33
We'd called the ambulance and found that they weren't coming right away. Too many other emergencies ahead of us. It was Louie who pried the phone out of my hands and apologized to the nice operator.
Cherry ran to the kitchen. I could hear her opening and shutting drawers, cabinets banging.
I walked into the kitchen.
She was standing in the middle of the room with a drawer pulled all the way out in one hand. Her eyes were almost wild. Before I could say anything, she said, "I need a Ziploc bag, masking tape, and scissors."
I didn't ask stupid questions. I opened the small drawer beside the stove and handed her the tape and scissors. The Ziploc bags were one of the few things in the roomy pantry closet.
Cherry snatched them from my hands and headed for the living room. I had no idea what she had in mind, but she had the medical training. I didn't. If it would give Zane a few more minutes, then I was for it. The ambulance would come eventually. The trick was having him alive for it to matter.
As far as I could tell, she didn't use the scissors. She taped the bag over his chest, plastering it with tape except for one corner. It was very obviously meant to be left that way, but I had to ask. "Why is the one corner untaped?"
She answered without looking up from her patient. "The open corner lets him breathe, but when he sucks in air the bag collapses and seals the wound. It's called an inclusive bandage." She sounded as if she was lecturing. I wondered, not for the first time, what Cherry was like outside the monster stuff. She was almost like two different people. I'd never meant anyone, monster or not, who seemed so divided.
"Will it keep him alive long enough for the ambulance to get here?" I asked.
She finally looked up at me--eyes very serious. "I hope so."
I nodded. It was better than I could have done. I was great at putting holes in people. Not so good at keeping them alive.
Richard brought a blanket and folded it over Zane's legs, letting Cherry take the upper part of the blanket to fix the way she wanted around the wound.
Richard was wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, his tanned skin beaded with water as if he hadn't even taken time to dry off. The towel clung in a smooth tight line to his butt as he folded the quilt over Zane. His thick hair hung in heavy strands, so wet that water trickled from it in fine lines down his back.
He stood up, and the towel flashed a lot of thigh.
"I have larger towels," I said.
He frowned at me. "I heard gunshots. I wasn't really worried about the size of the towel."
I nodded. "You're right. Sorry." My anger with Richard seemed to shrink in direct proportion to his clothes. If he really wanted to win the war, all he had to do was strip. I'd have put up a white flag and applauded. Embarrassing, but almost true.
He ran his hand through his hair, smoothing it back from his face and squeezing out the excess water. That small movement showed his arms and chest to wonderful advantage. He arched his back just a little, which stretched the rest of his body in one long muscled line. It was the back arch that did it. I knew he was showing his body off on purpose. He'd always seemed unconscious of the effect his body had on me until now. Now, staring into his angry eyes, I knew he'd shown me his body very deliberately. His way of saying, without words, see what you passed on, see what you lost. If it had just been the great body I'd lost out on, it wouldn't have hurt so much.
I missed Sunday afternoons watching old musicals. Saturday hiking through the woods, bird-watching, or entire weekends of rafting on the Meramec. I missed hearing about his day at school. I missed him. The body was just a very nice bonus. I wasn't sure there were enough roses in the world to make me forget what Richard had almost been to me.
He stalked away towards the stairs and his interrupted shower. If I'd been as strong of will as I liked to think, I wouldn't have watched him walk away. I had a sudden vivid image of licking water off his chest and jerking that tiny white towel away. The image was clear enough that I had to turn away and take a few deep breaths. He wasn't mine anymore. Maybe he never had been.
"I don't mean to interrupt the stud watch," Jamil said, "but who is the dead guy, and why did he try to kill you?"
If I thought I'd been embarrassed before, I was wrong. The fact that I'd let the shit with Richard distract me from the much more vital question of the would-be murderer just proved that I wasn't up on my game. It was too careless for words. The sort of carelessness that can get you killed.
"I don't know him," I said.
Louie lifted the sheet that someone had thrown over him. "I don't recognize him either."
"Please," Ronnie said. She was looking somewhere between grey and green again.
Louie let the sheet fall back, but it was flatter somehow and clung to the top of his head. The blood soaked up the cotton like oil to a wick.
Ronnie made a small sound and ran for the bathroom.
Louie watched her run out. I watched him watch her. He caught me looking and said, "She's killed people before." The implied "why is this worse?" went unsaid.
"Once before," I said.
He stood up. "Did she react like this?"
I shook my head. "I think it was the sight of his brains leaking all over the porch that did it."
Gwen walked into the room. "A lot of people who can take the sight of blood don't like to see other things leaking out."
"Thank you, Ms. Therapist," Jamil said.
She turned to him like a small blond storm, her otherworldly energy spiraling through the room. "You are a homophobic bastard."
I raised eyebrows. "I miss something?"
"Jamil is one of those men who believes that every lesbian is just a heterosexual woman waiting for the right man. He was persistent enough to me that Sylvie kicked his ass."
"Such language from a trained therapist," Jason said. He'd rushed up from the basement where the vampires were stored for the day when the shooting started. When the excitement died down, he'd gone back to check on everybody.
"All quiet down below?" I asked.
He gave me that grin of his that managed to be both mischievous and just a touch evil. "Quiet as a tomb."
