Touch of Madness (7 page)

Decisions, decisions.

My internal debate raged back and forth for several minutes. In the end I decided it wouldn’t hurt to call. After all, he could always say no. It wasn’t until after I’d reached the decision that I realized I didn’t know his telephone number. We were friends of a sort, but I’d never had occasion to call him. Our relationship had been forged in a crisis. We really hadn’t ever had the chance to learn the everyday details of each other’s lives. Not knowing what else to do, I called the police station with a street address closest to the Shamrock Motel and asked for him by name. I was told he was off duty, but they offered to transfer me to his voicemail.

“Sure.” I waited, trying to think of what to say as the officer in charge of receptionist duties transferred my call. His smooth near-bass voice came over the wire. “You have reached Detective John Brooks. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. Otherwise, please leave a message after the tone.”

“Hey Brooks, it’s Kate Reilly. I’ve run into a situation and I could really use some help if you’re available. Either way, give me a call when you can. The number is 555-2155.”

I set the phone back in its cradle and went into the kitchen. The pasties were ready to eat. I sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, munching absently on meat-filled goodness and tried to figure out what my first move should be. When I caught myself dozing off mid-bite I decided to hell with it. It had been a rough day. Plans and decisions would have to wait until I’d gotten a little rest. So I went upstairs, pulled on a nightgown, set the alarm, and went to bed. I dreamed. I knew it was a dream, because I was floating above a foreign landscape. The parking lot could have been anywhere, but the plants that lined it seemed…odd. In the distance I heard laughter and the distinctive sound of billiard balls being struck. There were loud music and voices raised to be heard over the din.

I heard a door open, and saw a man exit the building, keys in hand. He was small and wiry, with curling red hair and a no- nonsense attitude that showed in his body language. He walked briskly across the lot to a battered and ancient pickup truck that might have been blue in a previous lifetime. Now plastic had been taped over the driver’s side window, and dust and caked mud coated the paint job until it was impossible to be sure of the color.

A hooded figure moved stealthily between two nearby parked cars. The man turned, his expression wary. “Who’s there?”

The voice was familiar. In the dream I struggled to shout a warning, struggled to come in closer for a clearer look. It was hopeless. The man stared into the darkness, slowly turning to scan the parking lot. Every muscle was tense, alert. For long, silent moments he stood poised and still, keys in his left hand, his right hand resting on the hilt of the knife on his belt. Nothing.

Eventually, he turned back to the vehicle, sliding the key into the lock. The attacker pounced, but the man was ready. He fought hard and dirty, using his knife with the skill that comes from regular practice. But his opponent was ruinously quick—too quick for a mere human. Nor did it have merely human strength. It darted in close. Grabbing his knife arm in both hands, the attacker jerked the arm sharply down at the same time that it raised its knee.

Bones snapped audibly, and the man screamed in pain and rage. He head-butted his attacker, pounding with his uninjured fist. It was no use. The creature grabbed the knife where it had fallen. In a smooth motion, almost too fast to see, it gutted the man with his own weapon.

Blood and worse poured from the wound as the attacker relentlessly sought for his victim’s heart. The man threw his head back to scream and the attacker’s fangs struck home.

I woke screaming, my heart racing. The alarm was blaring. In those first startled seconds, I fumbled around for it in the dark and wound up knocking it to the floor. It broke. Swearing, I threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, carefully avoiding the broken plastic. I went and got the broom and dustpan from the linen closet and swept up the mess. It occurred to me that this was the first time I’ve ever broken a clock accidentally. Amazing. I dumped the bits of plastic in the trash but saved the battery to use in the replacement clock I pulled from the shelf. I was awake, but I wanted coffee. It was, after all, only 5:30 A.M.

I wandered downstairs and started the coffeemaker. I automatically pulled out the creamer and sugar, before I realized Tom wasn’t here.

I stood frozen, the refrigerator door wide open, the cat twining around my legs. He hadn’t come back last night. Shit. A million what-ifs chased through my mind before I saw the note he’d taped to the freezer.

