Love Bites (4 page)

“Are you all right, son?” Worry crowded her face as she felt his cheek. “Give me one of those bags of blood, Bastien,” she ordered. She turned back to Etienne. “Bastien insisted on stopping at the office on
the way to pick some up. Thank God he did.” She punctured the bag with one long fingernail, then held it over his open mouth. She did this with three bags before he felt strong enough to sit up.

Grimacing at the sight of his charred flesh peeling away and shedding all around him, Etienne swung his legs off the table and sat up of his own volition. He hadn't lost any blood in the explosion, but his body had used a lot to repair his flesh. A couple more bags and he would be fine. He accepted the next bag his mother handed him and chugged it. As she opened the last for him, Etienne spotted the woman Bastien knelt beside.

“Is she going to be all right?”

His older brother frowned and shook his head. “She's dying.”

“She can't die. She saved my life.” Etienne ignored the blood his mother held out and forced himself off the table.

“Sit down. You aren't strong enough yet,” Marguerite said, her voice sharp.

“I'm fine.” Etienne knelt beside the girl, ignoring his mother's muttered, “Sure you're fine. And ‘Pokey isn't a real threat, this is all in fun.' Everything's all fun and games until someone gets an ax in the chest.”

“Pudge, not Pokey,” Etienne corrected, reaching out to check the dying girl's pulse. He recognized her from his last trip to the morgue. She was beautiful and just as pale now as she had been on his last visit—but
that time her pallor had been caused by illness. This time she was suffering from blood loss. Etienne was very aware that some of her blood had gone down his throat. The woman had saved his life. He had been weak, but he had seen her leap between him and the ax Pudge wielded.

“I tried to stop the bleeding, but I'm afraid it's too late,” Bastien said quietly. “Nothing can save her.”

“One thing can,” Etienne countered. He tried to roll up his sleeve. The brittle cloth broke away in his fingers, so he just ripped it off.

“What do you think you're doing? You can't turn her,” his mother said.

“She saved my life,” Etienne repeated.

“We have rules about these things. You can't turn people willy-nilly, and you can't do it without permission.”

“I'm allowed to turn a life partner.”

“Life partner!” His mother sounded excited rather than upset. Bastien looked worried.

“You don't even know this woman, Etienne,” his brother pointed out. “What if you don't like her?”

“Then I won't have a life partner.”

“You would give up a life partner for this woman?” Bastien asked.

Etienne paused, then simply nodded. “Without her, I wouldn't have life.” He bent his head and bit himself on the wrist. Red liquid bubbled to the surface, and
a moment later he took his teeth away and pressed his bleeding flesh to the dying girl's mouth.

 

“There, all we can do now is wait.” Marguerite straightened and turned to her son. “Now we have to tend to you.”

“I'm fine,” Etienne muttered. His gaze fixed on the woman in his bed. They had taken her from the hospital and brought her here to his home. His mother and Bastien had stripped her, strapped her to the bed, and fit an IV into her arm to feed her the blood she would need to facilitate the changes. Etienne didn't know what to expect. He'd never witnessed a turning. He wasn't too sure it was going well. The woman had been silent and still after he poured his own blood down her throat, but in the car on the way home, she'd started moaning and thrashing about. Etienne still wasn't sure he hadn't been too late, but he was a little more hopeful.

“You're not fine. You're still shedding burnt skin and you're terribly pale. You need rest and blood.”

“I can have blood here.”

“You need to lie down,” his mother insisted. “You're swaying on your feet.”

“I'll see to him,” Bastien announced and took Etienne's arm.

Etienne considered arguing, but he didn't really have the energy, so he let his brother lead him without protest.

“Which room?” Bastien asked, pausing in the hall outside. “Have you finished furnishing the spare rooms yet?”

“No.” Etienne grimaced. “But my coffin is in my office.”

“Good Lord! Do you still have that thing?” Bastien shuddered in disgust. “I got rid of mine the moment they were no longer necessary. I don't know how you stand having it.”

“It helps me think,” Etienne said. “I come up with some of my best ideas in there.”

“Hmmm.” Bastien led him along the hall, downstairs and to the back of the house. The stairway to the basement was situated in the back corner of the kitchen. His brother urged him down it, holding his arm as his swaying increased. Soon he had Etienne in the coffin in the corner of his office. “I'll be right back,” he announced.

