I hear a moan, deep and full of despair. It takes me a moment to realize it's my own voice, my own despair. I'm still shaking. I can't even hold myself upright, but slump against David's side, my arms around him, my face pressed against his. How could this have happened? How could I have let this happen?
How could Avery do this to me?
It is at that moment that I feel it.
A slight movement in my arms, a turn of the head, a shallow intake of breath.
I fear it's my imagination. I pull back, put my ear to his chest. Listen.
A faint heartbeat.
He's not dead.
Ripping at the carpet, I pull it away, ease the constriction around his chest. He moans a little, but his eyes remain shut, his breathing labored. I hold his head in my hands and shake it gently from side to side.
"Come on David. Open those beautiful eyes. Talk to me."
There's no response. He's deep in some sort of coma. Drug induced maybe. Or-
I move his head slightly. I find what I expect. Avery has fed from David.
There are two marks at his jugular. Not small pinpricks like Dena's, but ugly, gaping wounds made by someone in a feeding frenzy.
Someone not caring that he's leaving marks because he knows his victim will never be found.
Avery has fed from David.
Anger, like a scalding iron, burns so deep in my gut I have to force it back and out of my thoughts. Revenge will come later. First and foremost, I must get David to safety. With a jolt, I realize I know nothing about how feeding affects the human physiology. Will David recover on his own? Does he need a transfusion? Can I risk taking him to a hospital?
I don't have the answer to any of those questions. The only person I could ask is the last person I can. Gathering David in my arms, I lift him like a doll and carry him up the stairs. I lay him out on Avery's bed and return to the room. Rolling the carpet back up, I prop it against the wall the way I found it. If Avery should return while I'm gone, at first glance the room will look just as he left it.
Then I set about putting the bookcase in order. I have no idea how the books were arranged, stupid of me not to have noticed, but Avery is an organized man and I have to imagine he would sort his books by topic. I re-shelve the medical books together, then fiction, then general nonfiction. If he asks about it, I'll tell him Dena was dusting in here and I interrupted her before she could finish so I put the books back myself.
Lame. But it's all I can come up with.
Besides, Avery will have more pressing problems to deal with than his disrupted bookcase.
Grimly, I take a last look around the room. The fireplace door is shut, the sconce back in its upright position. I lift David off the bed and take him downstairs and out the kitchen door to the garage. I lay him in the back seat of the Explorer, out of sight under a blanket, and then I realize I've left my purse and cell phone inside.
I'm almost to the back door when I hear a car coming up the driveway. Did Dena forget something when she was here earlier? I shade my eyes from the bright noonday sun and look toward the gate.
But it is not Dena's car approaching. It is Avery's.
My first impulse if to fly at him, to give him no chance to flee or fight back. To tear him apart for what he's done.
But I know I can't do that. At least, not yet. I need to get David help. And there are questions Avery needs to answer.
I gather myself together, calm the wild beating of my heart, obliterate all thoughts of what I've found this morning. He cannot know what I've done.
And so when I go to meet him, I'm smiling. And when he takes me in his arms to kiss me, I kiss him back.
He pulls away after a moment and waves a hand towards the garage. "Were you going out?"
"I was going shopping," I reply without hesitation. Lying seems to have become second nature. "I wanted to get something special for tonight."
He smiles and reaches into the back seat of his car. "I've saved you the trouble." He pulls a long, plastic dress bag from inside and holds it out to me. "I thought this would look lovely on you."
I move the zipper down a little, just enough to see the jeweled top of a designer gown, bright red with tiny straps and a label that reads Badgley Mischka. I look up at Avery. "One of New York's hottest designers. How did you manage that?"
"Not a problem, when you have the right friends," he replies, his eyes sparkling with pleasure.
I drape the bag over my arm. Thank you. Are you coming in?
Avery shakes his head. I wish I could. But I have surgery all afternoon. I just wanted to give you the dress and remind you that I'll send a car for you at eight. We are going to have an evening you'll never forget.
And at that moment, I almost lose it. I almost let him know just how right he is.
But he doesn't pick up on my disquiet, doesn't sense the rage. He's too full of his own pleasure, too self-satisfied. He kisses me again, gets back into his car and pulls away, waving at me and grinning, completely oblivious to the oncoming storm.
When Avery's car disappears from sight, I retrace my steps from the kitchen where I retrieve my purse and phone, to the garage.
David hasn't moved. I make sure he's as comfortable as I can make him before I take the garment bag Avery left with me and lay it out in the area behind the back seat. I want to rip the damned thing to shreds, but I console myself with the thought that I'll do the next best thing. I'll be wearing it when I rip Avery to shreds.
But first-where do I take David? I consider and reject my parent's home, a motel, a hospital. I can't risk the possibility that Avery had me followed the day I went to La Mesa to retrieve my things, or that he's having me followed now. I don't think that's the case.
He seems too sure of me. But he has so many contacts in so many places, any public venue might be a danger. And there are a lot of vampires out there, any one of which might turn me in for a return favor.
Which leaves one other possibility. I can take David back to his own place. Anyone following would think I'm back on the trail.
And if Avery returns and discovers David is gone, I doubt the first place he would think to look for him would be David's own place. Besides, Avery won't have the chance to get to him again. I plan to make sure of that.
And so I bring David home. It's quiet in the garage when I pull in. The guest spaces are close to the elevator, and since it's midday and most of the building's occupants are at work, I manage to get David out of the car and into the elevator without incident. I don't know how I would have explained a one hundred twenty-five-pound woman carrying a two hundred-fifty-pound man like an oversized doll, but luckily, I don't have to. No one else stops the elevator and we shoot right to the top floor.
I use David's keys to get inside. I lay him on the couch, retrieve a blanket and pillow from his bedroom, and try to make him as comfortable as I can. His breathing is still labored, but his heartbeat is strong. I think back to what Avery said in his kitchen yesterday morning. I drain just enough from them to sustain my own life and prolong theirs.
If that's true, how long would it take for a mortal to recover from prolonged feeding? When you give blood, they tell you you must wait 56 days after donating a pint before you can donate again. How many pints has Avery drained from David? He's been at Avery's two days. Somehow, I don't think Avery used caution in his feeding. He planned to kill him, after all.
I rub a hand over my face. I don't know what to do. The best thing would be to get David to a hospital where a transfusion could replace some of his lost blood. But I can't risk it. For all I know there are other doctors like Avery in every hospital who would pick up on David's condition the minute he got there. Once word got out, I might not be able to protect him.
And Avery has connections everywhere, isn't that what he said?
I glance at my watch. It's noon. I have only eight hours to decide what to do.
What else do they tell you when you donate blood? I use to do it quite often, though I imagine that's something else that stops now.
Just what type is a vampire's blood?
I drop down beside David on the end of the couch. Think. They tell you to take it easy. A glance at David's motionless form-not a problem. They tell you to drink plenty of liquids, especially juice and water. A trip to David's refrigerator reveals plenty of both. I take a bottle of water and return, propping him up with an arm while I try to get him to drink. There's no reflex swallowing action, and the water dribbles down his shirtfront.
He's pale and so limp and still. I press my hand against his chest. The heartbeat seems steady, but for how long? I have to get him help.
I'm at the window, staring out at the bay, when a germ of an idea starts to bloom. It's crazy. Risky. Probably stupid.
But it's the only way I can think of to save my friend.
I've going to take him to Beso de la Muerte.
