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  She refocused on Butch and thought about his wounds. "You weren't in a car accident, were you?"

  He closed his eyes. "I'm very tired."

  As he shut her out, she sat on the bare floor and clasped her arms around her knees. Havers had wanted to bring things in like a cot or a comfortable chair, but she'd been concerned that if Butch's vitals crashed again, the medical staff wouldn't be able to get the necessary equipment to the bedside fast enough. Her brother hadn't disagreed.

  After God only knew how many days of this, her back was stiff and her eyelids were like sandpaper, but she hadn't felt tired when she'd been fighting to keep Butch alive. Hell, she hadn't even noticed the passage of time, had always been surprised when food was brought in or the nurses or Havers came. Or Vishous arrived.

  So far, she wasn't sick. Well, she had felt ill before Vishous stopped by for the first time. But ever since he'd started doing whatever he did with that hand of his, she'd been fine.

  Marissa glanced up to the hospital bed. She was still curious why Vishous had called her to this room. Surely that warrior's hand was doing more good than she was.

  As the machines beeped softly and the air blower came on up in the ceiling, her eyes drifted down the length of Butch's still body. A flush hit her face as she thought of what was underneath the covers.

  She knew what every inch of him looked like now.

  His skin was smooth over all his muscle and he was tattooed on the small of his back with black ink—a series of lines grouped in fours with each bundle carrying a slash that ran at an angle. Twenty-five of them, if she added correctly, some having faded, as if made years ago. She wondered what they commemorated.

  As for the front of him, the dusting of dark hair across his pectorals had been a surprise, as she hadn't known humans weren't bare-skinned as her kind were. He didn't have a lot of hair on his chest, though, and it narrowed quickly, becoming a thin line under his belly button.

  And then… She was ashamed of herself, but she'd looked at his male sex. The hair at the juncture of his legs was dark and very dense, and from the midst, he had a thick stalk of flesh almost as wide as her wrist. What was below was a heavy, potent sack.

  He was the first male she'd ever seen naked and the nudes from Art History just weren't the same as the real thing. He was beautifully made. Fascinating.

  She let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling. How unattractive was it that she'd invaded his privacy? And how unattractive that her body stirred just remembering?

  God, how much longer now before she could get out of here?

  She absently fingered the fine fabric of her gown and tilted her head so she could look at the fall of pale blue chiffon. The lovely creation by Narciso Rodriguez should have been utterly comfortable, but her corset, which she wore always as was proper, was really starting to bug the hell out of her. The thing was, though, she wanted to look nice for Butch, even though he wouldn't care and not because he was ill. He just wasn't attracted to her anymore. Didn't want her around, either.

  Still, she would continue to dress well when fresh clothes were brought in.

  Pity that what she wore here had to go into the incinerator. What a shame to burn all those dresses.

  Chapter Nine

  That pale-haired fucker was back, Van Dean thought as he glanced through thick chicken-wire fencing.

  Third week in a row the guy'd come to Caldwell's fight underground. Against the cheering crowd around the fight cage he stood out like a neon sign, although Van wasn't clear exactly why.

  As a knee made contact with his side, he refocused on what he was doing. Drawing back his bare fist, he snapped his arm out and connected with his opponent's face. Blood exploded from the guy's nose, a starburst of red that landed on the mat right before the man's body did.

  Van planted his feet and stared down at his opponent, drops of his sweat landing on the guy's abs. There was no referee to stop Van from throwing more head punches. No rules to keep him from kicking this side of beef in the kidneys until the bastard needed dialysis for the rest of his life. And if there was even one twitch from that human throw rug, Van was going to let loose.

  Bringing death with his bare hands was what the special part of him wanted to do, what the special part of him craved to do. Van had always been different, not just from his opponents but from everyone else he'd ever met: the seat of his soul was that of not merely a fighter but a warrior of the Roman kind. He wished he lived back in the times when you eviscerated your opponent when he fell before you… then you found his home and raped his wife and slaughtered his children. And after you looted his shit, you burned whatever was left down to the ground.