I groaned because he expected it. But the smile left my face before it left his. "Could it be the council?" I asked.
"Could what be the council?" Louie asked.
"Whoever sent the hit man," I said.
"Do you really think he was a hit man?" Jamil asked.
"You mean was he a professional assassin?"
Jamil nodded.
"No," I said.
"Why wasn't he a professional?" Gwen asked.
"Not good enough," I said.
"Maybe he was a virgin," Jamil said.
"You mean a first timer?"
"Yes."
"Maybe." I glanced at the sheet-covered lump. "He picked the wrong career."
"If it had been some suburban housewife or an investment banker, he'd have done okay," Jamil said.
"Sounds like you know."
He shrugged. "I've been an enforcer since I was fifteen. My threat's not worth anything unless I'm willing to kill."
"How does Richard feel about that?" I asked.
Jamil shrugged again. "Richard's different, but if he wasn't, then I'd be dead. He'd have killed me right after he killed Marcus. It's standard op for a new Ulfric to kill the old leader's enforcers."
"I wanted you dead."
He smiled and it was tight, but not altogether unpleasant. "I know what you wanted. You're closer to being one of us than he is sometimes."
"I just don't have a lot of illusions, Jamil. That's all."
"You think Richard's morality is an illusion?"
"He nearly crushed your throat earlier today. What do you think?"
"I think he also healed me. Marcus and Raina couldn't have done that."
"Would they have hurt you that badly by accident?" I asked.
He smiled, a quick baring of teeth. "If Raina had gone for my throat, it wouldn't have been by accident."
"On a whim," Gwen said, "but not by accident."
The werewolves all had a moment of perfect understanding. None of them mourned Raina, not even Jamil, who had sort of been on her side.
I shook my head. "I just don't think the council would send out some amateur with a gun. They've got enough daytime muscle to do the job without hiring outsiders."
"Then who?" Jamil asked.
I shook my head again. "I wish I knew."
Ronnie came back into the living room. We all watched her as she made her shaky way back to the couch. She sat down, eyes red-rimmed from crying and other things. Louie brought her a glass of water. She sipped it very slowly and looked at me. I expected her to talk about the dead man. Maybe to accuse me of being a horrible friend. But she'd decided to ignore the dead body and work on the live ones.
"If you had slept with Richard when you first started dating, all this pain could have been avoided."
"You're so sure of that," I said. I let Ronnie change the subject. She needed something else to concentrate on. I'd have preferred the topic to be something besides my love life, but... I owed her.
"Yes," she said, "the way you look at him, Anita. The way he looks at you when he's not being cruel. Yeah, I'm sure."
Part of me agreed with her, part of me. . . "There'd still be Jean-Claude."
She made an impatient sound. "I know you. If you'd had sex with Richard first, you still wouldn't be sleeping with that damn vampire. You think sex is a commitment."
I sighed. We'd had this talk before. "Sex should mean something, Ronnie."
"I agree," she said. "But if I had your scruples, I'd still just be holding hands with Louie. We're having a wonderful time."
"But where is it going?"
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the couch. "Anna, you make your life harder than it has to be." She opened her eyes and moved just her head so she could look at me and still slump. "Why can't a relationship just be what it is? Why does everything with you have to be so damn serious?"
I folded my arms over my stomach and stared at her. If I thought I was going to stare her down, I was wrong. I looked away first. "It is serious or should be."
"Why?" she said.
I was finally reduced to shrugging. If I hadn't been having sex with a vampire out of wedlock, I'd have had some moral high ground to stand on. As it was, I had nothing to fight back with. I'd been virtuous for so long, but when I lost it, I lost it big time. From celibacy to fucking the undead. If I'd still been Catholic, it would have been enough to get me excommunicated. Of course, being an Animator was enough to get me excommunicated. Lucky for me I was Protestant.
"You want some advice from your Auntie Ronnie?"
That made me smile, a small smile, but it was better than nothing. "What advice?"
"Go upstairs and join that man in the shower."
I looked at her, suitably scandalized. The fact that I'd been pretty much fantasizing about doing just that not ten minutes ago only made it more embarrassing. "You saw him in the kitchen, Ronnie. I don't think he's in a co-ed shower sort of mood."
A look came into her eyes that suddenly made me feel young or maybe naive. "You strip off and surprise him, and he won't kick you out. You don't get that kind of anger without heat. He wants you as badly as you want him. Just give into it, girlfriend."
I shook my head.
She sighed. "Why not?"
"A thousand things, but mainly, Jean-Claude."
"Dump him," she said.
I laughed. "Yeah, right."
"Is he really that good? So good that you couldn't give him up?"
I thought about that for a minute and didn't know what to say. It finally boiled down to one thing, and I said it out loud. "I'm not sure there are enough white roses in the world to make me forget Richard." I held up a hand before she could interrupt. "But I'm not sure there are enough cozy afternoons in all eternity to make me forget Jean-Claude."
She sat up straight on the couch, staring at me. A look almost of sorrow filled her eyes. "You mean that, don't you?"
"Yeah," I said.
Ronnie shook her head. "Jesus, Anita, you are screwed."
That made me laugh, because she was right. It was either cry or laugh about it, and Richard had gotten all the tears he was getting from me for one day.