Kate:

Paul caught the chicken pox from one of his kids. I have to cover the last day of his shift at the station. I’m sorry! I really wanted to be at the trial for you! Call me on my cell and let me know how it goes. See you soon. Tom

I let out my breath in a relieved sigh. He was all right. The note didn’t say anything about the pack meeting though. I had no idea whether that was a good or bad thing.

I fervently wished Dusty would just get pregnant. She wanted the baby, after all. With at least one of the surrogates expecting a lot of the pressure on Tom would let up. Oh, the pack still wouldn’t be thrilled that he was with me. They’d prefer he hooked up with some sweet little werewolf, or a fertile human woman who could bear more children for the pack. I’m not fertile. In fact, like Mary and the others, I’m sterile—a heartbreaking effect of all the Thrall yolk running in my veins. But they might at least tolerate the idea. I wasn’t sure I wanted to live without Tom. Would he choose me over the pack? I didn’t know. Werewolves are people, but the wolf traits are part of them, too. They crave pack, family. I didn’t want being with me to cost Tom something that was integral to who he was. But I wasn’t willing to give him up either. I couldn’t change my genetics. There has never been a werewolf in the Reilly family tree. Not one. Nor could I make myself fertile, no matter how much I might have wanted to. I sighed. Think about something else, Reilly. You’ll just depress yourself worrying about things that you have no control over. Tom hasn’t had to choose. He may never have to choose. He hasn’t left you. He’s just working. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten called in to work unexpectedly. He was single, and had a flexible schedule. When things went wrong at work he was one of the first to get called to cover for an absent coworker. Still, the little, suspicious corner of my mind wondered at how convenient it was that it came up right when the pack was trying to get him to keep his distance from me.

I shook my head. I was being unfair. I’d let a simple nightmare get under my skin. I shuddered. It had seemed so real. I’d felt the breeze against my skin, smelled the metallic scent of the spilled blood. I shivered with cold that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature. I needed to clear my head. Exercise would be good. But I didn’t want to go for my run until after I did my meditation. I went to the closet and retrieved the kit I’d set up for myself. It consists of a large box, a gray floor mat, white pillar candle, incense and burner, and matches. I carried the box to my usual spot, underneath the plants, with a clear view of the scene outside my windows.

It took only a minute or two to roll out the mat, turn the box over to use as a table, and set up and light the incense and candles. I sat Indian style on the mat, my forearms resting on my knees, palms up, and began deliberately relaxing each muscle in turn.

The sweet spicy scent of sandalwood filled the room. I let my mind float, relaxing the barriers that I normally fought so hard to keep in place. Slowly, the muscles in my back and shoulders began to unclench. I took deep, slow breaths, watching the flickering blue and yellow of the candle flame. I felt light-headed, suffused with warmth and power. I was ready. It was time. I closed my eyes and sent my mind outward, thinking of Henri Tané, his voice, his face as it was the last time I saw him.

A crowd of people stood in a cemetery, all wearing white. The priest stood in front of the casket, speaking in a language I couldn’t understand. It wasn’t French. Perhaps Creole. They were the two national languages. A beautiful young black woman wept, her arms wrapped around a small boy with Henri’s features. She looked up, and for a moment it was as though she saw me. Her eyes burned with pain and rage. A feminine voice filled my mind, the English heavily accented. “Find the thing that murdered my man. Find it and kill it.”

I was back in my body so suddenly it startled me. I was shaking, cold. Tears streamed down my face. The candle had blown out, the incense was ashes. My mind reeled, as though from a blow. I knew, knew that Henri was dead, murdered. I hadn’t known him long, but he had been my friend. He alone of the people I knew actually understood what being Not Prey meant. He’d been the one who brought me relief by teaching me how to shield and block out the hive most of the time. Thanks to Henri I have another way to be alone in my mind. The queens would have to launch a full attack to break through my shields now.

I stood shakily and made my way to the bathroom. Using toilet paper to blow my nose, I tried to think who to contact to find out what had happened. I didn’t know. From what I’d read there’d been unrest in Haiti for years. According to the news I’d read, UN peacekeeping forces had clashed with local gangs and the unrest made everything more complicated.

