43
EDWARD CAME IN the door before it had time to swing closed. He was wearing one of those short-sleeved shirts with little pockets on the front. If it had been tan, I'd have said he looked dressed for a safari, but the shirt was black. So were his freshly pressed jeans, the belt that encircled his narrow waist, down to the black-over belt buckle, so it wouldn't shine in the dark and give you away. The belt buckle matched the shoulder holster and gun that outlined his chest. There was a line of white undershirt at the open neck of the shirt, but other than that it was unrelieved blackness. It made his hair and eyes look even paler. It was the first time I'd seen him without the cowboy hat out of doors since I arrived.
"If you're dressed for my funeral, it's too casual. If it's just street clothes, then you must be scaring the tourists."
"You're alive. Good," he said.
I gave him a look. "Very funny."
"I wasn't being funny."
We looked at each other. "Why so serious, Edward? I asked the doc, and he said there hadn't been any more murders."
He shook his head and came to stand at the foot of the bed, near the makeshift altar. I ended up looking down the length of the bed at him, and it was awkward. I found the button controls with my right hand and raised the head of the bed slowly. I'd been in enough hospital beds to know where everything was.
"No, there haven't been any more murders," he said.
"Then what's with the long face?" I was paying attention to my body while the bed raised, waiting for it to hurt. I ached all over, which you tend to do after being thrown into walls. My chest hurt, and it wasn't just the burns. I stopped when I was sitting up enough to see him without straining.
He gave a very small smile. "You nearly die, and you ask what's wrong?"
I raised eyebrows at him. "I didn't know you cared."
"More than I should."
I didn't know what to say to that, but I tried. "Does this mean you won't kill me just for sport?"
He blinked, and the emotion was gone. Edward was standing there staring at me, his usual amused blankness showing on his face. "You know I only kill for money."
"Bullshit," I said. "I've seen you kill people when you weren't getting a paycheck."
"Only when I'm with you."
I'd tried to play it tough and guylike. He wasn't having any of it. I tried for honesty next. "You look tired, Edward."
He nodded. "I am."
"If there haven't been any more murders, why do you look so beat?"
"Bernardo only got out of the hospital yesterday."
I raised eyebrows at him "How bad was he hurt?"
"Broken arm, concussion. He'll heal."
"Good," I said.
There was still an air to him of strangeness, more than normal Edward strangeness, as if there was more to tell and he didn't want to tell it. "Drop the other shoe, Edward."
His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Tell me what's got you all bothered."
"I tried to see Nicky Baco without you or Bernardo."
"Bernardo tell you about the meet?" I asked.
"No, your detective friend, Ramirez, told me."
That surprised me. "Last time I talked to him, he was sort of insisting that he go along with me to meet Baco."
"He still wanted to come along, but Baco wouldn't see any of us. He insisted that you and Bernardo, or at least you, had to be there."
"You're not upset just because Nicky wouldn't dance with you," I said. "Just tell me."
"Do you really need Baco, Anita?"
"Why?"
"Just answer the question." I knew Edward well enough to know he meant it. I answered his question or he wouldn't answer mine.
"Yeah, I need him. He's a necromancer, Edward, and whatever this thing is, it is just a form of necromancy."
"But you're a better necromancer than he is, stronger."
"Maybe, but I don't know much about ritual necromancy. What I do is actually closer to voodoo than traditional necromancy."
He gave a dim smile, shaking his head. "And what exactly is traditional necromancy, and how are you so sure that Baco practices it?"
"If he was an animator, I'd have heard of him. There just aren't that many of us. So he doesn't raise zombies. But you and everyone else in the metaphysical community in and around Santa Fe say that Baco works with the dead."
"I only know his reputation, Anita. I've never seen him do shit."
"Fine, but I've met him. He doesn't do vaudun, voodoo. I've seen that enough to know the trappings and the feel of it. So if he's not a zombie raiser or a vaudun priest, and people still call him a necromancer, then he must do ritual necromancy."
"Which is?" Edward said.
"To my knowledge it's raising the spirits of the dead for sort of divination purposes or to get questions answered."
