Lynn Viehl - Darkyn 1 - If Angels Burn (v1.1) (36 page)

John wondered why the police hadn’t seized the connection between the two cases, or the description of Alexandra, whom he had listed at the missing-persons national database. “Was there anything else they said? Where they were going?”

“All I got here is that the guy talked her into doing it. Said he’ll help her burn someone in Chicago—all she has to do is come to some place with a fancy name. I wrote it down, too.” He turned the page and studied the dense writing on the back. “Here you go. Lah-fon-tane. Sounds Frenchy to me.”

“It is.” John had taken a year of French in high school. “It means ‘The Fountain.’ ”

Phillipe came down to the basement level after Alexandra had finished working on Thierry for the night and was cleaning up. “The master needs you in the library.”

“I’m tired.” It wasn’t a lie. To keep the Kyn infection from advancing any further, Alex had been skimping on her injections. It was all she could do to get through the surgeries every day.

“He has… information?” Phillipe gave her a reassuring smile. “It is good. You will want this.”

She didn’t want this, didn’t want anywhere near Cyprien. But she went upstairs with Phillipe and entered the library. She stayed near the door, just in case.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked.

Cyprien was sitting behind a large, modern desk and flipping through some files. He selected four and pushed them to the edge of the desk. “These are for you.”

“Not more patients, I hope.”

“Information.” He tapped the top folder. “Complete criminal records and current locations on the men who attacked Luisa Lopez. As I promised.”

Slowly Alex went over and picked up the first dossier. Inside were mug shots and an in-depth report on a convicted burglar/rapist who currently resided about five blocks from Luisa’s old apartment. The others were just as detailed.

“Suzerain Jaus will keep them under surveillance until you are finished here,” Cyprien told her. “Then either his people can deliver them to you, or you can go and collect them yourself.”

She picked up the folders and tucked them under her arm. “I thought you’d wait until I was done with the Durands before giving me these.”

Cyprien took a cigarette from an enameled box on the desk, glanced at her, and put it back. “Consider it a gesture of faith and love.”

Alex didn’t like those words. At all. “What do you want now?”

“Nothing but what you agreed to do. Help my friends.” He got up and walked out.

Alex took the files to her room and over the next several days tried hard to forget about them. Now that Marcel was healed, she could concentrate on Thierry’s lower body exclusively, and began restoring form and function every inch of the way. Finally she got to his feet, which were the biggest challenge she had ever faced.

“I would think this to be the simplest part of it,” Liliette commented one afternoon after Alex had given her a progress report. “His feet are so small compared to his legs.”

“They’re small, but they’re complicated,” Alex told her. “Each foot has twenty-six bones, which together represent one-fourth of all the bones in the body. There are also one hundred and seven ligaments, thirty-three joints, thirty-one tendons, and nineteen muscles, too. All of them work together, not just to hold the bones in place but to allow the foot to move and support the body.” She put up the X-rays of Thierry’s feet on the light panel Cyprien had had installed in the treatment room. “As you can see, they wrecked just about all of them, too.”

Liliette’s smile faded as she studied the films. “How can you hope to fix this?”

“I’m going to build him new ones, from the inside out.” The work involved was tedious, nerve-racking, and risky, but the only alternative Alex had was amputation, and that was strictly last resort. “I’ll be honest. I don’t know if it will work, madame.”

“Do what you can for him.”

There was no piecing Thierry’s original bones back together, so Alex set out to sculpt him new ones out of the old bone material. Harvesting the pulverized fragments, she slowly grafted and formed seven thick, short, tarsal bones to give him a new heel and back instep. From there she formed five parallel metatarsal bones to form the front of the instep and serve as a platform for the front and ball of the foot.

As Alex progressed to the smaller phalanges, she realigned his torn muscles and repaired his shredded ligaments, allowing them to heal in place to connect and hold the new bones. After harvesting grafts from his buttocks and lower abdomen, she recreated the thick layer of fatty tissue under the sole of his foot, which would serve as a shock absorber when Thierry walked, ran, or jumped.