Etienne murmured a weary response and closed his eyes. He was exhausted and growing achey. He needed more blood and knew Bastien was fetching him some.

Despite the growing pain of his body attacking itself in search of more blood, Etienne fell asleep. He woke up several moments later to feel a poke in his arm. Opening his eyes, he found Bastien leaning over him, inserting an IV in the vein below his elbow.

“Do I look like Lissianna to you?” he asked irritably.
He tried to move his arm away, but Bastien was stronger.

“No, you don't look like Lissianna. Her face isn't peeling off,” his brother responded dryly. “I would have brought you ten nubile virgins to feast on, but I couldn't find any. Virgins are in short supply nowadays, you know.”

Etienne gave a weary laugh and relaxed.

“More seriously,” Bastien said as he worked, “you need a lot of blood, a lot of rest. It's easier this way. I'll change the bag while you sleep. You'll be back to normal by morning.”

Etienne nodded. “Do you think the girl will live?”

Bastien was silent for a moment, then sighed. “We'll have to wait and see. I'll wake you if…anything happens,” he finished.

Etienne closed his eyes unhappily. “If she dies, you mean. And if she does, it will be all my fault. I should have done something about Pudge.”

“You can't blame yourself, Etienne. It's hard to know how to deal with such a fellow. I haven't come up with any ideas myself, and I've been pondering the problem since the shooting. We definitely have to deal with him, though.” He straightened and frowned. “I'll call Lucern and see if he has any ideas. We'll brainstorm later, when you're feeling better. You just rest for now.”

 

It was morning when Etienne awoke. He was back to his old self and feeling a hundred percent again. Lying in the still darkness, he could sense the presence of his mother and brother in his home. He could also sense
her
presence. She lived.

Easing out of his coffin, he removed the IV from his arm, collected the IV stand, and carried it upstairs with him. He stashed it in the kitchen closet where he kept it for emergencies or visits from his sister, then continued through the dark silent house and upstairs.

He found his mother and brother in his bedroom, watching over the woman.

She was writhing and moaning on the bed. Her hair was a damp tangle around her flushed, feverish face. Etienne frowned. “What's wrong with her?” he asked anxiously.

“She's turning,” his mother said simply.

Marguerite's calm attitude soothed him somewhat; then Etienne noted the empty bags of blood stacked on the bedside table. There had to be a dozen. Even as he noted this, his mother stood and began to remove yet another empty bag from the IV stand. As if they had done this several times, which they obviously had, Bastien also stood and moved to the small bar fridge Etienne had placed in a corner of the room. He returned with fresh blood.

“Why is she taking so much?” Etienne asked.

“There was a lot of damage, son. She lost a lot of
blood from the wound, and there are also thirty years of living to be repaired.”

Etienne relaxed a little more. “How long does this go on?”

Marguerite shrugged. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“On what damage needs repairing.”

Etienne scowled. “She looked healthy enough, maybe a tad anemic, but—”

“She could have had anything in her system, son,” Marguerite said gently. “Cancer, leukemia, anything. You can't always tell from outside appearances.”

Reassured, Etienne settled himself on a corner of the bed.

“You look better,” Bastien commented. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Etienne peered down at his hands. Every trace of black was gone; fresh, healthy pink skin covered his hands and arms. He knew the rest of him would be the same. He'd have to vacuum out the coffin later, though, as he'd left most of the damaged skin inside. “Were you able to get hold of Lucern?”

Bastien nodded. “He's coming over tonight, so we can brainstorm. In the meantime, there's a lot of damage control to do.”

Etienne's eyebrows flew up. “What happened?”

“She made the news. Apparently, someone witnessed Pudge in the coroner's office and went for help. That help must have arrived after we left with
the two of you, because the news report states they suspect this ‘camouflaged, armed man' kidnapped her. They've put out a sketch and description of Pudge. They don't know who he is, but they're looking for him.”

“That could work in our favor,” Etienne said.

“Yes. If we can get her to go along with a kidnapping story, it could solve the problem of Pudge for you.”

Etienne nodded, then glanced to his mother. She was nodding off in her seat. It was well into morning, past the time that they would usually have gone to bed. “I can watch over her now. You two should get some rest.”

“Yes.” Bastien stood, then moved to urge his reluctant mother to her feet. “We'll come back tonight,” he said as he ushered her to the door.