Edward shook his head. "Whatever Baco does, it has to be worse than raising a few ghosts. People are scared of him."
"Nice of you to mention that before I met him the first time,"' I said.
He took a deep breath, hands on hips, not looking at me. "I was careless."
I looked at him. "You're a lot of things, Edward. Careless isn't one of them."
He nodded and looked up at me. "How about competitive?"
I frowned at him, but said, "Competitive, I'll give you. But what does that have to do with Baco?"
"I knew that his bar was the hangout for the local werewolves."
I stared at him, just stared at him. When I closed my mouth, I said, "You competitive shit. You let Bernardo and me walk in there unprepared. You could have gotten us killed."
"You're not even going to ask why I let you walk in blind?" he asked,
"Let me take a wild guess. You wanted to see how I'd handle it cold, maybe how Bernardo would handle it, or maybe both."
He nodded.
"Fuck, Edward. This isn't a game."
"I know that."
"No you don't. You've been keeping things from me from the moment I stepped off the plane. You keep testing my nerve to see if it's better than yours. It is so junior high, so damned ... " I struggled to find the right word " ... such a guy thing to do."
"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was soft.
The apology stopped me, drained some of the righteous indignation. "I've never heard you apologize for anything, Edward, not to anyone."
"It's been a long time since I said I was sorry to anyone."
"Does this mean the games are over, and you'll quit trying to see who is the biggest, baddest person?"
He nodded. "That's what it means."
I lay there and looked at him. "Is it just being with Donna, or is something else starting to open you up?"
"What do you mean?"
"If you don't stop all this sentimental shit, I'll begin to think you're just a mere mortal like the rest of us."
He smiled. "Speaking of immortals," he said.
"We weren't," I said.
"I'm changing the subject," he said.
"Okay."
"If this monster really is an Aztec boogey-man, then it is a hell of a coincidence that the Master of the City, who just happens to be an Aztec, doesn't know anything about it."
"We talked to her, Edward."
"Do you think a vamp, even a master vamp, could do all the things we've been seeing?"
I thought about it, but finally said, "Not just from vampiric powers, no, but if she were some kind of Aztec sorcerer in life, she might retain her powers after death. I just don't know that much about Aztec magic. It doesn't come up a lot. She was different from any vampire I've ever met. It could mean that she was a sorcerer in life."
"I think you need to see her again."
"And what, ask her if she's involved in the murder and mutilation of some twenty people?"
He grinned. "Something like that."
I nodded. "Okay. When I get out of the hospital, a visit to vampire central goes up to the head of my list."
His face went very blank.
"What is it, Edward?"
"Do you really need Baco?" he said.
"I sensed this thing the first night I arrived or first day. It sensed me right back, and it shielded itself. I haven't picked it up that strongly since, and I've driven past the spot where I felt it. Baco can sense it, too, and he's afraid of it. So yeah, I want to talk to him."
"You don't think he's behind it?"
"I've felt this thing's power. Baco is powerful, but he's not that powerful. Whatever this thing is, it's not human."
He sighed. "Fine." He said it like he'd made a decision. "Baco says you have to meet him before ten this morning or don't bother coming."
I searched the room until I found the clock on the wall. It was eight. "Shit," I said.
"The doc says you need at least another twenty-four hours in here. Leonora Evans that if the monster tries for you again, you won't make it."
"You have a point to make," I said.
"I almost didn't tell you."
I was beginning to get pissed. "I don't need you to protect me, Edward. I thought you of all people knew better than that."
"Are you sure you're up to it?"
I almost just said yes, but I was so tired. It was a bone weariness that had nothing to do with lack of sleep. I was hurt, and it went beyond the bruises and cuts that I could feel. "No," I said.
He blinked. "You must feel like shit to admit that."
"I've felt better, but something's scaring Baco. If he says meet before ten this morning, we meet. Maybe the great bad thing is coming to get him at eleven today. Can't miss that, can we?"
"I've got a bag of fresh clothes out in the hall for you. They cut your shoulder holster off of you in the emergency room, and the spine sheath."
"Shit," I said, "that spine sheath was a custom job."
