The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood 16)

“What about food for him?”

“And we’ll get him some food, yes.”

As Assail squeezed her hand, she smiled at him. “I’ll be right back. Soon as they let me.”

He smiled at her as best he could, and then she was stepping out into the corridor again—

“Oh, excuse me,” she said as she bumped into a woman who was trying to come into the room.

As Sola moved back, she thought…Wow, what a robe. The thing was white as a cloud, floor length, and had more swing than something out of Ginger Rogers’s closet.

And, ah, wow, what a female. She had blond hair—the real kind, it seemed—and perfect features, and was so tall, even Sola had to look up some.

“No, it is my fault,” the woman said with a bow. “Pardon me. But I have been summoned—”

Ehlena opened the door. “Ghisele. Hi, let me introduce you to Sola. She’s Assail’s female.”

“It is my pleasure to serve,” the woman said as she offered another bow. “Will you permit me to present him my—”

“Come on in, Ghisele.” Ehlena pulled the woman inside and looked at Sola. “She’s another nurse here. She works with us.”

And then the door was shut in Sola’s face.

Where did they hire their staff from, she wondered. The Miss America pageant?

Shaking her head, she went for a wander and thought about the woman’s accent. There were a lot of English-as-a-second-language folks around the facility, and that was comforting. She was used to hearing all different kinds of accents—although she couldn’t quite place the origins here. Then again, she was primarily familiar with variations on South American dialects.

She found the break room without a problem and checked out the vending machine, which was—bonus—free: No dollars were required to drop the bags of pretzels and Doritos or the Snickers bars and the Milky Ways. And then there was the Coca-Cola–branded drinks unit, which had everything from soda to Gatorade to lemonade in it, all free for the taking. There were also displays of fruit, sandwiches, desserts—and even microwavable Hot Pockets.

All free.

Okay, maybe this was a university?

Strange, very strange.

Her stomach wasn’t interested in food or drink so she tucked into a cup of coffee and a donut; then she went back out into the hall and found the ladies’ room—which turned out to be a locker situation with all kinds of showers, sinks, and toilets. And oh, my God, bonus: They had any toiletry you’d ever want. Deodorant, hairspray, brushes, makeup, Tums, Advil, Band-Aids…it was like an entire CVS was set in pretty little baskets along a wall-length counter that ran above the basins.

There were even sealed toothbrush packs.

Rarely had she ever enjoyed fluoride more.

Re-emerging minty fresh, she wandered down to the far end of the corridor, where they had entered from the parking area, and then she went all the way in the opposite direction to a glass door that housed some kind of office. Then down-and-back. And once more.

This time, as she passed Assail’s room, Ehlena came out with the other nurse, who seemed to be holding her arm to her midsection.

“Everything okay?” Sola asked.

“Perfect.” Ehlena smiled. “You’re welcome to go back in.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Sola frowned as the other two walked off together, their voices low as they spoke. But then she opened the door and—

“Oh…my Lord.”

Assail was sitting up in the bed, his eyes alert, color back in his face. And as he focused on her, he smiled in a shy, but very alert way.

“Well, hello, beautiful,” he said in a soft voice. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

* * *

—

As Marisol stood in the doorway like she’d seen a ghost, Assail cursed to himself. The Chosen Ghisele’s blood had been so pure—and he hadn’t fed in so long in the midst of so much physical stress—that the roaring strength coursing through his body had jumped him weeks and weeks ahead in his recovery.

All in the time lapse of…twenty-three minutes. According to that clockface over there on the wall.

If she had been a vampire like him, she would have understood immediately and rejoiced. With her being human, it was impossible to explain unless he revealed himself—

All at once, his brain shorted out, the thoughts that had been traveling in an orderly fashion on a train track of neurons disintegrating.

Nothing existed in his mind, at all.

“Xxxxx?” Marisol came over, her face worried. “Xxxxx, xxxx’x xxxxx?”

Her mouth was moving and sounds were reaching his ears, but he couldn’t decipher the syllables.

He was able to recognize the expression on her face, however: She was concerned and asking him what was wrong. Yes, her eyes were worried, and she was leaning in, and she was talking some more.

“—call the nurse? Should I?”

With the same abruptness that everything had gone out of phase, cognition came back online in his brain, her words making sense to him once again, his mind processing reality as it should.

“No,” he said. “No, please don’t call them. I just got…fuzzy for a moment.”

“Are you sure?” She took his hand and stroked it. “I can just—”

“You’re blond now.”

