Ascension (15 page)

"Too often."

"I thought you're a cold hearted psychopath."

"Not cold hearted."

I sigh and try to play something else but I don't have the heart and stop, folding my hands in my lap. "I'm sorry," I said. "I've played enough."

"Thank you for letting me listen. It's more than I deserve, considering everything."

I shake my head, but don't trust my voice.

"But part of the reason I came was to warn you that if I could find you this easily, so could others – those who want your skills as much as we do. You're in danger and now that I'm not working with you, I feel you're vulnerable. Ed's decent, but he's still just a mortal."

"What can I do?"

"Don't trust anyone besides Starr and Ed," Julien says, his brow furrowed. "Don't even trust them. If you were mine," he says his voice dropping lower, "I'd always know where you were and could protect you."

"If I were yours?" I say. "What does that mean?" But then I remember about blood slaves.

Julien shakes his head as if he's changed his mind.

"It's time to go," he says and stands. "I'd like to say we'll meet again, but I can't. How things will go in the next few days will determine if you can come back to the warehouse."

I don't respond. What can I say?

"Eve, I," he says and then stops as if he's reconsidered something. He leans closer, his face beside my ear, his lips pressed against his bite on my neck. I can't help but respond to his touch.

Then, he's gone.

I return the key to the office then walk to the exit, my knees shaking. One of the guards stands with his back to the door, his hands folded behind him.

So much for protection.

I open the door and he turns and tips his hat. "Ready to go back?"

"He was in the building, sitting right next to me."

The guard’s face drops.

"What?" He pulls out his gun and picks up his two-way radio. "Hey, Bailey – she says he was inside the building. Call in backup. I'll go inside and check. You keep watch over the rear of the building."

He points to the unmarked car. "You better go and sit inside."

I do, knowing this is all just a performance. A moment later, a dark figure slips out the door and down the street.

"I'm going home." I pack my things, stuffing my clothes into my small travel bag.

Ed stands in the doorway, the grey of his rumpled trench coat matching the bags under his eyes.

"We're short of staff," he says. "You shouldn't have gone out."

"Ed, he can get me no matter where I am. I'm going home."

He shakes his head. "Just give us a few more days."

"Look. You don't seem to be able to stop him. You can't protect me."

"We're looking into who might have alerted him to your presence at the conservatory. I really don't know who I can trust anymore."

"Try to understand," I say and continue packing. "He can do pretty much what he likes, so why shouldn't I just go back to my apartment? If he's coming for me, he's coming for me."

"I don't think it's wise for you to do this, but I can't stop you." Ed's face betrays exasperation. "If you were anyone else, I'd say there's the witness protection program but you're too valuable to us."

"Thanks. Too valuable to let go, but not too valuable to protect."

Ed sighs.

"Call me, anytime of the day or night if you feel in danger and I'll have a car over in five minutes, just in case he does come by. You can consider this a time to catch up on reading material."

"Oh, I'm confident that if he wants to, he'll come by. I'm also confident that no matter what you do, he'll be able to get to me."

I walk him to the door and lock the deadbolt behind him. What Julien taught m
e
by coming to hear me play was that a vampire is able to get by mortal defenses. Someone as well-trained as Julien more than most.

The first night I’m home, I sleep with a knife beside me. During the day, I stay inside and check the street frequently to see the unmarked car. The second night I’m home, I get a call from Vasily.

“Come downstairs, Eve. You are not safe in apartment. Come to warehouse.”

“There’s a security detail on me,” I say. “They’ll know I’ve left.”

“No,” Vasily says. “They are Julien’s. They will report you were home all the time.”

And so I return to the warehouse and the ostentatious bed, but other than Vasily, the apartment’s empty. Julien isn’t there.

CHAPTER 14

“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.”

Aristotle

I sit alone in the small living area and switch on the television. The local news is on and I watch a reporter and his cameraman standing at a police barricade about two blocks from the SCU, cameras rolling. A crowd assembled to watch and overhead comes the sound of helicopters. Police cars with lights flashing and uniformed officers line the barricades to keep onlookers from entering the protected areas.

I sit on the couch, my knees tucked under me, and wait, flipping from channel to channel to follow the commentary, my nerves on edge. The anchor for Channel 7 speaks while the camera zooms in on the scene, the image enlarging to show the empty street across from the SCU, the other buildings like granite caverns all around it.

"We're here live at the scene of a standoff at a building near the waterfront. Right now, there's some kind of hostage situation. Boston SWAT have surrounded the building. It looks as if a man's stepping out of the front of the building – yes, there is a man stepping out."

The camera zooms in for a closer shot, and I gasp as I recognize Ed's characteristic shiny dome head. It has to be him.

Julien enters the apartment at that moment, distracting me from the television.

"You’re here," he says.

