Infected: Lesser Evils (53 page)

Judging by his fear stink, Lee wasn’t picking up any of this. He was trying to scoot toward the door, keeping the knife aimed at Roan like a bimbo in a slasher film—like a knife would stop him (or Freddy or Jason or whoever). “Fucking freak! Keep away from me!”

Roan heard his blood splattering on the floor as it spilled out of his mouth. He was on all fours, growling louder than ever, and the pain was sinking its claws in. He could feel metal spikes stabbing through his spongy gray matter, the pain prickling through his body like needles in his blood. It was making the lion angrier, and yet it was so intense it was keeping his Human side in the mix. Roan didn’t know how it worked, but he still had some awareness, so he couldn’t complain. Except he was experiencing the precarious high of holding on to a fifteen foot ledge by one fingertip—eventually he would fall, but for now it was wildly thrilling.

Lee got out the door and slammed it, but Roan pounced and broke down the door, which fell in a halo of dust and a scattering of broken wood. Lee stumbled back, staring at him with mouth agape, fear like ammonia coming off him in shimmering waves. “What the fuck—what the fuck are you? You’re a monster!”

He roared, and Lee had no way of knowing, but Roan was agreeing with him. Yes, he was a monster, and it took one to know one, so where did that leave them? He stalked forward, head down, panting through the pain, feeling his skin boil and his bones twitch.

Lee kept the knife out and was backing up down the hall. Roan made a conscious decision to lunge, to see if he could stoke his fear even more. Lee’s hand was shaking, and he bet he could make the big bad serial killer drop his knife and run like a little girl.

All he had to do was run. The lion would be on Lee in a second. Big cats wanted you to run.

Roan lunged with a roar, and Lee did jerk back, but he didn’t drop the knife until he stumbled and suddenly lost his balance. But he didn’t hit the floor.

Lee had reached the stairs, and now he was falling down them. There was a yelp of surprise followed by breaking wood, rotted railings giving way like rotten teeth, and a snap of bone like a gunshot through the empty tenement, followed by a heavy thud as his body finally came to rest on the floor below.

At the top of the stairs, Roan found himself hoping that Lee wasn’t dead. He was really hoping the lion could finish this fucker off, because it was really hard to find poetic justice in everyday life. You had to take it where you could.

Seven Curtains

E
VEN
outside, Holden heard the thud.

It was funny how much noise a body could make at times. He went inside, mainly because he knew it wasn’t Roan (like that asshole could take Roan down), and started up the stairs, pausing only when he heard a sickly, angry growl that couldn’t have come from a human. “Roan, if you’re still in there, it’s just me,” Holden said, keeping his voice and his tone low and even. Just treat Roan like any other big, scary cat that wanted to rip his head off and chew on his neck stump, but don’t be scared, as they could smell fear and it was a big old aphrodisiac for them.

On the second floor landing, Holden found a guy in a desert camo coat in a neat, collapsed heap, like a homeless man sleeping in a doorway. Except there was no doorway, and one of his arms was bent like he had an elbow that went the other way. Since Holden didn’t see a shadow of Roan on the stairs, only a knife that had jammed in a broken piece of railing, he crouched down to take the guy’s pulse. But when Holden reached for his neck, he found a pointy bit that wasn’t supposed to be there.

His neck had snapped like a pretzel stick. No need to search for a pulse.

“He’s dead. You can smell that, right? Dead. No need to attack me instead, okay?”

There was no answer, not even a roar, and come to think of it, the growl was weird. He’d heard the lion’s
“I’m gonna eat you”
roar at the snuff house, and the
“Don’t you try and run, bitch”
growl, and this was nowhere near either. It was an almost continuous, wavering sound, low and weak, and once Holden got accustomed to the eeriness, he realized it was a sign something was wrong.

Cautiously, staying low, he glanced up the stairs, and saw Roan at the head of the third floor stairwell. It looked like he was partially sitting, partially lying down, an awkward posture, with his head turned toward the wall. At least Roan looked mostly human, that was a good sign. Or was it? That growl wasn’t good.

“Roan, can you respond? We probably oughta get outta here.”

His growl became gravelly, went down into a rumble, and suddenly morphed into a word. “—up.”

