She hadn’t liked it, had tried to protest. But the guards had come and . . .
For days afterward, every time he had returned to the network he had felt her guilt, her regret that she had not stood up for him and defended him, her determination to never make that mistake again. What a balm that had been, soothing the wounds that had plagued him for over two centuries.
He should have ignored it.
He should have avoided visiting the network when he knew she was working instead of scheduling his damned visits so they would coincide with the time she spent with the vampires.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have cared then. Perhaps, like the rest of them, she wouldn’t have given a crap if the drug harmed him and wouldn’t have insisted on monitoring him.
This was all his fault.
“Seth would remind you of free will,” Étienne said from his position by the door.
Bastien drew his hands down his face and straightened. “What?”
The Frenchman looked uncomfortable. “Free will,” he repeated. “Dr. Lipton chose to accompany you of her own free will.”
Richart looked over at his brother. “She insisted, actually.”
Ordinarily, Bastien would have kicked Étienne’s ass for reading thoughts that were none of his business, but he was too damned tired. He hadn’t mentioned it to the others, but he had been tranqed again while bringing Melanie’s shooters to justice.
Étienne swore.
Richart frowned. “What?”
“He’s been tranqed.”
“Damn it!” Bastien snapped. “Stay out of my head!”
Cliff straightened. “You were drugged again?”
“Maybe they did it,” Joe said, his accusing gaze never straying from the twin immortals.
Bastien patted the boy’s shoulder. “It wasn’t them, Joe. It was the soldiers.”
“The network soldiers,” Joe spat.
“No. It was the mercenaries I told you about. The network soldiers are helping us fight them.”
Cliff spoke up again. “You need to have one of the doctors examine you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been dosed three times tonight. First with the tranquilizer. Next with an experimental stimulant Dr. Lipton thought would kill you. Then again with the sedative. You should go see Linda.”
Bastien shook his head.
He didn’t know Linda. He didn’t want to know Linda.
“She’s awake,” Étienne said.
“Linda?” Of course she was. Bastien could hear her weeping.
“No, Isaac Newton. Dr. Lipton. And she’s all right. There’s no brain damage.”
Bastien’s heart began to pound. “How do you know?”
“Because she’s thinking of you.”
Chapter 8
Melanie opened her eyes.
The bland walls of the OR swam into focus. Machines she had used to monitor numerous patients in the past hummed and beeped.
Where was Bastien?
She glanced around.
Linda sat beside her, her nose and cheeks blotchy pink, her eyes red-rimmed. She turned away and pulled a tissue from a box on the bedside tray.
Melanie looked beyond her. Dr. Whetsman stood across the room, his back to her, writing something in a patient file. Two more members of the medical staff bustled about, cleaning up the mess tending . . . her . . . had left behind?
Where was Bastien? Hadn’t they been at UNC together?
Yes. Richart had been there, too. They had taken out a handful of vampires and then . . .
Someone had shot her in the chest.
The little line on one of the machines began to jump up and down faster.
Had mercenaries gotten him? Neither Bastien nor Richart had been aware of the soldiers’ presence prior to them shooting her. Had the soldiers shot the immortals, too? Tranqed them? With none of the antidote on hand to combat the drug’s effects . . .
“Where’s Bastien?”
Linda let out a surprised gasp and spun around. “Lanie?”
“Where is he?”
So much fear darkened her friend’s gaze. “Do you know what day it is?”
“Yes. It’s Friday night. Or Saturday morning, depending on the time.”
“Saturday morning. And the date?”
“It’s the . . .” Hell, what was the date? “The fifteenth.”
“Do you know how old you are?”
“Old enough not to want to voice it.”
Linda burst into watery laughter, then lunged forward and hugged her. “Thank goodness. We were afraid . . .”
“What?”
“You crashed. Your heart stopped and we couldn’t get it going again . . . We bagged you and kept up chest compressions until Roland got here, but we didn’t know what or how much damage may have been done before he arrived and healed you.”
Crap. They had feared she had suffered brain damage? “I’m fine, honey.” She patted Linda’s back. What had happened to—
Shouting erupted in the hallway. Then gunshots. More shouting.
The doors to the OR flew open, one of them knocking the crap out of Dr. Whetsman, who dropped unconscious to the floor.