"Vasily picked me up last night,” I say. “Ed’s involved in some kind of stand-off with the police."

"Oh, that," Julien says, making a face. "I was going to tell you. Ed became a liability. I had to take care of things."

I turn to him and he shrugs, raising his eyebrows as if he’s sorry but helpless.

"You
what?
"

"I had to turn him over to the police for some nasty business he was involved in. Killing a police officer, if I recall correctly. Shame. He was a good asset while he lasted."

"They're going to take him into custody?"

"No," Julien says, shaking his head. "That wouldn't be a good idea. He knows too much.”

“What do you mean?”

I sit at the edge of my chair, wondering what will happen next. Then, Ed stumbles, his arms flailing outward, his head thrown back as if he's tripped. He goes to his knees, remains in that position for a moment, and then falls face forward onto the street. No sound, just Ed falling and then a wild scramble as police and emergency personnel move in.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the reporter says, his voice struggling to maintain control. "I believe he's been shot. The man has been shot before our eyes."

I cover my mouth, unable to process what I've just seen. Julien had Ed executed on television on some trumped up charge.

Police run towards a building overlooking the scene, firing at a window. Sirens blare and all hell breaks loose as gunfire erupted, shots echoing throughout the area.

I sit in utter silence for a moment. Then I turn to him, my eyes filled with tears.

"How could you?"

"Eve," he says, his voice irritated. "I told you we're at war. People die in war. I had no choice."

"There's always a choice." I stand and brush by him, making a beeline for the bedroom, wanting to escape.

"Not in this case," he says, following me. "Besides, what do you know about how to fight a war?"

"I know what's right, and wrong and this was cold blooded murder."

He grabs my arm, stopping me in my tracks.

"No," he says, his voice deep, edged with anger. "It was an operation to terminate a compromised contact. I didn't want to do it, but tactically, I had no choice."

"He
helped
Michel. For years. Soren compelled him. And you set him up."

"He didn't even know what hit him. Dead in an instant. We should all be so lucky, Eve."

"He's dead!" I struggle to pull away, trying to pry my arm away from him, but he's too strong. "You always have a choice and you chose to kill him. Why not rescue him and hide him somewhere?"

He grabs me and drags me over to the bed, throws me onto it and looms over me, one hand holding my hands over my head.

"You don't know what you're talking about so shut the fuck up."

"You killed a colleague," I say, turning my face away from him. "Someone who helped you."

"Eve," he says, grabbing my chin and turning my face to his. "This is the big league now. He has information. He knows about the Blackstone Group. There were operatives sniffing around the SCU. It was only a matter of time before they took him and he gave them something that could trace back to me. I can't let that happen." He shakes his head as if in frustration. "Can't you understand that?"

I lie beneath him, my heart pounding.

"I have information," I say, barely able to speak. "You ensured that I do. Will you kill me, too?"

He just looks at me, shaking his head slowly.

Then, he closes his eyes, his breath ragged. He leans down, his face in the crook of my neck, his arms sliding underneath me, almost crushing me against him.

"That's why," he says and presses his lips against the skin on my neck where he bit me, "you can't be free."

I push him away.

"You're a monster!"

Then he pulls back, his whole body stiffening.

"That's right, Eve," he says, breathing hard. "Did you forget that fact in this little romantic fantasy world you're living in?"

I cover my eyes, unable to stop my tears.

"Goddammit!" He lets go of me and storms away from the bed to the bathroom. He emerges from it a few moments later and he's dressed once more. He goes into the living area and I hear something crashing and glance out the open door. He's kicked over a table by the seating area on his way past, and now throws a lamp against the wall, the glass shattering into hundreds of pieces.

He comes back to me and grabs me once more, this time around the neck.

"I am a monster and you better be afraid of me because I will kill you if you ever betray me. Without a thought."

With that, he leaves.

Vasily goes downstairs, leaving me alone. I'm still lying on the bed, the apartment dark except for the lights over the office and kitchen. I cry, lying curled up on my side, the image of Julien's rage-filled face playing back in my mind, the anger as he kicked over the table, threw the lamp making my heart race, his hand at my throat, the threat – he's dangerous. He would kill me – I'm certain of it.

I replay the scene of Ed being shot over and over and it fills me with despair. There's nowhere for me to go, and I begin to feel panic rising inside. I've been living in a dream world, my reason and logic blinded by this ridiculous lust both he and Michel have been creating in me with their little games. I dig my fingers into my palm, hoping that the pain will help erase the fear, but it does nothing. I feel as if I'm going to hyperventilate and so I leave the bed, going to the kitchen, searching through the drawers for something to dull the pain.