  But he lived in the here and now. And there was another complication of late. The body holding in this special part was starting to age on him. His shoulder was killing him and so were his knees, though he made sure no one knew it, in or out of the fight cage.

  Extending his arm to the side, he heard a pop and hid a wince. Meanwhile, the crowd of fifty roared and rattled the ten-foot-high chain-link fence. God, the fans loved him. Called him by his name. Wanted to see more of him.

  They were largely irrelevant to his special part, though.

  In the midst of the peanut gallery, he met the stare of the pale-haired man. Man, those were some freaky eyes. Flat. No glow of life in them. And the guy wasn't cheering either.

  Whatever.

  Van nudged his opponent with his bare foot. The guy groaned but didn't open his eyes. Game over.

  The fifty or so men around the cage went apeshit with approval.

  Van sprang up to the lip of the fence and swung his two-hundred-pound body over the top. As he landed, the crowd roared louder but backed out of his path. When one of them had gotten in his way last week, flyboy had ended up spitting out a tooth.

  The fighting "arena," such as it was, was in an abandoned underground parking garage, and the owner of the concrete wasteland brokered the matches. The whole thing was shady by def, with Van and his opponents nothing more than the human equivalent of fighting cocks. The pay was good, however, and so far there hadn't been any busts—although that was always an issue. Between the blood and the betting, the CPD badges wouldn't have been into the scene at all, so it was a private-membership-club kind of thing, and if you squealed you got tossed. Literally. The owner had a six-pack of thugs who kept shit in line.

  Van went over to the money man, got his five hundred bucks and his jacket, then headed for his truck. His Hanes undershirt was bloodstained, but he didn't care. What he was worried about was his aching joints. And that left shoulder.

  Fuck. Every week it seemed like it was taking more and more out of him to serve his special part and put the guys on the ground. Then again, he was getting up there. Thirty-nine was denture time in the fight world.

  "Why did you stop?"

  As he came up to his truck, Van looked into his driver's side windshield. He was not surprised that the pale-haired man had come after him. "I don't answer to fans, buddy."

  "I'm not a fan."

  Their eyes stayed locked together on the flat surface of the glass. "Then why you been coming to my fights so much?"

  "Because I have a proposition for you."

  "I don't want a manager."

  "I'm not one of those either."

  Van looked over his shoulder. The guy was big and carried himself like a fighter, all jacked shoulders and loose arms. Iron-pan hands on this one, the kind that could crank into a fist as big as a bowling ball.

  So that was the deal, huh. "You want to get into the ring with me, you arrange it over there." He pointed to the money man.

  "Not after that either."

  Van turned around, thinking the twenty-questions thing was for shit. "So what do you want?"

  "First I have to know why you stopped."

  "He was down."

  Annoyance flashed over the guy's face. "So."

  "You know what? You're beginning to piss me off."

 
; "Fine. I'm looking for a man who fits your description."

  Oh, that narrowed the field. Busted nose in a regular joe face with a military haircut. Snooze. "Lotta men look like me."

  Well, except for his right hand.

  "Tell me something," the guy asked, "did you have your appendix removed?"

  Van narrowed his eyes and put his truck's keys back in his pocket. "One of two things are about to happen and you get to pick. You walk away and I get into my ride. Or you keep talking and shit goes down. Your choice."

  The pale man got in close. Jesus, he smelled funny. Like… baby powder?

  "Don't threaten me, boy." The voice was low and the body that backed up the words was coiled for action.

  Well, well, well… what do you know. A real contender.

  Van pushed his face even closer. "Then get to your fucking point."

  "Appendix?"

  "Not anymore."

  The man smiled. Eased back. "How would you like a job?"

  "I have one. And this."

  "Construction. Knocking strangers around for cash."

