Will opened his eyes, and the white sun was gleaming down into them, blinding him, so he closed them again. He tried to sit up.
"Easy, easy now, pal. Don't move too much all at once."
The voice was young, and male, and...and American?
He tried opening his eyes again, just a little. As his vision cleared, he realized the blazing white light overhead was coming from a fluorescent bulb, not the desert sun. And the sand underneath him was a mattress, covered with white sheets that smelled of disinfectant. And the robes he wore were only a hospital gown and bedcovers.
The young man was standing beside the bed. He had dirty-blond hair twisted into dreadlocks, and an eyebrow ring. But he wore the scrubs of a hospital staffer, and the tag pinned to his chest read Danny Miller, R.N.
Will tried to talk but only rasped, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Where am I?"
"Dude, look around. You're in a hospital." The kid pushed a button that raised Will's upper body, then he picked up a plastic cup with a straw through the top and held the straw to Will's lips.
Will drank. The ice water felt good going down his parched throat. He noted the IV bags dangling from a pole beside the bed, noticed the tubes leading to his wrists, glanced down at his foot, but it was covered by blankets. Hell, how bad was it? He couldn't feel much in any of his limbs just yet.
"What hospital?" he asked at length, trying to move the foot but feeling no response.
"Bethesda."
Will closed his eyes, so intensely relieved it was almost painful. He was home. He was in the States.
"The doctor will be in any second now. Look, I'm supposed to let some other guys know when you wake up. You up to talking to some people after the doc gives you the okay?"
"Depends on who it is. Although I'm afraid I can guess."
"Military. Lots of hardware on their chests."
Will nodded. They'd want to debrief him. It was S.O.P. "Yeah, whatever. First, though, I'd like to know about my foot."
The kid reached down to pull the covers away, revealing the well-bandaged foot. "You've still got it. That's good news, right?"
"That depends. Do I get to keep it?"
"Looks like. The doc will be able to tell you more."
"The doc" did tell him more. He told him the foot would never be one hundred percent, that he was going to have to bear up to some intense physical therapy, and that he would have a limp for the rest of his life. He would walk, but never run. He would need to use a cane.
He did not accept that prognosis.
He spent the next month in the hospital. The PT was painful, but it was a far cry from the other tortures he'd endured. During that time he was debriefed by the military and declared an American hero by the press. He received a huge cash settlement for the damage done to his foot, and that was in addition to his pension. He was showered in accolades, awarded the medal of honor and a purple heart, and retired with honors, all before he ever got out of the hospital.
He didn't want to retire. He didn't want the damn money or the medals or the press. But with the foot the way it was, he didn't have much choice in the matter. So he took the cards he was dealt, and he endured the PT, and he got his ass out of the wheelchair and walked through the hospital corridors at night with the help of a cane, because he couldn't fucking sleep anyway.
Especially that last night-his final night in the hospital. He'd been there a month, and they would be sending him home the next morning. "Home" was a word that meant nothing to Will. He'd been a soldier for so long, he didn't have a home. He had nowhere to go. Nothing to do, really. Money? He had plenty of that, the one thing that had never mattered to him.
He felt as if his life had been gutted. And when he tallied the things he had lost, there was one, foolish, ridiculous item that always topped the list. He'd lost his fantasy. That Gypsy camp in some faraway time and place where he used to escape the pain, and the beautiful woman who had inhabited it. He often found himself wondering about her, just as if she were real. "What ever became of Sarafina?'' he would ask himself, before his common sense would kick in to remind him that she was a figment of his imagination, a tool created by his mind to enable him to cope with the torture and imprisonment.
He'd tried like hell to conjure her image to mind during the physical therapy sessions, but apparently they hadn't been painful enough to invoke her. He couldn't find that place in his mind anymore, the one where he used to retreat to be with her. And though he knew she wasn't real, he worried about her, what had happened to her, how she had adjusted to the change.
Hell, when he thought about it, maybe there was a reason his mind had conjured the beautiful Gypsy girl and her tragic tale for him. Maybe he'd known, somehow, deep down, how drastically his own life was about to change, and maybe he'd created her so it wouldn't seem quite as bad in comparison. Sure, he'd lost a lot. Full use of the foot, his career in Special Forces, his entire life's work. But she'd lost more. She'd lost her lover, her family, her tribe-and then her humanity when she'd been transformed into something else. He wondered how she had dealt with that, if becoming a dark creature had changed who she was inside. Had she become evil just because it was expected of her, or was the change purely physical, like the change in him was?
He thought of these things as he limped along the quiet hospital corridors at 3:00 a.m. There were only a handful of nurses on duty at that hour, and they tended to cluster in the break room around the TV, sipping coffee and chatting. At the prescribed intervals they would emerge to check on patients and administer meds. One nurse would emerge every half hour or so to prowl the wing, ensuring that all the patients were all right, and of course they came out if the phone rang, or a patient buzzed, or a monitor sounded an alarm.
He liked the nights. They were the only time he could be alone to walk unassisted and unhindered. The nurses knew how painful it was for him to step on the foot, even now that it was healing. So they tended to cheer for him with every inch he gained, as if he were a toddler taking his first steps. He hated it, though he knew they were only trying to encourage him. He far preferred privacy during torture, he decided.
