“Not yet?” Bastien choked out. “She can’t be saved?”
Richart had been right. Not madness. Fear and grief.
Bastien’s hands tightened around the hilts of his swords.
Étienne braced himself to fight the immortal, should he choose to attack the messenger.
“I meant no,” Richart corrected swiftly. “Roland is with her.”
Some of the tension in Bastien’s shoulders eased. The threat seemed to pass.
Étienne risked taking his eyes off the dangerously wound immortal long enough to glance around. He could see several bodies in the distance, shoved up against the wall of the next building behind some shrubs.
“That’s why I was late,” Richart continued. “I met Roland at a halfway point and teleported him the rest of the way.”
Bastien swallowed. “Thank you.”
“What happened here?” Étienne interrupted. Judging by the smell, those bodies were only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. “What did you do?”
“Nothing they didn’t deserve,” Bastien replied darkly.
Étienne remembered Bastien claiming the vampires had had to fear him to follow him. Seeing him now, he had no problem understanding why the vamps had been afraid of their former leader. “How many were there?”
“I lost count.”
“Did you leave none of them alive?”
“Not one.”
“Chris won’t like it.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what Chris does or doesn’t like.” Bastien turned to Richart. “Take me to Melanie.”
Did Chris Reordon know Bastien had a thing for his top researcher? Étienne would think Chris would have limited Bastien’s visits to the network if he had.
“I can’t,” Richart refused bravely. “Not until the cleanup crew arrives.”
“They’ll—”
Richart held up a hand to halt the coming argument. “You’ve left a trail of bodies from here to Fetzer Hall. I don’t want any innocents to stumble upon them and have to be dealt with. We stay until the cleanup crew arrives.”
Jaw clenching, Bastien nodded.
Richart frowned as Bastien staggered backward and leaned against the brick exterior of Peabody Hall. “Are you injured?”
Bastien closed his eyes. “It’s nothing.”
The hum of an engine drew their attention to a chartered bus rumbling up South Columbus Street.
Richart stared. “Chris took you seriously. He actually sent a bus.”
“They’ll need it,” Bastien said, sounding so weary now Étienne began to look for tranquilizer darts. The despised immortal appeared ready to pass out at any moment.
The bus slowed and pulled into the drive between Peabody and Sitterson Hall.
Bastien straightened. “This will go faster if we retrieve the bodies for them.” Wiping his weapons on the cleaner inside of his coat, he sheathed them. “I’ll get the ones on the roofs. You get the ones on the ground.”
As Bastien sped away, Étienne shared a look with Richart.
“Had we gotten here earlier, that would not have gone nearly so well.” Richart nodded at the men stepping off the bus. “It would be best, perhaps, to warn them what they will face.”
Étienne nodded. “I’d encourage them to stay the hell away from Bastien, too.”
Turns out the latter wouldn’t be too difficult.
The humans who had just disembarked yelped and leapt out of the way as two men dressed in Special Ops uniforms plummeted from the sky and hit the pavement beside the bus with a sickening thump.
“Holy shit!” one of them uttered.
Just what Étienne had been thinking.
Bastien’s method of “retrieving” the bodies from the roof apparently entailed scaling the building, grabbing the bodies, and hurling them at the bus.
Richart sighed. “This is going to be a very long night.”
It took the full might of Étienne and his brother to hold Bastien back when they reached the network. Roland had healed Melanie’s wounds, but not before she had lost way too much blood. And not before her heart had stopped beating.
The doctors and nurses at the network were still with her, giving her blood, monitoring her vitals, and praying the cerebral hypoxia that resulted from cardiac arrest had not injured her brain. Before leaving, Roland had told Étienne that brain damage was difficult to detect and harder to heal. Only Seth and David could do it, and some damage exceeded even their abilities.
Bastien was beside himself.
Chris adamantly refused to allow the volatile immortal in the OR.
One of Dr. Lipton’s colleagues—Linda—convinced Chris to let Bastien wait in Cliff ’s apartment with both Cliff and Joe for company. Chris would have vetoed that, too, if he hadn’t had two immortals (and didn’t Étienne feel so lucky to be one of them) on hand to guard the vamps and their former leader.
Étienne stood just inside the door of Cliff’s apartment. Richart had taken Cliff up on the offer of a chair and sat nearby.
