Zane’s Redemption (14 page)

The cobblestones sent tiny shocks through his body as he throttled up and passed a car. Behind him, his sister Rachel sat on the miniscule luggage rack, which wasn’t really meant for passengers, and held onto him for dear life, her legs stretched out toward the curb.

“Not so fast, Zacharias!” she cried out but giggled at the same time. She was having as much fun as he was.

“Are you scared?” he teased and laughed. There was no better feeling than being on his bike and feeling the air rush past his ears.

“No, but Papa will be mad if we fall and hurt ourselves.”

“Don’t worry about Papa.”

His father wouldn’t have given him this birthday present—a 3-year-old BMW R6 motorcycle that looked like new—if he didn’t want him to use it and enjoy it. Rachel was still too much of a child. At only fourteen, she obeyed her father and mother one hundred percent, whereas he had rebelled from time to time. At one point, he’d been close to moving out from home, but his mother had thought it a ridiculous idea. Besides, as an aspiring poet, he still relied on his parents’ money for survival.

“We should go home. Mama is waiting with supper,” Rachel urged.

“Just one more time around the block,” he cajoled and twisted the grip to increase the speed.

One more time became three, and by the time they reached their parents’ townhouse, it was dark already. Rachel hopped off, and Zacharias rolled the bike toward the garage, when he noticed the armed uniformed man at the entrance door to his home.

Instantly, panic surged through him. Had something happened to his parents while he and Rachel had been out having fun? He parked the bike hastily and rushed toward the door Rachel had already reached.

“Mama? Papa?” His sister’s voice echoed against the walls in the narrow street.

“Has something happened to our parents? What’s going on?” Words spilled from Zacharias’ lips like water rushing down a waterfall.

The officer with the tell-tale SS emblem on his uniform responded with a stoic look. “Zacharias and Rachel Eisenberg?”

Zacharias nodded automatically. “That’s us.” He reached for his sister’s hand and squeezed it. A thought invaded his mind: he’d heard of SS personnel showing up at other families’ homes, rumors of decent citizens being taken away.

The SS officer motioned his head to the hallway behind him and unblocked the way to let them through. Continuing to hold Rachel’s hand, Zacharias ran toward the back of the house where he heard voices. Every room he passed was lit brightly.

Anxiety made his heart beat like a locomotive by the time he finally reached the living room. His mother sat on the couch, her head in her hands, and his father stood next to her, his body visibly coiled in tension. He darted nervous looks at the men in the room: three more SS members, the black uniforms and shiny boots gleaming in the artificial light.

“Are those your children?” the tall, blond officer asked.

Zacharias’ father nodded and cast a regretful glance at Zacharias and Rachel.

“Father?” He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, but to no avail. The presence of these officers in his home could only mean one thing. The rumors were true; he knew it when he looked at his parents’ faces.

His mother’s face was tearstained. Zacharias rushed to her and took her hands as he crouched down.

“They’re taking us away. All of us.” She sobbed, and behind him he heard Rachel’s shocked gasp. “They are arresting us.”

Zane snapped his head to the intruders. Even though he knew the answer, he nevertheless asked the question:“Why?”

As a nasty grin spread on the blonde’s face, Zacharias felt as if an icy hand wrapped around his neck and squeezed the life out of him. A sense of foreboding slammed into him.

“Why?” The officer exchanged a look with his colleagues. “Because you’re Jews, that’s why. Dirty Jews.”

Dirty Jews. The words still echoed in his head when the SS guards led him and his family outside and into a waiting van. He turned his head to look back, glimpsing one last time at the bike he’d come home with only minutes earlier. He’d owned it for only a day—one single day in 1940. He was twenty-four years old, and his life as he knew it had just changed forever. How drastically, nobody could have guessed.

Zane tore his gaze from the bike and looked back at Eddie. “I can’t ride that bike.”

“Of course you can. It works no different than—”

“I said, I can’t ride that bike,” Zane bit out from behind clenched teeth and glared at Eddie.

His colleague did well not to ask any stupid questions. “Fine, hop on with me.”

