminutive monster with the massive bulk of man on its back. From behind the police barricade, the
click, click, click
and a multitude of camera flashes started slowly, but increased in frequency as I carried Thompson over to the EMT's stationed by the fire trucks.

Nobody said a word as I handed Thompson over and slumped down on the asphalt, truly exhausted. My clothes hung in tatters, but I didn't care as I brought my knees up to my face and cried. I could hear the paramedics working on Thompson, and I even heard the word defibrillator. I sat quietly and let them do their work as I prayed. I prayed to everyone and everything.
Let him be alright, please.
Someone took pity on me, and covered me with a grey woolen blanket and I didn't even say thank you. At some point, I drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 17

I woke up in the hospital alone. Usually when you wake up in the hospital, the curtains are drawn and the door is wide open, but my door sat shut, drowning out most of the noise coming from whatever hospital I'd been admitted to. I looked down, expecting to see my clothes or a hospital gown, but somebody had dressed me in surgical scrubs. Maybe I did it and don't remember, I had been that exhausted. The last thing I remembered was slouching down on the ground by the hotel.

The room didn't have windows, so I didn't have any idea how much time had passed. It's a little weird to explain, but I could usually feel the sun. No matter where it lie in the sky, or below the horizon I could feel it. I closed my eyes and felt nothing. Maybe I was still too tired.

I let my legs slip over the side of the bed and I followed them, silently dropping to the floor. I walked over to the door and grasped the handle, giving it a quick turn and pulling it open. Two gentlemen in black suits stood in front of the door facing outward.
Guards?

"Excuse me, gentlemen," I said softly to their backs. One of them turned his meaty head over his shoulder and looked at me through his sunglasses. I expected him to let me through, or say something at the least. He didn't.
Uh oh.
"Can you please move?"

"You're to remain here until the Deputy Director joins you,
agent
," he said making my title a sneer.
Well doesn't that just chaff your nuts? What the hell did I do?

"When will that be?"

He didn't even reply. After the night I'd had, I developed a sudden case of
fuckthisshititis
. When push comes to shove, I did. Hard. The two guards at the door landed on their stomachs and slid the remaining distance until they collided with the nurse's station. I debated leaving, but I didn't have anywhere to go. They got the point, so I closed the door and went back to bed. I flipped on the television and watched cartoons. Yes, I said cartoons. Little talking yellow sponges are very therapeutic.

Fifteen minutes into the show, the door opened without so much as a knock. Without looking up I pushed the power button on the television remote and set it on the wheelie cart next to the bed. I smelled the Deputy Director's aftershave before I heard his first foot fall.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He took a seat on one of the padded pleather chairs that comes standard in every hospital room.

"Tell you what?"

"That you were some sort of demon."

"What?" I stared incredulously. If there had been any glass in the room, I think I might have broke it with the high C my question ended on. "Nobody has seen a demon in a millennium, why would you even remotely think I was one?"

"Here," he said and pulled a folded up newspaper from under his arm He tossed it right in my lap and I didn't even have to open it to see my picture on the front page with Thompson on my back and horns, I mean bone like protuberances, sticking out of my forehead. I gulped a little at the ferocity of my face. It even looked like my eyes were glowing a little. A shudder started at the crown of my head and traveled down my spine.

"I don't know what to tell you, sir. Your own medical people classified me as a new type of vampire. I am definitely not a demon."

"Then how do you explain the horns?"

"I prefer bone like protuberances, and the answer is simple. I don't know. When I get extremely angry, they sort of pop out." I considered telling him about the talon and fang lengthening issue too, but something inside me told me to keep my mouth shut. "Am I fired?"

"No, not even close. You ran into a burning building to save your partner's life and succeeded. The problem is everybody else in the world. We concocted a story to explain how a vampire came to be in the employ of the FBI, and now that story has some serious holes in it. Do you know how many blogs, discussion groups, and conspiracy theory websites now feature you as their major topic of discussion? I'll give you a hint, if you could sing you'd probably have a record contract right now. You have gone viral, Ashlyn."

I stared at him and my mind swam with the news Thompson was alright, thank the gods. I looked down at the picture and the horns were clearly visible. Blaming it on poor lighting or smudges of dirt probably wouldn't fly. I could feel the first tear roll down my cheek and I heard Sander's stand up from his seat and walk over to the bed. Deep down I expected him to ask for my badge and gun, but he didn't. He placed his sweaty palm on my clasped hands and gave them a little squeeze.

"We'll figure something out, Ashlyn. We worked too hard to train you and make you an effective weapon. I'm not going to lose you. My only fear is that we won't get to keep you. Now that your secret is out, everybody and their mother is going to want you. The Department of Homeland Security already borrowed you, and I didn't particularly care for that. However, if it wasn't for you, the governor would be very, very dead. Good work by the way. I'm tempted to let the governor fend for himself and bring you back to Washington until this blows over."

He paused like he was seriously considering it. I briefly pictured myself locked in some room under the J Edgar Hoover building until everybody forgot about the horns. Goody. "I wish we could blame it on some sort of mutation. We need to call Marcel, he knows more about vampires than anybody I've ever met. He'd know what to tell the press."

"Yes, your friend Marcel is very interesting. If Thompson wasn't such an effective babysitter for that temper of yours, I might consider offering him a position at the FBI. I'm currently thinking about making him a regularly paid consultant. Maybe he can help you with your vampire relation skills."

My mind and something in my chest fluttered at his words. I looked around for my cell phone, but I didn't see any of my possessions. I'd find it later. I needed to get my SUV and my bags of clothing from the street. Hopefully, somebody had tracked it and taken it back to the local field office. I didn't want to go shopping again.

"Sir, someone attacked me last night at the local mall. When I came out there was a sniper on the roof with a snuff rifle."

"I know, there were about twenty witnesses who called it into the local police department. One of them recognized the Verminator. The Sacramento field office got the call. They dispatched agents, but you were already gone. I'm assuming you headed to the hotel?"

"Yeah, I figured if they knew where I was, they knew where Thompson was. By the time I got there, the fire had gotten out of control. I'm just glad I got him out okay. Is he bad?"

"Some serious smoke inhalation scarred his lung tissue, but he seems to be healing quickly. He's been asking about you a few octaves lower than his normal speaking voice. Don't tell him I said so, but with the oxygen mask on, he sounded even more like Darth Vader."

Sanders cracked a joke. Surely the world would end tomorrow.

* * *

After a quick visit with Thompson, Sanders drove me to the Sacramento Field Office to retrieve my SUV full of brand spanking new clothes. At least I wouldn't be working in scrubs. On the way, he even gave Marcel a call in Chicago and offered him the consultation position. I heard a lot of "uh huh" and "yes" on Sanders part, so I could only imagine what they were talking about. Finally, Sanders got around to asking him about the picture of me in the paper.