Marguerite turned sleepy eyes back to Etienne. “She shouldn't need much more blood. Perhaps a bag or two. The fever should end soon. I think she's very close to being done. Her wound is pretty much healed. She will probably wake up this evening sometime.”

“Yes, Mother.” Etienne followed them to the door.

“And you should be able to remove the straps soon. You don't want the poor girl waking up to find herself a prisoner.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Etienne,” Marguerite added in a solemn voice that
signaled what she was about to say was important. “You've never witnessed a turning before, so I should warn you—Rachel's thinking processes won't be very clear for a little while after she first wakes up.”

“What do you mean?” Etienne asked.

“Turnees are often confused and closed-minded upon awaking. They have trouble accepting the evidence before them as to their new state and they fight it—and their mind is often in such an uproar that their reasoning skills fly out the window. She may come up with all sorts of excuses for what's going on here, a lot of them outlandish. Just be patient with her until her mind clears and she's able to accept it. Try not to agitate her too much.”

Etienne nodded slowly, digesting his mother's words. “Okay. I'll do my best.”

“I know you will, son.” His mother patted his cheek affectionately, then followed Bastien to the door. “We'll come back early to help,” were her last words as the door closed behind her.

Etienne smiled to himself. Family was good, he thought as he turned back to his patient.

Rachel ached everywhere. Her body was a mass of pain and, for one moment she felt sure she was still suffering the flu that had brought her so low. But when she opened her eyes, Rachel saw at once that she wasn't bundled up in her bed at home. In fact, she'd never before seen the room she was in.

She was struggling to understand how she'd got there, and where exactly
there
was, when memory swamped her—random and confusing memories, a blond-haired man bending over her, holding her half upright and urging her to drink, though there was no glass to drink from. Yet she recalled fluid warm and thick on her tongue. Rachel also had a flash of a madman in khakis and a trench coat wielding an ax. She recalled a horrible pain in her chest, which was fol
lowed by a memory of Fred and Dale telling her that she'd got the assistant's job and would soon be off the night shift. The memories seemed out of order, but the last was good and made her smile as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Then Rachel remembered a confusing conversation she'd heard—one that had made very little sense to her at the time and still didn't, but had something to do with life partners and turning. Turning what, and how, she couldn't recall. All in all, the memories were scattered and made very little sense.

Rachel opened her eyes again and glanced around the room. It was blue, with a tasteful modern decor, abstract paintings and silver lamps on either side of the bed. Rachel still wasn't sure where she was or how she'd got there, but she was so weak and exhausted she decided she didn't care and would rest. The moment her eyes drifted closed, though, she had a flash of an ax swinging at her.

Rachel popped her eyes open, and horror consumed her. She'd been struck down by an ax blow, and she had been sure it was a killing one. At least, without aid it would have been. But Rachel had a vague recollection of her attacker, then a silver-eyed man bending over her, telling her to rest and conserve her strength while he checked her wound. He had been similar in looks to the man who had haunted her dreams while she had the flu, but this man's hair had been dark where her dream man was blond.

Obviously, help had come. Rachel just wished her thoughts were a little less murky. While the memory of being brought down by the blow of an ax explained the pain in her chest, it didn't explain the pain through the rest of her body. It also didn't explain where she was. She really should be in a hospital. This definitely wasn't a hospital.

Rachel peered toward the blinds covering the windows. They glowed at the edges with a hint of the sunlight attempting to enter. It was obviously day out. She wished the blinds had been left open so she could perhaps figure out where she was.

Pushing aside the blankets that covered her, Rachel struggled to a sitting position, then peered down at herself. She was completely nude. That was interesting. She never slept in the nude, and hospitals generally put those awful gowns on. Well, this was a wrinkle, and she had no idea what to make of it.

She shifted restlessly on the bed, then glanced down curiously when something pulled at her arm. The sight of an IV near the crook of her elbow made her pause. Her gaze followed the clear tube leading from it to the bag hanging from the IV stand. The bag was deflated and empty, but a drop or two of liquid remained behind—enough for Rachel to recognize it as blood. She had obviously needed a transfusion.

The thought made her glance down at her chest again in search of her wound. She distinctly recalled the ax slamming into her body, yet there were no
bandages, and no sign of injury other than a thin scar that marked her chest from her shoulder blade down to the top of one nipple. Her eyes widened incredulously on the scar, and she went still as its meaning struck her: Weeks, perhaps even months, had passed since the attack.