***

Zane felt numb when he walked into Drake’s practice. He scowled at the Barbie doll receptionist and ignored her protest that she needed to announce him first. Instead, he simply barged into the doctor’s office and slammed the door behind him.

Drake sat behind his desk. He looked up only briefly, seemingly undeterred by Zane’s dramatic entry.

“I’m here,” Zane bellowed when the shrink looked back down at his paperwork. He hated being ignored.

“I’m not blind,” Drake announced calmly.

“And if you don’t start this session now, I’ll make sure you’ll fit into an ashtray,” Zane muttered under his breath.

“Nor deaf,” Drake added and closed the file he was reading and put it aside. “I hadn’t expected you to be so eager to start.”

Zane rolled his shoulders. “If your skills as a doctor are as sharp as your ability to interpret a person’s intentions, I suggest you find another profession.” As if he was here to get through some stupid psycho-analysis and let this quack probe around in his head! Like he had wacko tattooed on his forehead. The guy wouldn’t get a single word out of him, Zane swore.

“I’d offer you a seat but I get the impression that you’d rather stand, so I won’t.”

“Wrong again,” Zane answered and let himself fall onto the ghastly coffin-couch, propping his feet up on one of the wooden panels that served as an armrest. Sure, he would have preferred to stand, but he wasn’t going to give that asshole one inch. In five minutes, he would be done proving that Drake was incompetent. And to top it off, he’d have Drake agree with him.

“Nice furniture,” he lied. He’d throw the doctor so far off his track by feeding him wrong answers, he’d be heading for China next.

A raised eyebrow indicated that Drake was onto his deceptive tactics. “Your boss warned me that you had peculiar tastes.”

Zane kept his face impassive even though a storm was raging inside him. “I doubt he sent me here so you could discuss my peculiar tastes with me. What do you want, Drake?” He crossed his ankles, affecting a relaxed pose.

“That’s entirely up to you.”

“Don’t give me this line. We both know it’s not true. You were given specific instructions by Samson as to what he wanted me to talk about.” Remaining as calm as he could, he continued, “So let’s just cut to it: I killed that asshole. Did I enjoy it? Immensely. Do I have any regrets? No. Remorse? No. Second thoughts? Hell no.”

Zane dropped his feet to the floor. “And now that that’s out of the way, go ahead and charge Samson the full hour and take the rest of the time off.” He rose.

The doctor clapped, slowly and deliberately.

Zane shot him an icy look.

“Fabulous, excellent! I love a good performance as much as the next vampire. Have you ever thought of becoming an actor?”

“Piss off!”

“No, honestly.” Drake rose and rounded his desk. “I see a lot of talent there.”

Zane narrowed his eyes at the doctor’s obvious sarcastic remark. “We’re done here.”

“Not so hasty. As you’re probably aware I am to report to Samson if you miss any of your sessions or if you leave early.” He gave his wristwatch a deliberate glance. “You’ve been here just five minutes. That’s indeed a record.” Then he looked back at Zane. “This is not speed dating.”

Zane clenched his fists and took a deep breath. Fine, the doctor required him to stay the full hour? He could do that. “As you wish,” he pressed out.

He lay down on the coffin-couch, stuffed one of the pillows under his head and closed his eyes. “Wake me in fifty-five minutes.”

There was silence in the room. Zane started counting. One minute passed and another one. Then the laughter of the psychiatrist echoed through the room. Zane’s eyes shot open, pinning the man with a furious glare.

“And there your colleagues keep telling me you don’t have a sense of humor,” Drake claimed.

“You’re annoying as hell.” Almost as annoying as Portia could be.

Fuck, he wasn’t going to think about her and what had happened less than an hour earlier. Nor wonder about what could have happened had they not been interrupted. Damn it, he wasn’t going to fuck a virgin. Hell, she shouldn’t still be a virgin. It was all wrong.

“What do you know about hybrids?” The question was out before Zane even knew he was going to ask it.

“I suppose you’re not talking about cars.”

Zane shot him a get-real look.

“You’re not the only one with a sense of humor,” Drake chuckled.

Zane rolled his eyes. God damn it, why did Drake have to be the only psychiatrist in the city? Well, the only vampire-psychiatrist anyway.