I could talk to Miles when I saw him at the courthouse, see if I could get him to retrieve contact information for me from the hospital files. He might refuse, but it was worth a try. Because, while a part of me absolutely believed in my vision, another part held out hope: maybe what I’d seen was simply the product of an overactive imagination. Or maybe it was a premonition that could be avoided if I gave Henri warning. I was new at this. I didn’t control it very well yet. Other things I’d seen had been from the past, or the future. Not everything I saw was in real time no matter how urgent it felt.

I told myself all those things and more. I didn’t believe any of it. With a heavy heart I tossed the tissue in the trash and went back in the living room to put away the meditation gear. Normally I put nearly a full hour into the exercises. Today I’d barely done fifteen minutes. But I couldn’t bring myself to try again. Not right now. So I repacked the box, loaded it into the closet, and went upstairs.

I wrapped my knee and then pulled on a sports bra, followed by a navy sweat suit with white stripes down the jacket sleeves that matched the stripes on the outside of the pants. Thick socks and comfortable running shoes completed the outfit except for the accessories. I clipped one of my favorite knives onto the waistband of my pants, tucked my iPod into the pocket of my jacket, and strapped on the man’s sports watch I wear when I run. A quick glance at the watch let me know I could run for a half hour, but that was all. I tucked my house keys in my jacket pocket and rode the freight elevator down to street level. I exited the parking garage through the gate. It was chilly, but not really cold. Still, I did a couple of quick stretches to limber up, touching my fingertips to the tops of my Nikes and stretching until the bones in my spine popped and the handle of the knife I’d clipped into the waistband of my pants dug painfully into my waist. I rolled my body upward, clasping my hands together and reaching toward the sky, then bent from one side to the other.

It felt good, really good, to be moving my upper body without pain. My shoulder had finally healed, as had my elbow. Oh, I’d be doing physical therapy for months yet to get full strength back, but I had mobility, and function, so I wasn’t complaining. The stitches on my forearm were gone, replaced by a really interesting pattern of scars. I shivered at the memory of sharp fangs digging into the vein, and the throbbing pain of twelve, individual eggs absorbing the blood from my body.

I closed my eyes, saying a quick prayer of thanks for my survival and the survival of my loved ones and another prayer for Henri. Then I slipped my iPod on, cranked up the tunes, and started off at a slow jog, my feet moving in time with the music coming through the headphones. Yeah, I’d promised to wait until spring, but what Joe didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt me.

I’d run less than half a block when I started to sweat through the fabric of the sports bra. The calendar might say January, but the weather didn’t believe it.

Rather than take my usual route on the trail that runs next to Cherry Creek, along Speer Boulevard I ran down Fifteenth Street past the underpass, until I came to the park and trails that had been put in between an entire development of high-end apartments and condominiums. The prices advertised on the billboard outside the building that housed the management offices took my breath away. They’d taken the price I originally paid for my building, and added a one on the front— per unit! I couldn’t believe anyone would pay that much, but they obviously were. The sign in front read “Only four units left.”

Amazing. If I ever did decide to go condo with the building, it was good to know that the sky was the limit as far as pricing. But despite my current financial woes, I just wasn’t ready to parcel out my building. For one thing it was my building, and I liked it that way. Still—

I felt, then saw, movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head to see a huge shape emerging from the doorway of one of the condos. It was Carlton. He’d covered his head with a Rockies baseball cap, and wore dark sunglasses, but there was no mistaking him.

Not for the first time I wished that vampires really were the evil undead of legends. If that were the case, he would be bursting into flame right about now, and fear wouldn’t be trying to claw its way out of my stomach like a trapped animal. Instead, as I watched he adjusted the drawstring at the waist of his pale blue satin warm-up suit and started heading my way at an easy lope.

I am Not Prey. Prey run. I will not run. But oh God I wanted to. He came up next to me, his long legs making it easy for him to keep pace. “Morning, Buffy. How’s tricks?”

“Buffy?” I didn’t break stride, just kept moving at a steady pace, my feet thudding in a steady rhythm against the pavement. “I’m Kate!’