Assuming that he ever would.

When Alex had finished with the right foot, she didn’t wait but repeated the entire process on the left. It took another week of eighteen-hour days over the operating table. She left Thierry only to transfuse herself or sleep for a few hours. At length, his feet were almost whole again.

One more operation, and she would be done.

Alex left him with the nurses, gave Marcel and his aunt a brief report, and then went up to her room to collapse and sleep for a week. Cyprien was waiting for her, but she was too tired to chase him out. “What?”

“Phillipe told me you have nearly finished with Thierry.” He tucked his hands in his pockets. “Do you wish to return to Chicago? I can arrange a flight out tomorrow night.”

She stripped out of her lab coat. “Here’s the deal, Mike: I’m tired, I’m grumpy, and I’m in no mood to talk about travel arrangements or dance with you. So do I have to yell, or will you show how much you love me and leave now?”

“I would like you to stay.”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “No mood to dance includes—”

“Arguing, sex, or blood, I know.” He came over, swept her off her feet, and carried her to the bed. “Your feet must hurt.”

She snorted. “You try standing on yours for eighteen hours; see how they feel.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and began rubbing his thumbs in circular motions against her soles. “I would like you to stay with us, Alexandra. We are not as different as you think. You believe in preserving life as much as I do. The Kyn need you.” He looked up at her. “You already know how much I need you.”

The soft voice and pleading eyes didn’t fool Alex—this was the same man who had introduced her to bondage in a big way—but she was tired, and his hands were pure magic. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow night, after I’ve finished surgery. I’m tired.”

“Tomorrow, then.” He rose and bent to kiss her on the forehead. “Good night, Alexandra.”

She hid her confusion by yawning and closing her eyes. “Night.” She didn’t peek until she heard the door to her room open and close. Then she covered her face with her hands. “I have got to get out of here.”

Alex was tired, too tired to crawl under the sheets. She closed her eyes and tried to mentally run through Thierry’s final surgery one more time, but slipped off before she’d gotten to the third incision.

The dream came and enveloped her like an old, soft quilt.

Alex was standing over Thierry, grafting bone and snapping out orders to Heather, while everyone stood around watching her. She scanned faces and saw Phillipe, Marcel, Éliane, even Jamys. The only one missing was Michael.

Thierry opened his eyes and looked up at her.
What are you doing to me, Angel
?

I’m not anyone’s angel
. Alex tossed her bloody scalpel aside and watched Thierry’s leg heal shut.
And why can’t I have a nice dream, like being on a beach surrounded by four nearly naked lifeguards feeding me piña coladas and frozen grapes
?

The operating room disappeared, and Alex found herself stretched out on a lounge chair. It was sitting on a completely deserted white-sand beach. The only thing in the immediate area besides sand and sea was a small table with a frosty white drink sitting on it.

Alex glanced down at her scrubs, which had turned into a teeny black bikini.
I’ll have to rethink that fantasy about working in the M&M’s factory now
.

Motion caught her attention; someone rose from the turquoise water and walked up onto the beach. Thierry, only his legs and feet were whole, and all he wore was a brief pair of black swimming trunks.

Alex grinned.
Damn, I do good work
.

The very wet and near-naked Thierry sauntered up over the sand to join her. He looked around.
This is a pleasant dream. What kind of grapes would you like, darling
?
Blanc
? He produced a handful of picture-perfect green grapes.
Rose
? The grapes turned a dusky pink.

The edges of the beach were hazy, sort of wavering. Alex knew she was dreaming, but it was nice to see Thierry whole and sane.
How about four nearly naked lifeguards to ogle me
?

He cocked an eyebrow at her.
You wish to watch me kill four other men with my bare hands, man coeur
?

Alex laughed.
No
.

He knelt beside her, and the beach and the sea went away. They were both naked and huddled together in a dark place with no windows, and only a torch on the wall sputtering with smoky firelight.
They will come for us in the morning, Angel
.