She reached up and touched her short hair. “I hate it. But it’s necessary, I don’t want to be identified—well, anyway. It’s a change.”

For a moment, he thought about the fact that she was on the run—and hated that she would not let him take care of her. Maybe that would change now, though. Maybe she would stay here with him after he recovered.

When he went to lift his hand to touch her, the binds on his wrists jerked his arm in place, and he tried to lower things back down discreetly so she couldn’t notice—he didn’t want to have to explain why he had needed to be strapped down. He didn’t want her to think he would ever hurt her.

But he remembered why he had to be restrained. He recalled feeling the maggots under his skin, the burning, churning, restless twist of all of them itching at him, biting at him. He had scratched at his skin to get them out, to shake them free…then he had bitten at his arms—

As echoes of the hallucinations became so vivid they threatened to take over, he willed himself to stay in the present with Marisol. To see her, scent her, hear her. To feel her not just as she touched him, but in his heart and in his soul.

His bonding for her was what had rewired his neurological damage. He knew without a doubt that Marisol’s presence was the reason why that which had failed to function was now approximating normalcy: Males of the species were so locked in with their females that they were capable of great feats of strength and power on their mate’s behalf.

And that included a return from madness, evidently.

Still, he hated for her to see him like this.

Marisol sat on the bed next to him and stroked her warm hand up and down his forearm. As she did, he frowned at his pin-thin limb, the muscle so withered the skin was loose.

“Ugly.”

“What?” she asked.

“I am…ugly.”

“Not to me.” She shook her head. “Never to me.”

When her eyes circled his head, he had some vague memory of Doc Jane coming in with a shaver. Why had they taken his hair—oh, right. He’d been ripping it out, convinced that it was worms inside his skull. He’d been so freaked out, he’d chewed his bindings free so he could claw and tear at the black lengths until he was bleeding from wounds.

Yes, that was why they had had to shave him. And afterward, they had shown him a mirror to prove to him there was nothing there—and he had calmed down when he had seen it had been removed.

That had been back when they had tried to reason with him in the psychosis.

“I am so sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t want you…to come back to this.”

“I’m here. That’s all that matters.”

“My brain…is sick.”

“We don’t have to talk about that now if it upsets you.”

“It’s sick.” o;What about food for him?”

“And we’ll get him some food, yes.”

As Assail squeezed her hand, she smiled at him. “I’ll be right back. Soon as they let me.”

He smiled at her as best he could, and then she was stepping out into the corridor again—

“Oh, excuse me,” she said as she bumped into a woman who was trying to come into the room.

As Sola moved back, she thought…Wow, what a robe. The thing was white as a cloud, floor length, and had more swing than something out of Ginger Rogers’s closet.

And, ah, wow, what a female. She had blond hair—the real kind, it seemed—and perfect features, and was so tall, even Sola had to look up some.

“No, it is my fault,” the woman said with a bow. “Pardon me. But I have been summoned—”

Ehlena opened the door. “Ghisele. Hi, let me introduce you to Sola. She’s Assail’s female.”

“It is my pleasure to serve,” the woman said as she offered another bow. “Will you permit me to present him my—”

“Come on in, Ghisele.” Ehlena pulled the woman inside and looked at Sola. “She’s another nurse here. She works with us.”

And then the door was shut in Sola’s face.

Where did they hire their staff from, she wondered. The Miss America pageant?

Shaking her head, she went for a wander and thought about the woman’s accent. There were a lot of English-as-a-second-language folks around the facility, and that was comforting. She was used to hearing all different kinds of accents—although she couldn’t quite place the origins here. Then again, she was primarily familiar with variations on South American dialects.

She found the break room without a problem and checked out the vending machine, which was—bonus—free: No dollars were required to drop the bags of pretzels and Doritos or the Snickers bars and the Milky Ways. And then there was the Coca-Cola–branded drinks unit, which had everything from soda to Gatorade to lemonade in it, all free for the taking. There were also displays of fruit, sandwiches, desserts—and even microwavable Hot Pockets.

All free.

Okay, maybe this was a university?

Strange, very strange.

Her stomach wasn’t interested in food or drink so she tucked into a cup of coffee and a donut; then she went back out into the hall and found the ladies’ room—which turned out to be a locker situation with all kinds of showers, sinks, and toilets. And oh, my God, bonus: They had any toiletry you’d ever want. Deodorant, hairspray, brushes, makeup, Tums, Advil, Band-Aids…it was like an entire CVS was set in pretty little baskets along a wall-length counter that ran above the basins.