There was no way to describe how weird that was. It was almost weirder than seeing Roan half transformed, with a jaw that clearly didn’t belong to him, a straining skull, and eyes that didn’t quite fit their sockets. How could a growl suddenly become a word? But it had. Roan could switch gears, from animal noises to human noises, and the transition could be abrupt. The first time he’d heard Roan’s words slide into a growl, it had been so weird it was almost funny. But when a growl became a word, the opposite, it seemed almost profoundly sad. A cry for help, an animal learning to speak human to get the Humans to leave him alone.

“What? I only understood one word.” No point in telling Roan he’d only spoken one word. He might not have been aware of that.

It was then that Holden noticed part of the growling was Roan’s labored breathing. He hadn’t otherwise moved; he certainly hadn’t looked away from the wall. “I can’t move. I can’t get up.”

Oh shit. Holden came up the stairs, carefully, as Lee’s dive had damaged them even more. Soft spots in the treads were now actual holes. “Are you hurt? Where?”

He grunted, a slight gravelly growl to it, and Holden took that as a no. “It’s pain. I hurt too much.”

Hence the growl. Fuck. Holden went to him, and asked, “Can I touch you? Will it kill you if I do?”

Again that grunt. Maybe Roan was in so much pain that any more couldn’t possibly be noticed; it’d be like spitting into a tidal wave. He slid an arm beneath Roan’s shoulders—shaking, probably due to the pain—and eased him up into a full sitting position. Blood caked the lower half of his face, made the front of his shirt glistening damp. Roan looked mostly human, maybe the jaw was a little swollen still, but his pupils were way too large. It made him look like he had no irises at all, and the pain made the part of his face not covered by blood kabuki white. This wasn’t good.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Holden said, trying to be chipper as he put an arm around Roan’s shoulders and helped him to his feet. Roan was very unsteady, still shaking, and could barely stand upright. He had to lean against Holden, and almost collapsed several times before they reached the bottom.

“Something’s wrong,” Roan said, his voice still mostly growl.

“No shit.”

“I couldn’t turn all the way. I almost did, but something stopped me. Something in my head… ripped.”

Holden couldn’t help but wince at the description. Something ripped in his head? Oh god, how could you feel that? How could you know? You didn’t have nerve endings in your brain, right? So you couldn’t feel that. Except Roan somehow did.

It was a struggle to get Roan to the ground floor. He thought he was going to have to carry him, but while Roan was still semiconscious, Holden knew he wasn’t going to allow that.

Standing this close, he couldn’t help but notice Roan was giving off heat like a blast furnace, and he smelled like blood and wet cat. This was beyond feverish; this was brain-baking temperature. How was he still alive?

Once they were outside the building—which seemed to take forever—Roan said, “Tell Dylan I’m sorry.”

“About what? You can tell him yourself.”

It was then that Roan crumpled, heading for the asphalt until Holden just barely caught him, and it was such a near, sudden thing that he was afraid he’d dislocated Roan’s shoulder. But the noise Holden heard, of liquid spattering down on the ground, made him forget all about that.

It was blood spurting from Roan’s nose. It wasn’t a nosebleed, it was a blood gusher, and no fucking way was that normal. “Goddamn it, Roan, don’t die here and incriminate me.” Okay, yes, that was selfish, but just telling him not to die seemed maudlin.

Holden hefted him over his shoulder, instantly feeling warm blood trickle down his back, and wondered if someone could bleed to death through their nose. Probably not, but no one should be losing so much blood through their nose either. It occurred to him it was probably a brain hemorrhage—that thing that tore in Roan’s brain—but if he thought about it he’d panic, so he didn’t think about it.

Holden found the car he’d brought (not his; he’d borrowed Moon’s junker, so in case anyone caught a license plate number, it wouldn’t lead anywhere good), so happy it wasn’t his, and so happy he was in the type of bad neighborhood where no one thought anything of a man carrying a bleeding man around. Hallelujah for apathy and distrust of police.

He laid Roan out on the backseat, and put him on his side so he wouldn’t drown in his own blood (what a lovely thought). He checked, but he was still out cold, and bleeding from at least one ear. Yeah, that wasn’t a good sign.