“Dear God,” Rachel breathed. How long had she slept? Had she been in a coma? Was she in a special facility for coma cases? That was almost reassuring, until she recalled the promotion she had just got at work. If she had been in a coma for months, she might have lost the position to someone else. Hell, she had probably lost her job altogether. But then why the blood? she wondered, and glanced at the empty IV bag. She could understand the need for a transfusion directly after the attack, but if it had been months, surely she wouldn't need it again now?

Her mind awhirl with questions, Rachel tugged the tube free, leaving the IV itself in place in her arm, then slipped her feet off the bed and tried to stand. It took a great deal of effort to do. Once she had managed, Rachel stood weak and exhausted and gave her idea second thoughts. It was a very short thinking session. As much as her body seemed to want to crawl back into bed and rest and recuperate, it also yearned for something that bedrest couldn't give. She didn't know what it was, just that she had a hankering that needed fulfilling. Even if she had been able to ignore that hankering—though Rachel very much suspected she
couldn't if she tried—her mind had a hankering as well. It wanted to know where the heck she was, along with what had happened to the man who attacked her, and whether the man on the steel table really had been alive as she had suspected, or if she had risked her life for a dead man.

It would be just her luck if she had suffered the wound, lost months of time to a coma, and now had a lovely scar for a dead man. Feeling a tad cranky, and strengthened by it, Rachel started for the door, then stopped suddenly as she recalled she was naked. She could hardly walk around in the nude.

A check of the drawer in the nearest bedside table turned up nothing but a couple of books Rachel had already read. Someone had good taste, or at least taste similar to her own.

Her gaze slid around the shadowed room to the three doors leading out of it. There was one to her right along the wall the bed backed onto, and one straight ahead in the wall parallel to the bed, both of which were normal-sized doors. Directly across from the foot of the bed, however, was a double set of doors that were most likely to the closet. They seemed an awfully long distance away, and while Rachel was sure she could reach it, she would be embarrassed to be caught naked halfway there. Besides, she had no guarantee that there would be clothes in it.

After a moment's thought, she tugged the bedsheet out from under the comforter and wrapped it around
herself like a toga. Then she moved toward the door in the wall parallel to the bed, deeming it the one most likely to lead to a hall and some answers.

As she had hoped, the door led out into a hallway, but it definitely wasn't the hallway of a hospital. She appeared to be in a house—a rather well-decorated house. Her gaze drifted over the neutral earth tones of the hallway with appreciation. She had used the same colors in her apartment and found them warm and inviting.

But the decor wasn't her main concern at the moment, Rachel reminded herself. The room she had just left was at the end of the hall. Several doors led off the hallway that stretched before her, but there was no evidence of anyone else in attendance. Rachel shifted from one foot to the other in the doorway and considered what to do, but in the end there seemed little choice. She could either stay where she was and wait for someone to come to her, or she could seek out someone to get answers to her questions.

That hankering she was suffering decided for her. Rachel moved out of the door and made her way along the hall. She didn't think to check the doors she passed. The house was so silent, it seemed to scream of emptiness, at least on this floor.

Things didn't appear much more hopeful when she reached the landing. Peering down into the entry below, she frowned at the darkness and silence reaching up to her. Surely she wasn't alone in this house? Some
one had to have been changing her IV bag.

Her legs were still a tad shaky, but Rachel was able to manage the stairs without incident, then she stood in the entry and peered about. Every window was covered. This part of the house was as shut against the sun as the bedroom. Rachel instinctively tried the knob of what appeared to be the front door but found it locked. It was an old-fashioned lock, needing a key to open. There was no key around, though she checked the table nearby.

Giving up on the door, Rachel started along the hall in search of someone, anyone, who could explain where she was. She passed unknown rooms full of darkness and shadow, but obviously empty of human inhabitants. At the end of the hall, she pushed open the door and found herself in what appeared to be a kitchen. There she paused and peered around at the dark shapes of a refrigerator, stove, table and chairs. She was about to back out of the room when she noted the soft glow of light coming from under a door on the opposite side.

Excitement coursed through Rachel at this first sign of someone besides herself being present. It was quickly followed by trepidation. But she pushed fear aside and moved to the door. It led to another stairwell, she noted with dismay when she opened it. There was a light on. Rachel hesitated on the landing, unsure what to do. Her strength seemed to be waning again, the cramps returning. It was like the flu, but
more intense and pervasive of every portion of her body.