The walking cane was hospital issue: stainless steel, with a rubber-coated crook at the top and a tripod with brown rubber tips at the bottom. He would definitely find something better when he got out of here.
That last night, he was traversing an empty stretch of hallway, where no one was at work. The hospital lab was in this section, but it was all but abandoned at this hour. A few people came and went, but none from his wing and none who questioned him. It was his favorite place for night walking.
Wearing an expression that said he knew exactly what he was doing was all it took to keep everyone off his back. No patients roomed in this section, so nurses weren't milling around. His own wouldn't be in to check on him for an hour yet, and if they did happen to peek through the door in the meantime, they would see the blanket-covered shape of a man lying sound asleep with his back to them. Because that was what Will wanted them to see.
God, his skills were going to be utterly wasted in retirement.
There was a sound, a rattling sound, that did not belong. It brought Will's head up slowly and set his juices flowing. It had not been a loud noise or an alarming one-just an out of place one. And it came from behind the door on his left, from a room that was completely dark beyond the mesh-lined safety glass.
That told him two things very clearly. Someone was in there, and they were not supposed to be.
It was too much to resist. Will glanced up and down the hallway, saw no one, and quietly put his hand on the doorknob, then turned it. It was unlocked and gave easily. Pushing the door open, he slipped inside, noting how much more effort it took now to move soundlessly. He used to be able to slide through shadows like a panther. Now his gait was uneven and slow, and he had the damn cane to deal with, keeping one hand constantly unavailable.
The front section of the room was empty, but he sensed someone in the rear. He really had no reason to go any farther. Common sense told him to notify security and back off. But he didn't. He hadn't seen any action in so long that he was aching to know just how good he could be in this state. How effective. Could he handle something as mundane as an employee stealing a little medication for recreational use?
That wasn't what he found, though.
What he found was a man who seemed about to leap out the open window. His back was toward Will. He wore a black cotton shirt and dark blue jeans, and one foot was already up on the sill, hands braced on both sides, a sack slung over his shoulder by a long strap.
"Don't jump," Will said quickly. "There's no need. I'm not security, I'm a patient."
The man stilled, then slowly set his foot down on the floor again and turned to face Will.
Will studied him, frowning as a creeping familiarity rinsed through his mind. The man's skin was pale, but not in an unhealthy way. It was luminescent, like a pearl. His eyes, too, held a strange glow, an undeniable power. It was invisible, but palpable. There was something else about him, too. Something that marked him as "different" to Will's trained mind, but he couldn't for the life of him define how. Just that this man was not like others.
And then it hit him. It was the same sort of perception he'd had of Bartrone, the vampire in the fantasy.
The man's eyes widened just a little as he studied Will in return. But he quickly schooled his features. Will could see him trying to hide the startled expression, though he didn't know what had startled the man.
"You look familiar to me. Where have I seen you before?" the man asked.
Will shrugged, then glanced at the bag hanging at the man's side. "So what are you stealing? Drugs?"
"I have no use for drugs. What happened to your foot?"
"It was injured. How come you're using the window instead of the door?"
"I...opened it for the fresh air. Why are you wandering around the hospital in the dead of night?"
"Couldn't sleep."
The man's mouth pulled a little at one side, as if he were fighting a smile. "You're very good at answering questions without saying a thing."
"So are you. So what's in the bag?"
The man only shook his head and glanced toward the window once more. Will looked around the room now that his eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He saw the refrigerator, the label on the front, the Red Cross logo. "This is where they store the blood." He said it very softly, but the man heard him.
He nodded. "That it is." He got up on the windowsill again, then he paused, turning back. "Time Magazine," he said.
"What?"
"That's where I've seen you before. You were on the cover of last week's Time Magazine. I read the article, too."
"That's really nice, but it doesn't explain why you're stealing blood from a hospital at 3:00 a.m., pal."
"Oh, let it go already. You guessed what I was the moment you looked at me, though how you knew, I cannot say. Who is this 'Bartrone' you thought I resembled?"
"A figment of my imagination." Will stopped there, lifted his gaze. "I never said that out loud."
"Of course you didn't. I'm a vampire. I read your mind."
"Oh yeah? Prove it. What am I thinking right now?"
The other man stared at him, frowned hard. "I don't know. You're blocking."
"I'm blocking?" Will repeated.
"Perhaps subconsciously, but yes. You have a very strong will, don't you?"
Will shrugged. "If you can't read me now, how could you before?''
"How would I know? You're the one who let your guard down, let your thoughts slip out." He shrugged. "Perhaps you were startled."
Will rolled his eyes and moved closer, using the cane to help him bear the weight, though every step shot bolts of pain through his body. When he got close enough he reached out, tugged the side of the bag open and glanced inside. Plastic bags filled with blood.
"You really are stealing blood."
The other man nodded. "It's better than the alternative."
"You mean killing for it?"
"I meant starvation. I would no more kill an innocent than you would."
Will shook his head. "This isn't real. There are no such things as vampires."
"Then how did you know what I was the moment you looked at me?"