Holden briefly wondered if he should worry about leaving any evidence at the scene, but he would have time to return for it. It wasn’t like people swarmed over this area (or, again, ever called the cops). As soon as he got in the driver’s side and started the car, he said, “You’re going to be okay, hear me? You’re going to be fine. You’re not going to die like some stupid pansy ass.”

He hoped Roan could hear him. And he hoped that it was true.

W
HEN
Dylan came home, and found that Roan had packed a bag for the hospital, he was both heartened and deeply depressed. Heartened because he’d finally got sensible and knew he had to go. Depressed because it had finally dawned on Roan he wasn’t well, suggesting something really bad had happened, but Roan was unlikely to tell him about it.

What you learned right away was Roan wasn’t stubborn; stubborn was too flimsy a word for what he was. To survive all he had and not crumble, from childhood on, he needed to be made of sterner stuff, and be able to ramp his game up to be one of the most aggressive assholes you’ve ever met, just to keep going. It wasn’t an insult, though it sounded a bit like that. No, Dylan admired him, because he was sure he wouldn’t be able to survive what Roan had and still be a decent human being. It took more than stubbornness, it took a will to triumph that was nearly awe-inspiring. But it was such a pain in the ass when he was your husband, because once Roan made up his mind not to do something, there was virtually no way to make him do it. Except when something went so wrong in his chosen course of action Roan had no choice but to do something else, and his definition of wrong was surprisingly narrow.

Dylan went and had a shower, just to wash the paint off (he never meant to get paint on himself while painting, and yet he always did), wondering what could have happened to make Roan decide the hospital was a good idea. Did he pass out? Have another aneurysm? Both? He suddenly wondered where he was, as it was getting late and he wasn’t back yet. Was he passed out somewhere?

He was downstairs, wondering if he should make dinner or drop by Roan’s office to make sure he wasn’t lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood (oh god, he could see it in his mind’s eye), when the phone rang. Dylan knew then, instantly, that it was bad news. How he wasn’t sure, but he just knew.

He steeled himself mentally before picking up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Yeah, Dylan, it’s Holden. Listen—”

“How is he?”

“What?”

“Roan. Is he still alive?”

There was a rather lengthy pause, and he was fairly sure Holden was taken aback. Which was fascinating, because he had no idea he was capable of such a thing. “Yes, but you need to get down to County General now. He’s hurt.”

Dylan closed his eyes, mentally counted to five, and then decided he just couldn’t be Zen about this. Something in his chest constricted, making it feel like someone had just stabbed him. “What happened? How bad is it?”

“He partially transformed, and all hell broke loose. I think he may have had another aneurysm.”

He hissed a sigh through his teeth. Damn it! “Why did he partially transform?”

“Come down and I’ll tell you in person.”

Yes, that was probably for the best. Dylan hung up and grabbed his coat before heading out the door, tears making his vision blurry. He should be used to this by now, but somehow you never did get used to it. How could you?

Dylan did most of his crying in the car on the drive over, mainly so he got it out of his system and could work up a good rage instead. The only problem was he wasn’t sure who he was angry at. He wasn’t sure if he could or even should be angry at Roan in the state he was in.

Traffic was worse than it should have been, and the hospital parking lot was packed. By the time Dylan made his way into the hospital, he was more frustrated than angry. He also realized how late it was getting and that he had to get to work in a couple of hours. Fuck work. He was on the verge of quitting anyways.

Holden was waiting for him out in the main lobby, and as soon as he noticed he was wearing a black sweatshirt and bloodstained jeans, Dylan knew Roan and he had been up to something that was probably illegal, or at the very least unethical. He’d never seen Holden wear something as plain as a sweatshirt before. And the blood on his jeans? He was willing to bet it wasn’t Holden’s, and that made his chest hurt again.

“Why did he partially change?” Dylan asked him. “And how is he?”

“He was helping me out, I have a friend in hock to some violent asshole, and we decided to put the fear of us into him. But Roan collapsed, blood just started spurting from his nose… I brought him here as soon as I could get him in the car, and I called Doctor Rosenberg on the way over so she’d meet us here.”

Dylan had a feeling Holden was lying to him, but he always had the feeling Holden was lying to him. He just set off his liar’s radar all the time. “How the hell did you get her phone number?”