Nightside [Diana Tregarde series] (3 page)

They circled each other warily, like two cats preparing to fight. Then Diana thought she saw an opening—and took it.

And quickly came to the conclusion that she was overmatched, as he sent her tumbling with a badly bruised shin. The next few moments reinforced that conclusion—he continued scatheless while she picked up injury after painful injury.

She was a brown belt in karate—but he was a black belt in kung fu, and the contest was a pathetically uneven match. She knew before very long that he was toying with her—and while he still swung the wooden nunchuks, Andre did not dare move in close enough to help.

She realized (as fear dried her mouth, she grew more and more winded, and she searched frantically for a means of escape) that she was as good as dead.

If only she could get those damn ‘chuks away from him!

And as she ducked and stumbled against the curb, narrowly avoiding his strike, an idea came to her. He knew from her moves—as she knew from his—that she was no amateur. He would never expect an amateur's move from her—something truly stupid and suicidal—

So the next time he swung at her, she stood her ground. As the ‘chuks came at her she took one step forward, smashing his nose with the heel of her right hand and lifting her left to intercept the flying batons.

As it connected with her left hand with a sickening crunch, she whirled and folded her entire body around hand and weapon, and went limp, carrying it away from him.

She collapsed in a heap at his feet, hand afire with pain, eyes blurring, and waited for either death or salvation.

And salvation in the form of Andre rose behind her attacker. With one
savate
kick he broke the man's back; Diana could hear it crack like a twig—and, before her assailant could collapse, a second double-handed blow sent him crashing into the brick wall, head crushed like an eggshell.

Diana struggled to her feet and watched for some arcane transformation.

Nothing.

She staggered to the corpse, her face flat and expressionless—a sign she was suppressing pain and shock with implacable iron will. Andre began to move forward as if to stop her, then backed off again.

She bent slightly, just enough to touch the shoulder of the body with her good hand—and released the Power.

Andre pulled her back to safety as the corpse exploded into flame, burning as if it had been soaked in oil. She watched the flames for one moment, wooden-faced, then abruptly collapsed.

Andre caught her easily before she could hurt herself further, lifting her in his arms as if she weighed no more than a kitten. “
Ma pauvre petite
,” he murmured, heading back toward the car at a swift but silent run. “It is the hospital for you, I think—"

"Saint—Francis—” she gasped, every step jarring her hand and bringing tears of pain to her eyes. “One of us—is on the night staff—Dr. Crane—"

"
Bien
,” he replied. “Now be silent—"

"But—how are you—"

"In your car, foolish one."

"But—"

"I can drive."

"But—"

"And I have a license. Now, will you be silent?"

"How?” she said, disobeying him.

"Night school,” he replied succinctly, reaching the car, putting her briefly on her feet to unlock the passenger-side door, then lifting her into it. “You are not the only one who knows of urban camouflage."

This time she did not reply—because she had fainted from pain.

The emergency room was empty—for which Andre was very grateful. His invocation of Dr. Crane brought a thin, bearded young man around to the tiny examining cubicle in record time.

"Godalmighty! What did you tangle with, a bus?” he exclaimed when stripping her sweatsuit jacket and pants revealed that there was little of Diana that was not battered and black-and-blue.

Andre wrinkled his nose at the acrid antiseptic odors around them, and replied shortly. “No, your ‘Ripper.’”

The startled gaze the doctor fastened on him revealed that Andre had scored. “Who—won?"

"We did. I do not think he will prey upon anyone again."

The doctor's eyes closed briefly; Andre read prayerful thankfulness on his face as he sighed with relief. Then he returned to business. “You must be Andre, right? Anything I can supply?"

Andre laughed at the hesitation in his voice. “Fear not, your blood supply is quite safe, and I am unharmed. It is Diana who needs you."

The relief on the doctor's face made Andre laugh again.

Dr. Crane ignored him. “Right,” he said, turning to the work he knew best.

She was light-headed and groggy with the Demerol Dr. Crane had given her as Andre deftly tucked her into her bed; she'd dozed all the way home in the car.

"I just wish I knew what that thing was—” she said inconsequentially, as he arranged her arm in its Fiberglass cast a little more comfortably. “—I won't be happy until I know—"

"Then you are about to be happy,
cherie
, for I have had the brainstorm—” Andre ducked into the living room and emerged with a dusty leather-bound book. “Remember I said there was something familiar about it? Now I think I know what it was.” He consulted the index and turned pages rapidly—found the place he sought, and read for a few moments. “As I thought—listen. ‘The
gaki
—also known as the Japanese vampire—also takes its nourishment only from the living. There are many kinds of
gaki
, extracting their sustenance from a wide variety of sources. The most harmless are the ‘perfume’ and ‘music’
gaki
—and they are by far the most common. Far deadlier are those that require blood, flesh—or souls.’”

"Souls?"

"Just so. ‘To feed, or when at rest, they take their normal form of a dense cloud of dark smoke. At other times, like the
kitsune
, they take on the form of a human being. Unlike the
kitsune
, however, there is no way to distinguish them in this form from any other human. In the smoke form, they are invulnerable—in human form, however, they can be killed; but to destroy them permanently, the body must be burned—preferably in conjunction with or solely by Power.’ I said there was something familiar about it—it seems to have been a kind of distant cousin.” Andre's mouth smiled, but his eyes reflected only a long-abiding bitterness.

"There is no way you have any relationship with that—thing!” she said forcefully. “It had no more honor, heart, or soul than a rabid beast!"

"I—I thank you,
cherie
,” he said slowly, the warmth returning to his eyes. “There are not many who would think as you do."

"Their own closed-minded stupidity."

"To change the subject—what was it made you burn it as you did? I would have abandoned it. It seemed dead enough."

"I don't know—it just seemed the thing to do.” She yawned. “Sometimes my instincts just work ... right..."

Suddenly her eyes seemed too leaden to keep open.

She fought against exhaustion and the drug, trying to keep both at bay without success. Sleep claimed her for its own.

He watched her for the rest of the night, until the lethargy of his own limbs told him dawn was near. He had already decided not to share her bed, lest any movement on his part cause her pain—instead, he made up a pallet on the floor beside her.

He stood over her broodingly while he in his turn fought slumber, and touched her face gently. “Well—” he whispered, holding off torpor far deeper and heavier than hers could ever be—while she was mortal. “You are not aware to hear, so I may say what I will and you cannot forbid. Dream; sleep and dream—I shall see you safe—my only love."

And he took his place beside her, to lie motionless until night should come again.