  "Honest work, both of them. And just how long have you been nosing around my biz?"

  "Long enough." The guy stuck out his hand. "Joseph Xavier."

  Van let that palm hang out there. "Not interested in meeting you, Joe."

  "That's Mr. Xavier to you, son. And surely you wouldn't mind listening to a proposition."

  Van cocked his head to the side. "You know something, I'm a lot like a whore. I like to get paid by jerkoffs. So how about you palm me a benji, Joe, then we'll see about your proposition."

  As the man just stared, Van felt an unexpected shot of fear. Man, something about this guy was not right.

  The bastard's voice was even lower as he spoke. "Say my name properly first, son."

  Whatever. For a hundred bucks, he'd flap his gums even for a freak like this. "Xavier."

  "That's Mr. Xavier." The guy smiled like a predator, all teeth, no jolly. "Say it, son."

  Some unknown impulse had Van opening his mouth.

  Right before he let the words fly, he had a vivid memory of when he'd been sixteen years old and had taken a dive into the Hudson River. In midair, he'd seen the massive underwater stone he was going to hit and knew there would be no change in course. Sure enough, his head had made contact as if the collision had been preordained, as if there had been an invisible string around his neck and the rock had pulled him home. But it hadn't been a bad thing, at least not right away. Immediately after the crack of impact, there had been a floating, a sweet, satisfied calm, as if destiny had been fulfilled. And he'd known instinctively that the sensation was a forerunner of death.

  Funny, he had that same spacy disorientation now. And the same sense that this man with the paper-white skin was like death: inevitable and fated—and coming specifically for him.

  "Mr. Xavier," Van whispered.

  When the hundred-dollar bill appeared in front of him, he reached forward with his four-fingered hand and took it.

  But he knew he would have listened without the cash.

  Hours later, Butch rolled over and the first thing he did was look for Marissa.

  He found her sitting in the corner of the room, a book open next to her. Her eyes weren't on the pages, though. She was staring at the pale linoleum tiles, tracing the pattern of flecks with one long, perfect finger.

  She looked achingly sad and so beautiful that his eyes stung. God, the idea he could infect her or endanger her in any way made him want to slit his own throat.

  "I wish you hadn't come in here," he croaked. As she winced, he thought about his choice of words. "What I mean is—"

  "I know what you mean." Her voice hardened. "Are you hungry?"

  "Yeah." He struggled to push himself up. "But I'd really like a shower."

  She got to her feet, rising like mist she was so graceful, and his breath caught as she walked to him. Man, that pale blue dress was the exact color of her eyes.

  "Let me help you to the bath."

  "No, I can do it."

  She crossed her arms over her chest. "If you try to get to the bathroom on your own, you will fall and you will hurt yourself."

  "Call a nurse, then. I don't want you to touch me."

  She stared at him for a moment. Then blinked her eyes once. Twice.

  "Will you excuse me for a moment?" she said in a level tone. "I need to use the lavatory. You can call the nurse by pushing that red button on the remote there."

  She went into the bathroom and shut the door. Water started to run.

  Butch reached for the little button pad, but stopped as the rush of the sink continued to bleed through the door. The sound was uninterrupted, not as if someone was washing their hands or their face or filling a glass.

  And it continued, on and on.

  With a grunt, he shuffled off the bed and stood up, hanging himself on the IV pole until the thing shook from the effort of keeping him upright. He put one foot in front of the other until he got to the bathroom door. He pressed his ear against the wood. All he could hear was water.

  For some reason, he knocked softly. Then knocked again. He gave it one more shot, then turned the knob, even though he would embarrass the hell out of them both if she was using the facilities—

  Marissa was on the toilet, as it turned out. But the seat was down.

  And she was weeping. Shaking and weeping.

  "Oh… Jesus, Marissa."

  She let out a shriek, as if he were the last thing on the planet she wanted to see. "Get out!"