“Hello?” she called out hopefully.

Of course there was no answer. No one came rushing to explain or help. Rachel was creeping through a dark and empty house, trailing a sheet like some old-fashioned gown.

“I've stepped into a Gothic novel,” she muttered to herself with amused disgust but couldn't laugh. It truly felt like she had. It made her suffer some pretty weird thoughts—like, perhaps she was dead and this was Hell. Or it could be Heaven. Rachel was relatively sure that she hadn't done anything in her life to land herself in Hell. Unless…Perhaps she hadn't got last rites. The priests said if you died without those…

Rachel pushed such depressing thoughts aside and started down the stairs. Better to know what she was dealing with than to not. Ignorance wasn't bliss.

She managed the stairs, though just barely. Pain and weakness were really setting in now. Her legs were almost rubbery with the combination by the time she descended the last step onto the carpeted basement floor. This can't be Hell, she decided as her feet sank into the plush carpeting. Surely Hell wasn't so well appointed.

Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps she hadn't really woken up yet. That idea was a lot easier to accept. Rachel even liked it. It certainly beat the heck out of
being dead. Dreams could be entertaining. As long as they didn't turn into nightmares.

Shrugging that disquieting thought aside, she allowed her gaze to slide over the doors available to her. The first door was open and revealed what appeared to be a laundry room in the bit of light that spilled from the hallway. The second door opened onto what turned out to be a wine cellar of all things. That left the third door, the only one with light spilling out from behind it.

Rachel took a deep bracing breath, then pushed that door open. At first glance, the room beyond appeared to be some sort of security room. Computer equipment lined the large L-shaped desk that covered two walls. There were at least four computers all told, and as many monitors. But the idea that it was a security room slipped away when she realized the images on the screens were not of this house.

She moved into the room to get a better look at the images. One was a freeze-frame of a spooky night forest. Another was an image of an old house even creepier than this one. The third held a frozen computer image of a beautiful woman clutching a cross she held thrust out as if to ward off evil. The last monitor was blank.

Fascinated by the woman, Rachel ignored the rest of the room and moved to stand in front of that monitor. She was beautiful, with long, dark hair and large silver eyes. She also looked familiar.

“I know you,” Rachel murmured to the image. “Where do I know you from?”

The woman seemed to be part of the menage of memories floating loose in her mind.

“Where do I know you from?” Rachel repeated a little louder, as if expecting the monitor to answer. It didn't, but a sudden creaking from behind her did. Rachel whirled, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. There was an old-fashioned coffin along the wall next to the door that she hadn't noticed upon entering, and now its lid was slowly pushed upward until a pale hand propelling it could be seen. It continued to creak all the way open, revealing a wrist, an arm, and then a shoulder.

A moment passed, seeming to stretch into hours; then Rachel's breath left her in a whoosh and her legs gave out as the coffin's occupant sat up. Rachel crashed to the floor, kneeling, mouth agape as the blond man from her dreams peered around until he spotted her.

“Oh.” He seemed surprised by her presence. “Hello. I thought I heard someone talking, but I didn't sense your presence, so I wasn't sure I wasn't simply dreaming. I should have known. I worried that you might awake on your own and be afraid.”

“Oh, fudge,” Rachel breathed as the room began to spin. “I'm going to faint.”

“Really?” he asked. “You seem to do that a lot.”

Rachel dropped weakly onto her butt with a thump
as the muscles in her thighs turned to putty. However, she didn't faint, and after a moment the room's spinning slowed and steadied. She was even able to ask, “Who are you?”

“Sorry.” He made a face and bounded out of his coffin in one smooth move, then let the lid fall closed. “Rude of me not to introduce myself. I'm your host,” he announced with a courtly bow. “Etienne Argeneau, at your service.”

“You're the dead guy!” Rachel gasped as he moved closer. She noted his silver eyes.

“You remember me.” He seemed pleased by the news, though she couldn't imagine why. Rachel certainly wasn't pleased to find herself talking to a dead man—a man who had, in fact, died twice, she realized. He was easily recognizable as the gunshot victim she had managed to convince herself had been a fever-induced hallucination, but it had taken her a few more moments to recognize him as the crispy critter from last night…or whenever it was she had stopped the armed guy from hacking his head off, she corrected herself. She frowned as she recalled the attack.