He shrugged. "You can order a new one." He went to the door, stepped out a moment, then came back in with a small overnight bag. He came around to the side of the bed that Leonora's chair was on. The other side of the bed was a little too crowded with equipment for visitors to stand.
He opened it and started laying out the clothes. His button-down black shirt didn't fit perfectly smoothly around his ribs. He laid out the clothes in neat piles: black jeans, black polo shirt, black socks, even the underwear and bra matched the theme. "What's with the funerary color scheme?"
"The dark blue polo shirt and jeans were trashed. All you had left was black, red, and purple for shirts. We need something dark today, authoritative."
"Why are you in black, then?" I was watching the way the shirt lay when he moved. It wasn't a gun. I didn't think it was knives. What was under his shirt?
"White shows blood."
"What's under your shirt, Edward?"
He smiled and unbuttoned the middle buttons. He had what looked like a modified belly band holster strapped across his upper body. But it wasn't a gun. It was metal pieces, too big to be ammo, and too oddly shaped on the end I could see. They looked like teeny-tiny metal darts ... "Are those some sort of itty-bitty throwing knife?"
He nodded. "Bernardo said that if you took out an eye the flayed ones didn't like it."
"I poked out eyes on them twice, and each time it seemed to hurt and disorient them. Truthfully, I didn't think Bernardo noticed what I was doing."
He smiled and started buttoning his shirt up. "You shouldn't underestimate him."
"Could you really hit an eye throwing one of those things?" He slipped one out of its little holster and threw it into the wall in one flick of his hand. He pierced one of the tiny designs on the wallpaper across the room.
"I can't hit shit with something like that."
He retrieved it from the wall and replaced it on his chest, and walked back to me. "You can even have your very own flamethrower, if you want it."
"Gee, and it isn't even Christmas."
He smiled. "Not Christmas, more like Easter."
I frowned up at him. "I don't get the Easter reference."
"You came back from the dead, or didn't anyone tell you?"
I shook my head. "Tell me what?"
"Your heart stopped three times. Ramirez kept it going with CPR until the doctors got to you. But they lost you twice. You were going down for the third time when Leonora Evans convinced them to let her try and save you with some of that good old time religion."
My heart was suddenly beating too hard, and I could have sworn that the inside of my ribs hurt with each beat. "Are you trying to scare me?"
"No, just explaining the Easter reference. You know, Christ rose from the dead."
"I get it, I get it." I was suddenly scared and angry. I am rarely one without being the other.
"If you still believe in it, I'd light a candle or two," he said.
"I'll think about it," I said, and my voice sounded defensive even to me.
He was smiling again, and I was beginning to distrust his smile almost as much as the rest of him. "Or maybe you should talk to Leonora and ask her who she asked for help to get you back. Maybe it's not a church candle you need to light. Maybe you need to slaughter a few chickens."
"Wiccans do not kill things to raise power."
He shrugged. "Sorry, they don't teach comparative religion or metaphysics in assassin school."
"You've scared me, reminded me how hurt I am, and now you're yanking my chain, teasing me. Do you want me to get up out of this bed and meet Baco or not?"
His face was all serious, the last of the humor draining away like ice melting down a hot plate. "I want you to do whatever you need to do, Anita. I thought I wanted to get this son of a bitch at any price." He touched my right hand where it lay on the sheet. He didn't hold it, just touched it, then pulled away. "I was wrong. Some things I'm not willing to pay."
Before I could think of anything to say, he turned and left. I wasn't sure which was confusing me more: this case, or the new and more emotional Edward. I caught sight of the clock. Shit. I had an hour and forty minutes to get dressed, check out of the hospital against doctor's orders, and drive to Los Duendos. I was betting arguing with Doctor Cunningham was going to take longer than either of the other two.
44
I PRESSED THE BUTTON to slowly raise the bed. The closer I got to a sitting position, the more I hurt. My chest ached as if the muscles around my ribs had been overused. The cuts on my back did not like sitting up and would probably like walking even less. There was a certain tightness to the skin, like a shoe laced too tightly, that said I had stitches on my back. They would be a pain all their own when I insisted on moving. Nothing feels quite like stitches. I wondered how many I had in my back. It felt like a lot.
