She pictured working with someone like Havers night in and night out--and was very sure she was not up to that rash of superiority: Undoubtedly, any vampire who was a trained doctor would come from the glymera, because it was considered a job only aristocrats were allowed to aspire to.
Wait...was there even another physician in the species?
"Hear me out." Manny put his palm forward. "We could go to an every-other-day schedule then. And more hands means less stress."
"Provided they're good hands. Do you have somebody in mind? I'm not even sure there's anyone but Havers?"
"I haven't gotten that far."
"Well, I want to be in on both hires."
"I wouldn't have it any other way. So you'll support me as I take this to Wrath?"
Crossing her arms over her chest, the loud, screaming voice in her head that said, No! This is mine! suggested she was still too close to things. Sure, Vishous had built out these facilities for her, and she and Manny had established all the practice standards, and figured out the ordering procedures, and taken care of each and every case that had come through the system they'd set up.
But she needed to be about the patients, first and foremost.
And her desire for control, in this instance, felt a lot like squatter's rights run amok.
"Yes, I will support you." She nodded firmly. "All the way."
"I know this is hard, Jane."
She laughed in a short burst. "The truth is, this place, this work we do down here, it's my baby."
Funny way to put it, she thought.
"I mean, it's all I have." She frowned. "Hold on, what I'm trying to say is--"
Manny put his hand on her shoulder. "I know exactly what you're talking about. And I just want to get us into a sustainable, marathon-type situation here. We've been sprinting for too long, out of necessity. Now, it's time to change our paradigm for the future."
"I agree. So when do we go talk to the King?"
"I'll make the appointment and we'll go together."
"Just let me know."
It was hard not to view Manny taking the lead on making a staffing schedule as evidence of a failure on her part to police herself and everyone else. And God, she really hated the idea of bringing other people on staff. But she needed to adapt. She would adapt.
Besides, when was the last time, before the previous night and day up in the Sanctuary, that she and Vishous had spent any period of time together?
She hadn't given any weight to the idea she'd abandoned him. She'd always just thought of her job and her patients--and that was the point, wasn't it.
"Anyway," she said sharply. "How were things while I was gone?"
"Good, good. I released Assail."
"You did?" That was my patient, she thought. "I mean, he continued to improve?"
"He was prepared to march out of here on his own if I didn't let him go. Scans all looked good. Functioning was good. I sent them away with the anti-seizure meds, and told them every eight hours or so, you or I were going to come out and check with them over the next week." He smiled at her. "And on that note, I figure you'd want to take the first round on that, am I right?"
"You are--"
Ehlena came running out of the exam room. "We've got two down in the field. Gunshot wound and a broken leg."
"Motherfucker," Manny said. "I'll get the surgical van."
"What's the address?" Jane asked. "And who is injured?"
"Trade and Twenty-first. It's Vishous and Butch. Phury called it in."
For a split second, Jane felt the world spin. Then her training and experience refocused her. "I'll go out ahead and stabilize them."
* * *
--
Sometimes life came at you fast.
Death, too.
As Vishous dragged his useless lower half backward into a doorway, he was cursing the hell out of his left shitkicker.
Not that it was the boot's fault his foot was ninety degrees off angle.
Although actually, the shitkicker was kind of responsible. When he'd gone and done a running tackle on that lesser who'd been shooting at Butch, V'd expected a ground game. The surprise? The fact that the slayer and he had gone on a pummeling roll that had taken them out of the alley and directly into the path of an Uber.
Brakes slamming. Humans freaking out in the Ford Explorer. Lots of skidding on the snow and ice.
The lesser had taken the brunt of the impact on the hood and grille, but V had somehow managed to get his left leg tangled in the front spoiler--courtesy of the bulk and the steel toe of his shitkicker.
Snap! Crackle! Pop!
He couldn't feel anything down there so he didn't know whether it was an ankle dislocation--yay!--or a compound fracture--boo!--but either way, he was out of commission when it came to upright ambulation.
And he was scared as shit about Butch.
"What we got, Phury!" V called out again.
When there was still no response, Vishous sat forward and tried to see what was going on around the corner. His brother had been busy erasing the memories of the humans in that car, and no doubt calling for backup.
Stop fucking around with those humans, he wanted to scream. Get to Butch!
He had no idea what shape his roommate was in, and he couldn't see down the road far enough to get any intel on that. What he did fucking know was that the goddamn slayer's pistol had discharged a number of times before V had taken the undead off the vertical, and there absolutely was the smell of vampire blood in the air.
The cop must have been shot.
"Goddamn it, Phury! Talk to me--"
From out of nowhere, an image of his Jane formed, sure as if his mind was placing a call to the universe and summoning her--
"What have we got," she said as she kneeled before him.
V recoiled. "Huh?"
"Your leg. Are we a dislocation or a fracture?"
"Are you really here?" But then he kicked his own ass. "Don't worry about me! I got this--Butch is shot over there! Go!"
She met him in the eye for a split second, as if she were assessing him. And then she nodded once.
"I've got him. Don't worry. No matter what it is, I'll handle it."