Linda bolted upright and spun around.
Melanie leaned to one side and looked past her.
Bastien stood just inside the doors, blood spilling from one-two-three-four gunshot wounds in his torso, the gaze he pinned on her frantic.
Richart materialized beside him. “You crazy bastard! I would have teleported you here if you had just given me a chance!”
Bastien didn’t appear to hear him. He crossed to Melanie’s side. His long hair was sticky with congealing blood. His face looked like he had wiped it clean, then dragged his hands through his crimson hair and touched his face, staining it again. His neck was red. His clothes clung to him damply. Everywhere. He looked as if someone had dunked him in a vat of blood.
Linda rose and backed away slowly. She had expressed to Melanie several times concern over Bastien’s trustworthiness.
“Are you . . . all right?” he asked, hands clenching as if he wanted to reach out and touch her but held himself back.
“I’m fine.” Her gaze dropped to his wounds. “Are you?”
He nodded, the tense muscles in his face relaxing into almost a smile. “I’m good.”
She raised one eyebrow. “I heard gunshots.”
“The damned guards posted outside Cliff’s apartment didn’t want to let me pass.”
Étienne appeared in the doorway. “You stupid bastard! Why didn’t you just let Richart teleport you?”
Melanie raised one eyebrow and gave Bastien a slight smile. “Still acting, then thinking?”
He grinned. “What would Reordon’s guards do if I didn’t liven things up around here periodically and keep them on their toes?”
Linda bent and checked on Dr. Whetsman.
“How is he?” Melanie asked.
“He’s fine,” she said and left him on the floor. Neither of them cared much for the man. He was a brilliant physician, but knew it and made damned sure everyone else knew it, too.
When Melanie started to sit up, Bastien slipped an arm around her back to help her.
She would have told him she didn’t require the aid, but she liked it. She positively tingled whenever he touched her. It didn’t even have to be flesh against flesh to start her heart racing.
His eyes began to glow, reminding her he could feel her emotions.
“That really isn’t fair, you know,” she protested, removing the pulse monitor so the spike in her heartbeat wouldn’t be noticed by any of the humans present. Not that many remained. Those who did sidled out of the room as soon as they could manage it.
He shrugged. “True, but since the advantage is mine, you won’t hear me complaining about it.”
She had to laugh as she took stock of her body. Other than suffering a bit of weakness, she felt surprisingly normal. “This is amazing. I can’t believe I was shot in the chest and—what—a couple of hours later feel almost normal.”
“Thrice,” Bastien said, face darkening.
“What?”
“You were shot thrice in the chest.”
Three times? Hell. She only remembered the first one. “How did—”
“Richart brought Roland to you.”
She frowned. “That’s what Linda said, but . . . You mean, the Roland?”
“Yes.”
“Roland Warbrook?”
“Yes.”
“And he just . . . touched me with his hands—”
Bastien’s eyes flared brightly. Was he jealous?
“—and now I’m fine?” she finished.
“We had to give you blood,” Linda threw in.
Bastien nodded. “Roland can heal your wounds, but he can’t replace the blood you lost.”
“Well, technically, he can,” Richart corrected. “He could have transfused you with his own blood, but you lost so much that—had he done so—the virus would have inundated your system and you would have been transformed.”
Knowing she had come so close to dying was frightening.
Her gaze strayed to Bastien’s chest. “Did the soldiers shoot you, too, or are all of those from the guards here?”
“I took a few from the soldiers.”
Étienne drew her attention. “And he was tranqed again.”
She looked at Bastien. “How many times?”
“Three or four. I think.”
He had been unconscious for hours the last time he had been tranqed. Without the antidote . . .
“How long have I been out?” she asked. She shouldn’t have lost a lot of time if Roland healed her swiftly. No wonder Linda had feared she’d suffered brain damage.
“Not long,” Bastien said, increasing her confusion. “I didn’t lose consciousness this time. I was tired afterward. A little woozy, perhaps—”
“Insane, perhaps,” Étienne muttered.
“But I think the antidote you’ve concocted may do more than we thought. It didn’t just alleviate the weakness after I had been tranqed. It seemed to have a preventative effect as well and acted as a buffer when I was tranqed again later, keeping me from feeling the full effects.”