When I was in a sitting position, I waited for a few seconds listening to my body complain. I usually don't get this hurt until the end of a case. I hadn't even met the great-bad-thing face to face yet. It had nearly killed me from a nice supposedly safe distance.
I let myself think about that for a few minutes. I'd almost died. Seems like I should get a few days of grace before having to crawl back into the trenches. But crime and tide wait for no woman, or something like that. I'll admit I thought about just staying put, just letting someone else be heroic for a change. But the moment I seriously thought it, I flashed on the nursery and those red-splashed cribs. I couldn't just lie here and trust that everyone would muddle through without me. I just couldn't do it.
I had my gown halfway down my arms when I realized I couldn't just yank the sticky pads that connected me to the heart monitor. Just yanking them off would give the hospital staff just a little too much excitement.
I finally pressed the nurse call button. I had to get unplugged from all the drips and machines.
The nurse came almost immediately, which either meant the hospital had more nurses on staff than most hospitals could afford these days, or I was really hurt and they were paying extra attention to me. I was hoping for a surplus of nurses, but wasn't betting on it.
The nurse was shorter than I am, very petite, with blond hair cut short and sort of bouncy. Her professional smile wilted when she saw me sitting up with the gown obviously coming off.
"What are you doing, Ms. Blake?"
"Getting dressed," I said.
She shook her head. "I don't think so."
"Look, I'd prefer help getting all the tubes and wires off me, but it is all coming off because I'm checking out."
"I'll get Doctor Cunningham." She turned and walked out.
"You do that," I said to the empty room. I got a death grip on the little wires that attached to the sticky pads and pulled. It felt like I'd pulled a foot worth of skin off with them, a sharp, grinding ache, like it would hurt to touch the skin. The high pitched scream of the machine let people know my heart was no longer going pitty-pat on the other end of the wires. The sound reminded me uncomfortably of the fire alarm, though it was much less obnoxious.
The pads had left large circular welts on my skin, but they were not nearly as big as they felt. The fact that the welts hurt enough to rise above all the other aches and pains lets you know how raw my skin felt.
Doctor Cunningham came through the door while I was still working on the tape that bound my hand to the IV board. He turned the screaming heart monitor off.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.
"Getting dressed."
"Like hell you are."
I looked up at his enraged face and just didn't have any anger to throw back at him. I was too tired and too hurt to waste energy on anything but the process of getting up and getting out of this bed.
"I have to go, Doctor." I kept picking at the tape and wasn't making much progress. I needed a knife. "Where are my weapons?"
He ignored the question, and asked one of his own. "Where could you possibly need to go badly enough to climb out of this bed?"
"I need to get back to work."
"The police can handle things for a few days, Ms. Blake."
"There are people who will talk to me that won't talk to the police." I'd gotten an edge of tape up.
"Then your friends in the hallway can talk to them." Doctor Cunningham got points for realizing that Edward and company were the kind of men that people who avoided the police might talk to.
"This particular person won't talk to anyone but me." I finally stopped picking at the tape. "Can you please get this off of me?"
He took a breath, to argue, I think, but what he said was, "I'll help you check out if you let me show you something first."
I must have looked as suspicious as I felt, but I nodded.
"I'll be right back," and he left the room. Everyone seemed to be doing that today. He was gone long enough that Edward came in to see what the hold up was. I lifted the taped arm, and he produced a switchblade from his pocket. The blade cut through the tape like paper. Edward always did take good care of his tools.
I was still left with having to peel the tape off my arm, and the IV itself had to come out, mustn't forget that.
"If you want it fast, I'll do it," Edward said.
I nodded, and he ripped the tape off my arm along with the IV. "Ow!"
He smiled. "Sissy."
"Sociopath."
Doctor Cunningham came in carrying a large hand mirror. His gaze flicked to Edward and my now free arm. It was not a friendly look. "If you'll step back for a moment, Mr. Forrester?"
"You're the doctor," Edward said, moving back to the foot of the bed.
