Sharon Ashwood - Possessed by an Immortal

“Not to sound like the trolls in accounting, but he’s a human, right? Should we be using our resources for this?”

“Do I ever ask for favors?” He knew very well that the answer was negative.

Kenyon sighed. “Dare I ask why now?”

“The woman has insurance issues. If there’s a hassle, tell them to take it out of my pay.”

Kenyon was quiet for a moment. “If you’re that involved—”

“I’m not involved,” he said quickly. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong, and that frustrates me. I became a doctor for this kind of science.” Not to mention atonement for all the lives he’d taken.

Kenyon’s voice was cautious. “The boy’s really sick, isn’t he?”

“Maybe. Probably.” Closer examination had confirmed his earlier fears. Whatever was wrong was chronic and debilitating—almost certainly something in his blood. He could smell it. “But I don’t want to say anything until I’m absolutely certain. I don’t want to put his mother through any false alarms.”

He swiveled the chair around so that he could look out the window. All he got was a view of the parking lot, growing dim in the fading light. Besides sending a brief report to L.A., he’d spent hours treating Larson, then more time testing Jonathan and looking in on some other patients he had in long-term care. He’d lost track of time, and now the clock said it was after six in the evening.

A whole day back in the human world. He already missed the green of his island retreat, where he didn’t have to fight to wear a civilized mask. Where choices were easy.

“I have bad news,” Kenyon said. “You don’t get to hang around up there playing Dr. McGrumpy. The boss wants you in L.A.”

“Now?”

“Right now. He’s sending a plane to pick up Larson. Raphael got the copy of your statement.”

The boss. Raphael. “His timing is inconvenient.”

“Sorry. He wants you on the plane. He’s scooping up Larson’s family, bringing the whole lot of them in so that they’ll be safe. Then he’s going to question Larson again. He wants you present for that.”

We’ll see. Mark had never liked having his leash yanked, and thoroughly resented it now. “Then I need you to do one more thing. I want an ID on this woman. Her name is Bree. The boy’s name is Jonathan. He’s almost four years old.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t have one. I suppose Bree is short for something.”

“Uh-huh. Date of birth? Place of birth? Maybe a Swedish accent to give us a clue?”

Mark considered. “I’d say Californian.”

“Californians don’t have an accent.”

“They do if you’re Italian.” California hadn’t even been discovered when he was born in 1452. By the time Columbus sailed for the New World forty years later, Marco Farnese had been Undead for a decade. “Parlo la lingua del canto e della seduzione.” I speak the language of song and seduction.

Kenyon gave a short, dry laugh. “Right. Like I’d call you for phone sex. There’s something sad about an Italian vampire. All that great garlicky cuisine going to waste.”

Mark grunted. “Call me when you find something.”

“When is optimistic. Stick to if.”

“Nonsense. You’re a bloodhound.”

“I’m a werewolf. Hear me howl in dismay.”

Mark swiveled back to the desk and hung up the phone without saying goodbye. His mind was already racing ahead to what Kenyon might find out, and how that would connect with any of the other puzzle pieces.

Larson’s refusal to say who had frightened him so badly was a problem. Mark’s enemies had been close by—close enough to play mailman.

And why had Ferrel resurfaced now, after so many years? After generations? Mark had let down his guard enough to take a position at a hospital filled with vulnerable patients. If the Knights of Vidon found him on the island, how long would it be before they showed up here?

And that was only half his problem. There was Bree and the boy, with their own set of gun-toting maniacs. Whose enemies had been the ones shooting at them? His or hers?

Mark swore softly. Even if he was being summoned to Los Angeles, Mark had a responsibility to the boy and his mother. He couldn’t just dump them and go. At the very least, he had to get the boy into adequate care.

That didn’t mean he was involved with them in the warm-and-fuzzy sense. It was just that there were some occasions when he had to be a doctor first, and a vampire later.

Mark pushed back from the desk, trying not to see the paperwork glaring up at him. So much for a paperless world, where everything was digital. He swore every time he looked at the stack of files it was bigger. Worse, it didn’t care if he was a supernatural being of immense power. Growling never made bureaucracy run away.

He left the office, closing the door behind him. The corridor was narrow, painted the usual nondescript hospital-beige. A nurse in scrubs hurried by, giving him a nod and the professional half smile of someone with too much to do. He nodded back, then strode toward the ward where he’d left Bree and her son.

Like everything at Redwood General, the pediatrics area was small, but the staff made the most of it. It was the one place with bright colors. Mark found the kids’ TV room, where Bree waited with Jonathan. A swarm of cardboard bees covered the walls, smiling down at the tiny patients. Jonathan was playing on a giant red sea monster that doubled as a slide. Skinny arms flung wide, he scooted down the curve of it as Mark walked in.

It always fascinated Mark how even the sickest children still had the impulse to play, but healthy adults quickly forgot how.

They were the only ones in the room, and Mark saw Bree before she saw him. She was hunched over, her chin propped in her hands, watching a cartoon with the dull expression of the exhausted. Nevertheless, she’d angled her body so that she could still see her son. That vigilance of hers never, ever slipped.

As if she could sense his presence, she raised her head. She was disheveled, her eyes bruised with shock and fatigue. He’d bought a different jacket for her from the gift shop because her trench coat had been bloody. This one was ice-cream-pink and fuzzy—not something he guessed was her usual style—but it was all the store had. She’d pulled another pair of jeans from her backpack, and this pair had threadbare knees. The woman had nothing but the clothes on her back, and they were in sorry shape. And yet, she was lovely.

As their eyes met, hers widened, expectant. Mark’s chest squeezed, a half-forgotten feeling waking inside. It had been so long since someone had waited for him. It was something he’d never take for granted—to walk out of a room, and have it matter to someone if he ever walked back in. He’d lost the right to expect that from anyone long ago.

Yes, she was beautiful with her soft hair waving around her face, like a painting of an angel. Not the Christmas-card type, but the angels from his day, with swords and arrows and smiles that woke the sun and broke armies of war-proud kings. That kind of sweetness remade worlds.

And destroyed vampires like him. Innocents invited tragedy because, well, beasts would be beasts and angels would ultimately suffer. Mark tried to freeze his heart as he strode forward, but the bitter lesson of his memories melted like cobwebs in the wind. Hunger rose in his blood.

The corners of Bree’s mouth quirked up in a hesitant greeting. He was struck with yearning to kiss those wide, generous lips. He could tell they were warm, just like every part of her he’d already touched.

He squashed that thought before it took flight. A kiss would only end in complications. Neither of them needed that, especially when he might have to tell her she was going to lose her precious son. Please, no.