  He lurched in and sank to his knees in front of her. "Marissa…"

  Burying her face in her hands, she snapped, "I would like some privacy, if you don't mind."

  He reached over and shut the water off. As the basin emptied with a little gurgle, her muffled breathing took over where the sound of the faucet had left off.

  "It's all right," he said. "You'll leave soon. You'll get out—"

  "Shut up!" She dropped her hands long enough to glare at him. "Just go back to bed and call the nurse if you haven't already."

  He sat back on his heels, woozy but determined. "I'm sorry you got trapped with me."

  "I bet you are."

  He frowned. "Marissa—"

  The sound of the air lock being broken cut him off.

  "Cop?" V's voice was unmuffled by protective gear.

  "Hold up," Butch called out. Marissa didn't need more of an audience.

  "Where are you, cop? Something wrong?"

  Butch meant to stand up. He really did. But when he grabbed onto the IV pole and pulled, his body gave out, just went right to rubber on him. Marissa tried to grab him, but he slid from her grasp, ending up sprawled on the bathroom tile, his cheek next to the seal around the toilet base. Dimly, he heard Marissa talking in urgent bursts. Then V's goatee came into his line of sight.

  Butch looked at his roommate… and shit, his vision got blurry, he was so happy to see the bastard. Vishous's face was just the same, the dark bearding around his mouth right where it should be, the tattoos on the temple unchanged, those diamond-bright irises still glowing. Familiar, so familiar. Home and family wrapped up in a vampire package.

  Butch didn't let any tears fall, though. He was already hopelessly incapacitated next to a toilet, for chrissakes. Sapping out would be the cap to this gown of shame he'd pulled on.

  Blinking fiercely, he said, "Where's your fucking gear, man? You know, the yellow suit."

  V smiled, his eyes a little shiny as if he too were choked up. "Don't worry, I'm covered. So, I guess you're back, true?"

  "And ready to rock and roll."

  "Really."

  "For sure. I'm thinking about a future in contracting. Wanted to see how this bathroom was put together. Excellent tile work. You should check it."

  "How about I carry you back to bed?"

  "I want to look at the sink pipes next."

  Respect and affection clearly drove V's cool smirk. "At least let me help you up.
"

  "Nah, I can do it." With a groan, Butch gave the vertical move a shot, but then eased back down onto the tile. Turned out lifting his head was a little overwhelming. But if they left him here long enough—a week, maybe ten days?

  "Come on, cop. Cry uncle here and let me help."

  Butch was suddenly too tired to front. As he went totally limp, he was aware of Marissa staring at him and thought, man, could he look any weaker? Shit, the only saving grace was that there wasn't a cold breeze on his butt.

  Which suggested the hospital gown had stayed closed. Thank you, God.

  V's thick arms tunneled under him and then he was lifted easily. As they went forward, he refused to let his head rest on his friend's shoulder, even though it gave him the sweats to keep the thing upright. When he was back on the bed, shivers racked his whole body and the room spun.

  Before V straightened, Butch grabbed the male's arm and whispered, "I need to talk to you. Alone."

  "What's doing?" V said with equal quiet.

  Butch looked over at Marissa, who was hovering in the corner.

  With a flush, she glanced at the bathroom, then picked up two large paper bags. "I think I'll take a shower. Will you excuse me?" She didn't wait for a response, just disappeared into the loo.

  As the door shut, V sat on the edge of the bed. "Talk to me."

  "What kind of danger is she in?"

  "I've taken care of her and three days in, she seems fine. She can probably leave soon. We're all pretty convinced by now there's no cross-infection thing going on."

  "What's she been exposed to? What was I exposed to?"

  "You know you were with the lessers, true?"

  Butch lifted one of his busted-up hands. "And here I thought I'd been to Elizabeth Arden."

  "Smart-ass. You were there about a day—"

  Abruptly, he grabbed V's arm. "I didn't crack. No matter what they did to me, I didn't say a thing about the Brotherhood. I swear."