Then she dipped down, kissed him quick and hard, and took off at a dead run.
As he watched her go, a feeling of total pride and security overwhelmed him nearly to the point of tears.
Whatever problems he had had with her focus on her job, he wouldn't have wanted anybody else--not Havers, not Manny, not even himself--going to treat his best friend's gunshot wound. Butch could not possibly be in better hands--
A soft shuffling sound overhead brought his attention up to the fire escape above him, and he flared his nostrils, breathing in deep.
"Sonofabitch," he muttered as he went for his gun.
Before he could shout a warning that they had company, a lesser dropped down on top of him from the iron latticework that went up the side of a building, the heavy weight compressing his spine from the back of his neck all the way to his ass. Courtesy of the impact, his broken/dislocated/whatever'd foot decided to wake up and get talking, and the pain was so great, he blacked out for a split second.
Which was all it took for the slayer to get the gun from his grip and start the fucking party.
TWENTY-SIX
Vitoria made the trip back from Ricardo's West Point house to Caldwell in under twenty-five minutes. Then again, at this late night hour of ten o'clock, there was little traffic to speak of, and she was already refining her route and discovering shortcuts. As she drove along in her rental car, she hummed to the Latino station she had found on the radio, her manicured forefinger tapping on the top of the wheel.
She was not returning to the gallery, however.
No, no. Instead of getting off at the second exit for downtown, she stayed on the highway. A few miles farther north, she removed herself from the interstate and entered a part of the city that was technically suburban, but in terms o
f architecture, more akin to the financial district with its modernist houses made from concrete, steel, and great panes of glass.
This made so much sense, she thought as her old-fashioned map's directions took her deeper into the land of people who preferred to spend their wealth on ugly things to fill cold, barren spaces.
It was absolutely perfect.
After some manner of recalculation, the house she had come in search of was located through the maze of streets--and its location on the very edge of the community's homogeny was logical as well.
Vitoria drove past the address once...made a fat circle by taking a series of left-hand turns...and then passed it again.
The abode was two-storied, with an open room to one side that was all glass, and some manner of wings out to the back. Compared to the others, it was much smaller and on a lot that wasn't quite as well planted or illuminated, an almost-there as opposed to an I-have-arrived.
If it were a plant, one would hope to water and repot it over time so that it could grow into fruition to match the others around it.
But that was not the way real estate worked. And once again, it was as she had expected.
Finding an appropriate place to park was something worth considering seriously, and she settled on a small park a quarter of a mile away. Before exiting the rental, she put the hood up on the black parka she had donned and slipped her burner phone into a pocket with a zipper.
As she got out, she looked around without moving her head. The night was so cold, casual pedestrians were staying indoors, and the few-and-far-betweens who were out with their dogs were tucked into their bodies and glaring at their four-legged friends.
Vitoria strode off, backtracking to the house.
She entered onto the property via the road behind it, slipping through a stand of evergreen bushes that had been clipped into a horizontal wave pattern.
No dog fence, but she could have guessed no pets.
As she halted and surveyed the house, she thought...oh, how she loved all that glass. So much to visualize before she broke in, so much helpful information.
And there it was...there was what she had come for: Yes, the homeowner was on the premises. And drinking a glass of white wine in a black silk robe.
Vitoria stayed where she was, watching, waiting. When no one else appeared, she closed in, crossing over the lawn in the shadows because the house was lit from within, not without.
The garage had an exterior door on its far side, and in another stroke of luck, she did not have to pick a lock. The thing gave way like a good host, allowing her access into a two-car space, which had only one vehicle--a four-or five-year-old white Mercedes--parked directly in the center.
This was just getting easier.
There were three bare wooden steps to the steel door leading to the home's interior, and as Vitoria went up them, first, second...third, she curled up a fist in the black leather gloves she'd put on.
Knock, knock, knock.
Then she stepped back down onto the poured concrete floor and waited, making sure she was off to one side a little.
The door swung open, the figure in the black robe with the glass of pale wine backlit by the lights of the hall behind.
"Hello?" came the impatient demand as the homeowner patted the wall beside them for the light switch. "Jonathan? Did you forget your key--"
Vitoria pulled the trigger on the gun in her hand, discharging three bullets that were silenced beautifully by the suppressor she had screwed onto the muzzle's tip.
Miss Margot Fortescue's arms jerked up, that wine thrown over her shoulder in a splash, her feet tripping over themselves as she fell backward.
Vitoria leapt onto the top step and caught the door, holding it wide.
Miss Fortescue was gasping like a fish, her perfectly pale skin going paler as her blood pressure began to fail, her hands clawing at the gray tile she was on. The slippery robe had fallen open and there were three spots of blood on the white silk nightgown beneath.
Vitoria angled the gun and pulled the trigger three more times, drilling more slugs into that chest, even though she was certain she had accomplished her goal with the first trio.
No more movement after that. No gasping, either.
The door was weighted to close on its own, but as she didn't want any noise, she guided it into place silently.
Then she left as she had come in, rounding the Mercedes and exiting back into the yard. Jogging over to the wavy hedge, she stepped through the bushes--
Stopping short, she did not move.