Alex was still adjusting to sitting bare-assed on cold, damp stone.
Who will
?

The Brethren
. Thierry pulled her into his arms.
All my life, I have loved only you
. He kissed her with the desperation of a man facing death.
I have wanted only you
.

She tried to wriggle out of his arms.
Thierry, I’m not who you think I am. Look at me. I’m not Angel; I’m Alex
. His big hands were all over her.
Alex, your doctor
.

It won’t save us this time
. He pushed her back, covered her with his long, heavy frame, separating her legs, hunting against her.
Let me inside you, Angel. One last time, before they take us
. He frowned down at her.
You are my wife. Why have you changed your hair
?
I liked it the color you made it the last time
.

Your wife is dead, Thierry
. Was this the key to pulling him out of his madness? Making him face the fact that she was gone?
I’m Alex. I’m your doctor
. She touched his cheek.
Your friend, too
.

He went still on top of her and searched her face.
Angel
?

Someone was coming. Locks were being released on the other side of the crude wooden door. Thierry’s eyes lost the soft uncertainty and turned to slits of black rage.

Alex knew she had to talk fast now. She grabbed his face between her hands.
It’s just a dream. They’re all dead; the Kyn got you out. You’re in New Orleans, with Michael. Remember Michael
?
Liliette and Jamys and Marcel are here with you. I’ve been fixing your body
. She saw the blind rage fill his eyes, felt his hands clamp around her neck.
No, I didn’t hurt you, I
—

They won’t have you
. Thierry’s hands cut off her air.
I won’t let them burn you again
. He lifted his head and snarled at the robed men coming into the room.
Give me a sword for her and I will tell you what you want. Give me a sword
!

Alex jerked out of sleep. Her body throbbed; her lips stung; her throat ached. Thierry’s last, shouted demand still rang in her ears. She dragged herself off the bed and went into the bath to wash her face. As she splashed the cold tap water over her hot cheeks, she swallowed against her dry throat and felt pain. She straightened and looked at her pale, drawn reflection in the mirror over the sink.

A chain of large, dark bruises lay wrapped around her throat.

John arrived in New Orleans a little after dawn and rented a car at the airport. He had already tried information from Atlanta, but there was no listing in the city of New Orleans for a hotel, motel, or business establishment called La Fontaine.

“It could be a private residence, sir,” the operator told him. “But unless you have a street address, I can’t help you.”

John wasn’t even sure Alexandra was in New Orleans. What if she had refused to go? What if she had changed hotels and was still back in Atlanta? He thought of contacting the police, but what would he tell them? That he had gotten his information from a slightly paranoid shopkeeper? Would the cops take him seriously, or would they blow him off, too?

He decided to stay at a hotel at the airport, in case he had to take a flight back to Atlanta in a hurry. When he got to his room, however, the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Father Keller, you’re looking for your sister, correct?” a man with an odd accent asked.

Foolishly he looked at the window. He was six stories up; no one was looking inside. “How did you know—”

“I will call you tonight. If you want to save her life, be ready to follow my instructions.”

“What are you talking about? Who are you?”

A dial tone was his answer.

T
hierry Durand dreamed of the woman.

He did not know why she was ever in his mind. It was not for her beauty. She had fooled him at first, but he could see now that she was not as beautiful as his Angel. She was not fat, but she dressed like a fat woman. Her shapeless, ugly gowns were all in the same, insipid blue color. She often wore an abbreviated white veil over the lower half of her face, so all he could see were her brown eyes. She did have lovely eyes.

He did not know her, but knew her eyes. Knew them from another time, another place.

She spoke strange words to him, some of them familiar, some long Latinish words that made little sense. He was almost sure they were incantations. She stood over him with strange, glittering instruments, and used them on his body, much in the way the butchers in Dublin had. She even had a woman apprentice to fetch her things and watch her work. But there was no pain, and no questions asked of him.

What sort of demoness was she?