"Nice of you to remember that," Doctor Cunningham said. He held the mirror in front of my face.
I looked startled, eyes too wide and so dark they looked black. I'm naturally pale, but my skin was ghost-white, ethereal like flexible ivory. It was what made my eyes look even darker than normal, or maybe it was the bruise.
I'd known my face hurt, and I'd even known why. Being hit hard enough to slam into a wall should leave a mark.
The bruise went up to the edge of my cheek, just under the eye, and catty-corner down to my jaw line just under the ear. My skin was a rainbow of purple-black with a core of red skin with darker red scattered across it. It was one of those really deep bruises that probably hadn't even shown much of a mark for the first day, but it would go through all the color changes once it started. I had shades of green, yellow, and brown to look forward to. If I hadn't had three vampire marks on me, I'd have had at least a broken jaw, or maybe a broken neck.
There were moments when I'd give almost anything to be free of the marks, but staring at the bruise, knowing that I healed faster than normal for a human and it still looked this bad, was not one of them. I was grateful to be alive.
I said a brief silent prayer while I stared at my face. "Thank you, dear God, for me not being dead." Aloud, I said, "Nasty," and handed the mirror to the doctor.
He frowned; obviously it wasn't the reaction he'd wanted. "You've got over forty stitches in your back."
My eyes went wide before I could stop them. "Gee, that's a record even for me."
"This isn't a joke, Ms. Blake."
"It might as well be funny, doctor."
"If you start moving around, you're going to rip the stitches open. Right now, if you're careful, the scars won't be bad, but if you start moving around, you'll scar."
I sighed. "It'll have plenty of company, doctor."
He stood there, shaking his head slowly, face set in harsh lines. "Nothing I can say is going to make any difference, is it?"
"No," I said.
"You're a fool," he said.
"If I stay in here until I'm healed, what am I going to say to myself when I'm staring down at the next round of bodies?"
"Saving the world is not your job, Ms. Blake."
"I'm not that ambitious," I said. "I'm just trying to save a few lives."
"And you truly believe that only you can solve this case?"
"No, but I know that I am the only one that ... this man will talk to." I'd almost said Nicky Baco, but I didn't want Doctor Cunningham calling the police and telling them where we were going. Not that he would do that, but better safe than sorry.
"I told you that I'd check you out if you looked at your injuries. I keep my word."
"I appreciate that in a person, Doctor Cunningham. Thank you."
"Don't thank me, Ms. Blake. Don't thank me." He moved towards the door, giving both the makeshift altar and Edward a medium-wide berth, as if both made him uncomfortable. At the door he turned. "I'll send a nurse in to help you dress because you will need the help." He walked out before I could say thank you again. Probably just as well.
Edward stayed until the nurse arrived. It was a different nurse, tall, light brunette, if that wasn't an oxymoron. Her gaze stayed on my bruised face longer than was politic, and when she helped me slip out of the gown, she gave a low hiss at my back. It was unprofessional and sort of unnurselike. They were usually blankly cheerful to the point of nausea when you were hurt or blunt. Anything to cover that what had happened to you bothered them.
"You'll never be able to wear a bra over the stitches in your back," she said.
I sighed. I hated to go without a bra. It always made me feel underdressed no matter what else I was wearing. "Let's just get the shirt on."
She held it and helped me slip it over my head. Putting my arms up to go through the sleeves made the pain in my back sharp and immediate, as if the skin would pull apart if I moved too quickly. I wondered if that would have been the analogy that I'd chosen if Doctor Cunningham hadn't warned me about the stitches pulling apart. I'd have shrugged if I hadn't been sure it would hurt.
"I normally work in the nursery," the nurse said as she helped me straighten the shirt, buttoning the first two buttons.
I looked up at her, not sure what to say. But I didn't need to worry. She knew exactly what to say. "They called me in after you destroyed the monster. For the ... cleanup." She helped me sit on the edge of the bed. I sat there for a few seconds with my legs dangling off the edge, letting my body adjust to the fact that we were getting dressed, we were going to stand ... in just a second.