There were even sealed toothbrush packs.

Rarely had she ever enjoyed fluoride more.

Re-emerging minty fresh, she wandered down to the far end of the corridor, where they had entered from the parking area, and then she went all the way in the opposite direction to a glass door that housed some kind of office. Then down-and-back. And once more.

This time, as she passed Assail’s room, Ehlena came out with the other nurse, who seemed to be holding her arm to her midsection.

“Everything okay?” Sola asked.

“Perfect.” Ehlena smiled. “You’re welcome to go back in.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Sola frowned as the other two walked off together, their voices low as they spoke. But then she opened the door and—

“Oh…my Lord.”

Assail was sitting up in the bed, his eyes alert, color back in his face. And as he focused on her, he smiled in a shy, but very alert way.

“Well, hello, beautiful,” he said in a soft voice. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

* * *

—

As Marisol stood in the doorway like she’d seen a ghost, Assail cursed to himself. The Chosen Ghisele’s blood had been so pure—and he hadn’t fed in so long in the midst of so much physical stress—that the roaring strength coursing through his body had jumped him weeks and weeks ahead in his recovery.

All in the time lapse of…twenty-three minutes. According to that clockface over there on the wall.

If she had been a vampire like him, she would have understood immediately and rejoiced. With her being human, it was impossible to explain unless he revealed himself—

All at once, his brain shorted out, the thoughts that had been traveling in an orderly fashion on a train track of neurons disintegrating.

Nothing existed in his mind, at all.

“Xxxxx?” Marisol came over, her face worried. “Xxxxx, xxxx’x xxxxx?”

Her mouth was moving and sounds were reaching his ears, but he couldn’t decipher the syllables.

He was able to recognize the expression on her face, however: She was concerned and asking him what was wrong. Yes, her eyes were worried, and she was leaning in, and she was talking some more.

“—call the nurse? Should I?”

With the same abruptness that everything had gone out of phase, cognition came back online in his brain, her words making sense to him once again, his mind processing reality as it should.

“No,” he said. “No, please don’t call them. I just got…fuzzy for a moment.”

“Are you sure?” She took his hand and stroked it. “I can just—”

“You’re blond now.”

She reached up and touched her short hair. “I hate it. But it’s necessary, I don’t want to be identified—well, anyway. It’s a change.”

For a moment, he thought about the fact that she was on the run—and hated that she would not let him take care of her. Maybe that would change now, though. Maybe she would stay here with him after he recovered.

When he went to lift his hand to touch her, the binds on his wrists jerked his arm in place, and he tried to lower things back down discreetly so she couldn’t notice—he didn’t want to have to explain why he had needed to be strapped down. He didn’t want her to think he would ever hurt her.

But he remembered why he had to be restrained. He recalled feeling the maggots under his skin, the burning, churning, restless twist of all of them itching at him, biting at him. He had scratched at his skin to get them out, to shake them free…then he had bitten at his arms—

As echoes of the hallucinations became so vivid they threatened to take over, he willed himself to stay in the present with Marisol. To see her, scent her, hear her. To feel her not just as she touched him, but in his heart and in his soul.

His bonding for her was what had rewired his neurological damage. He knew without a doubt that Marisol’s presence was the reason why that which had failed to function was now approximating normalcy: Males of the species were so locked in with their females that they were capable of great feats of strength and power on their mate’s behalf.

And that included a return from madness, evidently.

Still, he hated for her to see him like this.

Marisol sat on the bed next to him and stroked her warm hand up and down his forearm. As she did, he frowned at his pin-thin limb, the muscle so withered the skin was loose.

“Ugly.”

“What?” she asked.

“I am…ugly.”

“Not to me.” She shook her head. “Never to me.”

When her eyes circled his head, he had some vague memory of Doc Jane coming in with a shaver. Why had they taken his hair—oh, right. He’d been ripping it out, convinced that it was worms inside his skull. He’d been so freaked out, he’d chewed his bindings free so he could claw and tear at the black lengths until he was bleeding from wounds.

Yes, that was why they had had to shave him. And afterward, they had shown him a mirror to prove to him there was nothing there—and he had calmed down when he had seen it had been removed.

That had been back when they had tried to reason with him in the psychosis.

“I am so sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t want you…to come back to this.”

“I’m here. That’s all that matters.”

“My brain…is sick.”

“We don’t have to talk about that now if it upsets you.”

“It’s sick.”