Lowering his head, Will said, "I don't know."
There was a pause. "The article said you withstood weeks of torture and never broke. It said your silence saved the lives of countless American soldiers."
Will shrugged.
"It said you walked twenty miles through the desert when you escaped." He glanced down at the foot. "As painful as that is even now, I can't imagine how you managed that."
Will shrugged again, shook his head. "Yeah, okay, you really read the article. What do you want, an autograph?"
The vampire smiled. "I have to go." He turned again to the window.
"No, wait. I need to talk to you. I have questions-"
"Questions I cannot answer, my friend. Even for an exceptional mortal like you. I'm sorry." He turned to face out the window again, then quickly ducked back inside and to the left of the glass. "Hell, I've been seen. There's a crowd below, looking up here and pointing."
Will glanced toward the door at the sound of running feet. "Someone's coming. Tell me, vampire, are you a man of your word?"
"I am."
"Then give it. I cover your ass now, you answer my questions later. Agreed?"
The doorknob turned, and the vampire glanced that way, then out the window again. "Questions about what?"
"A vampiress named Sarafina."
"Why?"
Will swallowed hard. "I need to know if she's real. That's all. Do you agree or not?"
"All right," the vampire said quickly. "I agree."
The door was opening as Will glanced around the room and spotted a folding screen. "Over there, behind the screen," he whispered.
The vampire moved so quickly he was but a blur of darkness. If Will had had any doubts-and he had-they were gone now. Nothing human could move with such a burst of speed. Nothing he knew about, anyway. "I never got your name," Will whispered.
"Jameson Bryant," the vampire hissed back.
"Willem Stone," Will replied.
"Good to meet you." There was a touch of irony in the vampire's tone.
"Same here-I think."
Three orderlies burst into the room, flicked on the light and paused to stare at Will, as he stood near the open window. He lowered his head, painted a look of anguish on his face.
"Listen, don't jump," one of them said. "It's no answer. You know that."
"Jesus, it's that Stone guy," another muttered. "Mr. Stone, you're a hero-"
"It's Colonel Stone," he muttered. "Or it was."
"It still is, man. Colonel Stone, U.S. Army Special Forces, and a fucking national icon. God, if you go out like this, then they win, don't you see that?"
"Yeah, that's right," said the other guy. "Man, don't tell us you survived all that crap just to give up now."
"Colonel Stone, sir, I just got out of the Army. I was over there. Let me tell you something, you did us proud. You cash out now, it's gonna crush all those soldiers who see you as a hero."
Will turned slowly, looking at them, even while swinging one leg over the windowsill. "Just stay where you are, okay? I have to think."
The men stopped their forward progress. "Come on, come on back in here. You can think in here as good as anywhere else."
The door opened again, and a woman stepped in. She was mid-fifties, fit, kept her hair colored, but the smokers'-wrinkles in her face gave her age away. "Mr. Stone, I'm Amelia Ashby. I'm a psychiatrist here."
A psychiatrist was just what he needed, he thought, considering he'd just been conversing with a vampire. Shit. He almost laughed, but that would have blown the suicidal depression skit right out of the water.
"Tell me what you're feeling. Please, I only want to help you."
He pursed his lips, sighed, wondered if this was going to end up lengthening his stay, when he'd so been looking forward to getting the hell out of here tomorrow. He drew his leg inside, stood on the floor, closed the window, and grabbed his cane. "I'm not going to jump, all right? I was just...out walking the halls."
"Good. Very good. And you came in here because...?"
"My leg got to aching. I was looking for a place to sit down for a while."
"I see," she said slowly, coming closer now.
To stop her from reaching the point where she might catch a glimpse of Jameson-the-blood-thief,
Will met her halfway. "Look, I'm ready to go back to my room now, all right?"
"That's fine. Do you mind if I walk with you?" She took his good arm, walked with him back toward the door.
"Sure. Whatever."
One of the orderlies opened the door. Another slapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "You hang in there, man. We need more like you, Colonel Stone."
The former soldier sent him a snappy salute.
They all followed Will and the shrink into the hallway, and then the orderlies dispersed, one of them pausing to relock the door before taking off.
Dr. Ashby walked slowly. "You're in a lot of pain, aren't you?"
"The leg? Ah, it's not so bad."
"Bad enough that it had you considering suicide."
"What, you think I'd kill myself over a little pain? I can handle pain, Dr. Ashby."
She nodded, smiled a little self-deprecatingly. "I guess I should have known that, considering. Physical pain certainly wouldn't drive a man like you to such an extreme decision."
"It wasn't a decision. More like a passing thought."
"So you didn't really plan to jump from that window tonight?"
"No. I opened it. I even stood there a while, contemplating the notion. But I never would have jumped."
"Because you realized that you have too much to live for?" she asked.
"Because I realized it's not a high enough window to ensure a quick end. I may have a high tolerance for pain, Dr. Ashby, but I'm not a masochist. If I'd been seriously thinking of jumping, I'd have taken the elevator on up to the top floor-better yet, the roof."
She blinked at him. "I'm not sure if I should find that reassuring or troubling."
"Reassuring," he promised. "I swear."