"I'm sorry you had to see it," I said, because I had to say something, I wasn't even comfortable with her saying I'd "destroyed" the monster. It made it sound entirely too heroic, and what it had felt like was desperate. Desperation is the true mother of invention, at least for me.
She started to help me into the black panties, but I took them from her hands. If I couldn't even put on my own underwear, I was in serious trouble. And if I was truly that hurt, I needed to know it. It would cut down on my urge to be heroic.
I started to simply bend at the waist, but it just wasn't that easy. I lowered myself downward a little bit at a time, and I was still nowhere near low enough.
"Let me start them up your legs, so you don't have to bend all the way down," the nurse said.
I finally let her, and even pulling them only part way up my body turned my back into one great big hurt. I leaned against the bed when they were on, and didn't even argue when she bent down to put on my socks. She never argued that I was too hurt to be leaving. It was too obvious to argue about it.
"I'd worked with Vicki for two years. It was Meg's first job." Her eyes were dry, wide, and I noticed the dark circles under them like purplish smudges, as if she hadn't slept much in the last three days.
I remembered the body that had blocked the door into the nursery, and the nurse that had been thrown through the window. Vicki and Meg, though I'd probably never know which had been which, not that it mattered. They were dead and didn't care, and the nurse helping me slip into a pair of black jeans looked too fragile for questions. My job was to listen, and make encouraging noises where needed.
I slipped the jeans over my butt without help, buttoned them and zipped them all by myself. Things were looking up. I'd tried tucking the shirt into my pants out of habit, but that required more back movement than I thought.
Besides, untucked, my braless state would be alittle less noticeable. I was really too well endowed to go without, but my modesty wasn't worth the pain, not today.
"Every time I close my eyes, I see the babies." She was kneeling with one of my shoes in her hands, when she looked up. "I keep thinking I should be dreaming about my friends, but I only see the babies, their little bodies, and they cry. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the babies screaming. I wasn't there, and I hear them, every night." The tears were finally there, sliding soundlessly down her face as if she didn't know she was crying. She slid the shoe on my foot and looked down, paying attention to what she was doing.
"See a councilor or a priest or whoever you trust," I said. "You'll need help."
She got my other shoe off the bed, and gazed up at me, the tears drying in tracks down her pale cheeks. "I heard that there's some sort of witch making these corpses, causing them to attack people."
"Not a witch," I said. "What's behind all this isn't human."
She slipped the shoe on me, frowning. "Is it immortal like a vampire?"
I didn't do my usual lecture about how vamps aren't immortal, only hard to kill. She didn't need that particular lecture. "I don't know yet."
She laced my shoe solid, but not too tight, as if she did this regularly. She looked up at me with those strange empty eyes of hers, tear tracks still visible on her face. "If it's not immortal, kill it."
Her face held that absolute trust that is usually reserved for small children or people that are not quite all there. There was no questioning in her shocked eyes, no doubt in that pale face. I answered that trust. Reality could wait until she was ready for it. I said what she needed to hear. "If it can die, I'll kill it."
I said it because she needed to hear it. I said it because after what I'd seen it do, that was the plan. Maybe it had been the plan all along. Knowing Edward it probably had been. He said solve the case when what he usually meant was kill them, kill them all. As a plan, I'd heard worse. As a way of life, it lacked a certain romance. As a way to stay alive, it was just about perfect. As a way to keep your soul intact, it sucked. But I was willing to trade a piece of my soul to stop this thing. And that was perhaps my biggest problem. I was always willing to compromise my soul if it would take out the great evil. But there always seemed to be another great evil coming down the road. No matter how many times I saved the day and took out the monster, there was always another monster, and there always would be. The monster supply was unlimited. I was not. The parts of myself that I was using up to slay the monsters was finite, and once I used it all up, there would be no going back. I'd be Edward in drag. I could save the world and lose myself.
And staring down into the woman's face, watching that perfect faith fill her lost eyes, I wasn't sure the bargain was a good one, but I was sure of one thing. I couldn't say no. I couldn't let the monsters win, not even if it meant becoming one of them. God forgive me if it was arrogance. God protect me if it wasn't. I got up out of bed and went in search of monsters.