“Hybrids are the product of a male vampire and his blood-bonded human mate, or, in other cases, the children of hybrids.”

With an impatient jerk, Zane sat up. “Even I know that much.”

“Then maybe you’d like to rephrase your question and be a bit more specific about what you want to know.” The doctor sat down in the armchair opposite the coffin-couch.

Zane shifted on his seat. Heck, maybe he should forget the whole thing. It wasn’t his business. It would be smarter to stay out of it. But his damn mouth had its own motor. “Is there a reason why a parent wouldn’t want a hybrid female to lose her virginity before her body attained its final form?”

“What?”

“I thought you weren’t deaf!”

“Oh, I heard you loud and clear. I’m simply stunned by your question.”

“Well?”

Drake steepled his fingers. “I’m assuming you refer to the fact that her hymen will still be in place at her final turning?” He acknowledged Zane’s nod before he continued, “Frankly, it makes no sense. Only a masochist would do that to somebody. How old is the hybrid in question?”

Zane stiffened. “It was a hypothetical question, doc.”

Drake frowned. “How old is your hypothetical hybrid?”

“A few weeks short of her twenty-first birthday.”

“I suggest that you take her mother aside and inform her of the implications.”

“Her mother is dead.”

“Her father then.”

“He keeps her practically imprisoned so she won’t meet any men.”

“So you think this is deliberate?”

“What else can it be?” The instructions Scanguards had received from Portia’s father had been crystal clear: keep her away from boys.

Drake contemplated the question. “Why is it that you’re so interested in this hybrid?”

Zane jumped to his feet. “I’m not interested.” Ah, hell, not even he believed that crock of shit.

“Hmm. Could have fooled me.”

Zane ignored Drake’s comment as another thought crossed his mind. “Can’t a hymen be removed by other means than sex?”

“No”

Zane blinked. Was he really sitting in the psychiatrist’s office discussing sex organs with him? He must have gone off the deep end without noticing.

“But ... I’ve heard that even in humans a hymen can easily be broken by vigorous physical activity. So couldn’t she have already torn her hymen herself?” He’d seen her jump out of the window and run like she was being chased by a pack of wolves. Wasn’t that considered vigorous physical activity?

Drake raised an eyebrow.

“So I watch the Discovery Channel. Sue me!” Zane scoffed.

Drake cleared his throat. “To get back to your question, sadly, the answer is ‘no’. A hybrid’s hymen isn’t susceptible to such permanent injury. Yes, it can be torn, but it will repair itself during her restorative sleep. Not even finger-fucking her, excuse the crude words, would rip it permanently. Only full intercourse assures that the hymen is destroyed and won’t repair itself.”

Drake moved forward on his chair. “It takes a flesh and blood penis and live semen to dissolve the hymen in its entirety. There is no other way. I guess, somehow our creator wanted to make sure we continued procreating.” He shrugged. “What do I know?”

Zane swallowed. “So that leaves sex.”

Sweaty, passionate, heart-stopping sex with Portia.

Chapter Fourteen

After leaving Drake’s office, Zane rode back to Portia’s house on the back of Eddie’s motorcycle, still contemplating the doctor’s words and not at all in the mood to talk. Luckily, when he reached the house, Thomas informed him that Portia had gone to bed. At least he wouldn’t have to face her right now when he was too conflicted about what to do next.

He was glad when Oliver showed up shortly before sunrise to relieve him.

“Can you come an hour and a half before sunrise tomorrow?” Zane asked the human.

“What for?”

“I have to see Samson about something.”

“Sure. Not a problem.”

“Thanks, buddy.” He slapped Oliver on the shoulder and stalked out into the dark.

On the way home, Zane fed off a street person he found sleeping in a doorway and almost gagged on the man’s blood. After having tasted that tiny drop of Portia’s blood, everything else now tasted like battery acid. Shit, he’d really screwed himself, hadn’t he? While he’d never much cared where his next meal came from as long as it was dripping from a pulsing vein, his taste had just become more refined.

He’d been a McDonalds kind of guy; now he’d suddenly acquired a taste for 3-star Michelin food. Perfect!

When he got home, Quinn took his mind off the disturbing thought.

“You’re not going to believe this.”