Bastien sat on a sofa they’d had to retrieve from Joe’s apartment because Bastien and Cliff had evidently obliterated all of Cliff’s furniture earlier.
The vampires, Cliff and Joe, sat on either side of him. All three leaned forward, elbows on their knees. Bastien dropped his head into his hands, his usual bite me attitude gone.
Cliff, the young African-American vampire, absently twisted his short dreadlocks, not giving the Frenchmen much thought, his concern all for his former leader.
Joe, the vampire on Bastien’s other side, glared at the “intruders,” blue eyes glowing faintly, unkempt blond hair a mass of uncounterfeited bedhead. Of the two vamps, this was the one to watch. Étienne didn’t have to delve too deeply into Joe’s thoughts to know Joe was fighting tooth and nail to keep the madness at bay. And he was losing the battle.
This was Étienne’s first encounter with the vampires . . . if one omitted the night they had surrendered to Seth. Or been captured, as Joe’s burgeoning madness now convinced him.
Étienne kept his eyes on Joe, his hands resting loosely on the hilts of his weapons.
His mind he devoted to listening to Bastien’s mental podcast. And what he heard frankly shocked him. There was much inside that thick skull that Étienne had not expected to see. Or hear.
It pissed him off, because now he was going to have to rethink his opinion of the prick.
I never should have injected myself with the damned antidote.
Bastien kept his ears tuned to Melanie’s heartbeat and monitored the conversations of the men and women who worked on her and watched over her.
Roland had come and gone. Melanie’s wounds had been healed. Her chest was once more pristine. But she wasn’t conscious. And Roland had been unable to determine if she had suffered brain damage when her heart had ceased pumping oxygen to her brain before his arrival.
If I hadn’t injected myself with the damned antidote, she wouldn’t have felt the need to monitor me.
Bastien’s heart clenched when he heard Linda sniff back tears in the OR.
He should have made Richart teleport Melanie back here at the first sign of trouble. Or should have at least had Richart teleport her back up to the library’s roof when she had hitched a ride down with them. Then she wouldn’t have been in the direct line of fire.
Hell, he should have just stayed away from her completely tonight.
But they had needed to know if the antidote would work. The immortals needed that in their arsenal if they were going to defeat Emrys and his mercenaries.
Melanie had been too afraid to test it on any of the others, so he hadn’t seen any other option. No one would have missed Bastien if it had killed him. And Melanie had been stressing over not being able to tell anyone she might have found the answer.
He combed his fingers through his hair, rubbed eyes that felt as though someone had thrown sand into them.
Once he had tested the damned drug, he should have left before she could insist on hunting with him or before Seth could back her. Reordon wouldn’t have stopped him. Bastien would’ve been the one in danger. Reordon would love to see him perish. And if he destroyed himself, so much the better.
As long as Richart hadn’t known where Bastien was, he couldn’t have teleported Melanie to him. Seth wasn’t omniscient. He didn’t know where everyone was all of the time. Bastien could have just laid low for twenty-four hours, dropped by the network so Melanie could see he was okay and that the drug had no lingering side effects, then gone on with the hunting and recruiting.
Then she wouldn’t be lying in there on a fucking table . . . possibly . . .
His throat thickened.
Every time he had come to see Cliff and Joe she had greeted him with a smile.
He combed his fingers through his hair. She was the reason he was able to visit Cliff and Joe as often as he did.
He remembered the first time he had seen her.
Bodies had littered the floor between them, broken but still breathing.
She had been down on the floor, arms covering her head protectively as she waited for the violence to end. Then her arms had fallen away, she had raised her head, and . . .
It had been like the sappiest chick flick ever made where the hero looked at the heroine and shit went all slow motion because she was The One and he knew it. The thump of his boots hitting the industrial-strength vinyl flooring had echoed through the hallway as he had approached her.
She had stood her ground, beautiful brown eyes wide.
The woman had courage. A lot of it.
He had crowded her intentionally as she had let him into Vincent’s room, wanting to touch her and feel her emotions. Sure there had been fear. Concern for the guards he had taken down. But she had not feared him so much as she had the situation.
And once he had seen Vincent . . .
He didn’t know why, but her being there had helped him through that.
Don’t tell them you called me, he had advised her. You don’t want to be linked to me in any way. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all. I threatened you and forced you to open the door for me. You feared for your life.