A small knife with a sharp edge will have to do, for the rest are either too large or serrated. I go into the bathroom and sit on the floor with my back against the vanity, the knife in my hand, breathing fast as panic threatens to overtake me. After I roll up my sleeve, I examine the lines I've carved into my skin over the past few months. The cuts have scabbed over. I start working on the skin using the sharp tip of the blade. It's a bit dull, and so I have to press hard. Soon, the outline of a J takes shape, blood welling up in the thin se
a
m. J for Julien.

Finally calm, I put the knife down on the counter and look in the mirror – at my red eyes, streaked makeup, the bloody self-imposed brand on my arm. What a fucked up freak. A stupid woman living in a fantasy world, just like Julien said. Michel's not coming back and Julien is a poor substitute – a monster and now that I’ve read some of the missing manuscript pages, I’m not too sure about Michel either. I'm nothing more than some pawn in a war between vampires.

All I want to do is run away, to go somewhere where he can't find me, where I can forget I ever knew him or Michel or anything about vampires. I open the large windowpane in the bedroom and look down – five stories would kill me and there isn't any way to climb down. I can't get by Vasily – the door is alarmed, and I don't know the code.

There's nowhere to run.

I crawl underneath the bed itself, as I used to do when I was a girl after I was put into foster care and lived through very dark times, crowding up against the wall at the top, my face resting on my arm.

Julien returns later that night. I fell asleep under the bed, and wake at the sound of his voice. My body tenses as I watch from under the bed skirt. He walks into the apartment, his boots and jeans the only visible part of his body from my position, and goes to speak with Vasily. Then he wanders over to the bed, standing beside it for a moment. Next, he goes to the bathroom and I lose sight of him, my breath held, my heart pounding.

"Jesus fucking
Christ
."

He returns from the bathroom and then goes to the seating area, checks the kitchen and yells at Vasily, kicking over a barstool.

"Goddammit – where's Eve?"

"Isn't she in bed?"

"No, she's gone. What have you been doing all fucking night? How did she get out?"

Vasily comes out of the office and the two search the apartment.

"She got a goddamned knife. Jesus Christ Vasily, what the
fuck
were you doing? Playing with your fucking dick?"

"I want to leave her to herself – she was very upset. She can't have escaped – is no way possible."

"She's fucking
gone
, Vasily. Did she watch you enter the security code? Did she climb out the window? She can't have jumped – it would kill her."

The two go back into the office and I can hear Julien give directions to replay videotapes monitoring the interior and the door and watching the building itself.

"She can't have escaped. She has to be here."

Julien stands in the middle of the room while Vasily makes another circuit. I hear him inhale deeply as if he’s trying to smell for me. Tears fill my eyes – hiding under the bed is stupid but I just wanted to escape. I wanted to disappear.

"Oh, Jesus
Christ
," Julien says, his voice hushed.

Vasily stops. "What is it?"

But Julien doesn't respond. After a moment, he comes over to the bed and stands still, saying nothing. I cover my mouth, trying to keep from making a noise. I hear him sigh, and then he pushes the bedside table out of the way and sits down on the floor beside the bed, his back to the wall. I can see his shoes on the floor a few feet away from my face.

"Eve," he says, his voice soft, a note of regret in it. "I'm sorry."

I press my hand over my mouth even more firmly.

After a moment of silence, he starts to speak, his voice low.

"When I was a boy, Michel and I knew not to say a word when my parents yelled at each other. Sometimes, that's all it would be – just yelling. But sometimes, he'd hit her," he says, "and we knew if that happened to get out, fast, because he never hit her only once. And sometimes, he’d go after Michel, so I’d step in between them and I'd get it instead of her or him. When we hid, I always took a knife with me, just in case he came after us."

I picture it in my mind's eye, the two boys running for safety. The father slapping the mother, pushing her, hitting her. An overwhelming feeling of sadness fills me – I don't want to hear the story, but I can't help but listen.

"One night, when it started, after he came home really drunk and belligerent, I took Michel and we went to the bedroom and climbed beneath our bed. He came looking for us, couldn't see us and was too drunk to bend down and look under the bed, so I knew that whenever he came home like that, to grab Michel and hide under the bed. This one night, when we were twelve, he grabbed the knife from me and slashed me. You might think my scar is a battle wound I got fighting a war but you’d be wrong."

I lie on the floor, my eyes closed, tears on my cheeks, picturing the scene in my mind, and my heart breaks once more for him. I slide out from under the bed and crawl into his lap, my arms slipping around his neck. He pulls me tightly against him, his face in my hair, his lips against my neck.

"I'm so sorry," I say, unable to stop my tears. I just hold him tightly, wishing that we lived in a different world and that none of this had happened.

"I don't want to scare you," he says, "but you have to understand this is serious. This isn't a democracy, and you don't have a vote on what's done. You don't even get to complain about my decisions."

I don't say anything, just hold him, unable to get the image out of my mind of him as a little boy lying under his bed with a knife in his hand, protecting Michel from their drunken father, bleeding from the wound on his face.