One of those dog owners and his animal were walking down the street on the other side, the pair moving fast, the owner because he was cold, the standard poodle because he was energized, perhaps by a recent defecation.
Vitoria got her gun back out of its holster. She would much prefer not to use the weapon again, as killing potential witnesses could become an exponential thing, with bodies piling up like cordwood. She would do what she must, however.
If the pair were lucky, the dog would not scent anything. Would not look over and start barking. Would not cause the owner to investigate the source of canine engagement.
And wasn't that the theme of the evening, Vitoria thought. Keeping to oneself and one's own business was, in so many situations, the very best way of ensuring one's long-term health and well-being.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jane hated leaving Vishous wounded and down on the ground, but she knew he was safe in that doorway--and unlike a gunshot wound, what was going on with his leg was not terminal. Plus he was lucid and his color was good.
Moving quickly, she ran out to the road and bypassed the carload of humans Phury was erasing...then jumped over a slayer who was writhing in a pool of black blood...and finally penetrated the darkness of the next alley over to find Butch.
"Hey there," a familiar Bostonian voice said. "Fancy...meeting you here."
She stopped and spun around. "Where are you?"
"Behind the trash cans."
Rerouting, she rushed over to a lineup of metal bins. The cop was sitting upright against the brick, his legs kicked out in front of him, one arm hanging loose, the other grabbing on to a wound that was somewhere up and to the left of his sternum.
Jane shifted her medical backpack off. "How's it going, roomie?"
"Good, good." Butch smiled weakly. "I'm making vacation plans for the spring. Think I'll take Marissa to Fashion Week, and--" He groaned as he tried to move. "Fuck."
"Let me have a look." He allowed her to remove his protective hand and she immediately took a deep breath of relief. "Okay, I believe we're a lot more shoulder than I initially thought--"
The sound of shots ringing out twisted her around. Out in the road proper, as the SUV drove off, Phury had his gun up and was racing into the alley Vishous was in.
"Oh, shit, V!" she said. "That's where he is--"
"I'm good to go!" Butch grunted as he started to stand up. "I'm coming, V--"
Jane shoved the cop back down and held him there. "You are going nowhere."
More shots. And then Phury stumbled back into the road. He was shouting at an attacker Jane couldn't see as he fell to his knees.
Then, like something out of a horror movie, his torso took impacts that jerked him like a puppet, his mane of glorious hair blowing back as he collapsed into the snow.
Jane jumped to her feet and went for her phone. "Stay here--"
"I'm coming, too!"
As more bullets sounded out in a series of pops, she jabbed a forefinger at the male. "Stay. There."
Allowing herself to fade from her corporeal form, she ran directly into the line of fire. The lead slugs that were flying out of the alley V was in passed right through her, leaving ripples as if through water, her non-flesh registering the penetrations and exits in dull flares of heat.
Jane skidded in the snow and dropped down to Phury. Vishous was first and foremost on her mind, but she had to be professional--and triage rules had to a
pply.
As she reached out, Phury gasped and went to fight her off, his flailing arms going through her ghostly form.
"It's me," she said urgently, dropping her face close to his own. "It's Jane."
As he calmed down, she tried to see what was going on with the gunfight. There was more shooting, and she didn't know whether that was good, because Brotherhood backup had arrived, or bad, because other lessers had and V was dead.
"I'm hit," Phury said as he scratched at his leather jacket and tried to rip it open. She helped him with the zipper, and then--
"Thank God," she muttered as she got a gander at his bulletproof vest.
The thing had done its job, catching the bullets and holding them from his flesh. But there still could be internal damage--
The slayer that shot out of the alley was running as if its non-life depended on it. Black blood was pouring out from its throat, a geyser tapped, but the bastard was still up and rolling. And it was armed.
Focusing on Phury, it lifted the gun in its hand, pointing the muzzle at the Brother's head.
Bulletproof vests only worked on the places they were covering. A shot to the cranium was lethal.
And then, just before the lesser pulled its trigger, Jane saw the unbelievable.
Vishous was up on his feet and somehow walking out of the alley. He was bleeding down the side of his face and dragging his body, but he was pissed off and fully engaged in the fight. Hell, he even had daggers in both his fists and the snarl of a beast for an expression.
As things went into slo-mo, Jane had a moment of total pride in her mate. Even injured, he was fighting to protect his brother--and prevailing.
But then it was a case of one, two, three, all at the same time.
The lesser pulled his trigger.
Jane made herself fully physical to block the bullet.
And Vishous threw both of those blades.
* * *
--
Assail would have preferred to be the one driving to the church. As a male, he felt as though that was his duty. His two female companions, however, took a different opinion of tradition--and so he was in the Range Rover's passenger seat whilst Marisol had the wheel.
At least he had a lovely view to enjoy. In the glow of the dash, his female's profile was so beautiful, she arrested him completely, stopping everything but his heart. Even with that baseball cap pulled low, he enjoyed the curve of her cheek, the lushness of her lips, the column of her throat above her parka...