Requiem for the Dead dc-5 Page 26

  I laughed. "I'd go over there and kiss you, but getting up seems like too much trouble."

  "Save your strength. You look like hell."

  "Thank you."

  "You, on the other hand," he said to Marcus, "look like shit on toast."

  Marcus snorted. "You're too kind."

  "You almost got yourself killed." Milo's frustration was palatable, and it seemed to reach six feet across the cubicle and slap Marcus in the face. Because Marcus did the impossible—he actually looked chagrined.

  Marcus didn't hide the pain it caused him to stand up. He wobbled a bit, and Kismet's hand jerked toward him, as though she wanted to help. She drew back instead. Marcus was too proud to lean on her, and this was something he seemed determined to do. Each step was an effort for his battered, abused body, but I'll be damned if he didn't seem to stand taller the moment he was in front of Milo.

  "Vale deserved his fate and more for what he did to you," Marcus said. "I would suffer this and worse to see your pain avenged."

  Milo was dumbstruck. He blinked at Marcus, a little saucer-eyed, until something clicked home. The blank stare became a tender smile, and suddenly I felt like an intruder on a private moment. Even Kismet shuffled away from the pair, coming closer to the side of my bed. Wyatt's arms tightened around my waist, and I squeezed his hands.

  The moment stayed suspended in time, a beautiful thing shared by two lonely souls who'd found something that made them happy. And then Marcus brushed his knuckles across Milo's cheek on his right hand's trip around to clasp the back of his neck. He kissed Milo. An action both consoling and possessing, gentle and harsh. Marcus was making a statement to everyone that Milo was his.

  And Milo, bless his battered heart, kissed right Marcus back.

  Wyatt stayed with me long after Kismet and Marcus took Milo back to his room to rest. We sat together while my body slowly healed itself. The cut on my throat was long gone, the various scrapes and bruises distant memories. My gut, on the other hand, felt like someone was pinching and twisting the skin and muscle, with tingling for good measure.

  "I can't decide if this is a record for me," I said.

  "What's that?" Wyatt asked.

  "In the last forty-eight hours, I've been shot, stabbed, and julienned, not to mention the whole Juliet potion and the beat-down Autumn gave me."

  He sighed, then kissed the side of my neck. "You're giving me gray hair, you know that, right?"

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "It's the life we chose, Evy. Every single day, I'm grateful for the healing gift that Horzt gave you. It's kept you in my life this long."

  "Hopefully it'll keep me around a while longer. If that's what you want?"

  "It is. I may be angry at what you did, but I'll get over it at some point."

  "I hate that you have to get over anything."

  "I know. I also need your help with something."

  "Oh?"

  "I have three teenagers to take care of now."

  I twisted a little in his arms to look him in the eye. "What the hell do I know about raising teenagers? I was a hellion when I was sixteen."

  "So was I. I figure between the two of us, we know everything we don't want them to do."

  "Good point. So do you think Astrid will let them stay here?"

  Wyatt shrugged. "I don't know. I hope so. I hope the Assembly grants them mercy. If not… I'll deal with it."

  Meaning: I go where they go.

  And I went with Wyatt.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  11:40 a.m.

  Bad news always seems to ride the coattails of good news.

  The good news came when Wyatt returned to the infirmary with a tray of sandwiches and bottled water for the small group of us holding vigil in Milo's room.

  "Eulan called," he said as he deposited the tray on the rolling side table. "They removed Eleri from stasis and dosed her with the gnome cure. He says she's showing signs of improvement."

  Relief burned in my chest, and it bubbled up in a burst of laughter. "Really? It's going to work?"

  "So far so good. If Eleri continues to improve, they'll slowly reawaken the other vampires and give them the cure, too."

  I was too tired to jump up and down so I did a few mental gymnastics to wear out my excitement over the news. More than saving the lives of vampires I considered friends, this meant that Walter Thackery didn't get the last laugh. He didn't win.

  "We owe Horzt a huge debt," Kismet said. She'd brought a bunch of chairs into Milo's room for all of us: me, Wyatt, Marcus, herself. Even Astrid had joined the group, her midsection bandaged tight from the bullet she'd taken. Milo had been given a big dose of painkillers after his adventure into the exam area, and he dozed in and out of the conversations.

  Astrid and Marcus had been treated a little while ago by a Therian doctor named Hunt who'd been brought in to assist while Dr. Vansis was otherwise occupied saving Tybalt's life. The only news we'd had on Tybalt in the last few hours was a terse "He's hanging on" from Hunt when he joined Dr. Vansis in the operating room.

  Tybalt wasn't going out without a fight.

  We ate while we digested the news that the vampires had a chance to come through this. I had no idea if the infection would cause lasting damage or side effects. No one would know right away. All we could do was hope for a positive outcome.

  Others wandered in and out, seeking news we didn't have, and offering their respects to Marcus for kicking Vale's ass so solidly. Kyle and Lynn, Leah and Jackson, Shelby, Sandburg, Rufus, Nevada, Morgan, Carly, even Paul with his bandaged shoulder—all familiar faces.

  Astrid watched everyone with a new glint in her eyes that worried me: distrust. Autumn had broken our trust, wormed her way into our organization, and then tried to kill our own. Human or Therian, we were part of the Watchtower. We were a family. Autumn had placed a fracture at the base of that family, forever altering the solidity of its foundation. And I didn't know how to start repairing it.

  Finding that sense of trust again was only one item on a long list of things that needed my attention. The Frosts were still in the compound, under guard, hopefully coming to grips with everything I'd told them earlier. Aurora, Ava, and Joseph were still missing. Nessa and her goblins had slowed their attacks on humans, but once word got out that my latest death had been faked, I knew she'd be at it again.

  The one thing we were waiting for word on, the thing I had no hand in affecting one way or another, was the naming of Elder Dane's successor. The Assembly was in session. We'd know as soon as a decision was made.

  For now, the only thing getting my full and undivided attention was Tybalt. And the people around me. The people who cared about him the most.

  Dr. Vansis appeared in the doorway like a ghost, standing where no one had been an instant before. He wore stained scrubs, and I tried to ignore the splotches of red in favor of studying his face. His expression was completely neutral, even his eyes empty of any actual emotion.

  My insides churned, and I reached for Wyatt's hand.

  "There was a complication," Dr. Vansis said. The tension level in the room skyrocketed with those four words. "Tybalt's injuries from the knife were serious, but not catastrophic. However, as I repaired the damage his heart rate and breathing became dangerously erratic. Keeping him stable was difficult. His internal systems were shutting down."

  "Why?" Kismet asked, her voice sharp, cold, begging him to not say what he was taking care to explain.

  "Dr. Hunt found an injection site behind Tybalt's ear. I won't know for certain without further testing, but I believe he was poisoned."

  "Vale." Marcus's voice cut like a blade, fury blazing in his eyes. "The coward."

  Vale had played his final wild card, a trick none of us had expected.

  "Do you have an antidote?" Milo asked, startling me. I hadn't realized he was awake and listening. "Something that will help him?"

  Dr. Vansis shook his head. My throat tightened, certain without having heard the words
yet. Wyatt held my hand tighter. I couldn't breathe.

  "I'm sorry," Dr. Vansis said. "But Tybalt passed away a few minutes ago."

  "That's not funny," Milo said.

  "I assure you, it was not a jest. Perhaps if I had known about the poison earlier, the outcome would be different."

  "It can't be true." Milo's helpless gaze swung from Marcus to Kismet, to everyone in the room. I wanted to comfort him, to tell him it was a joke, that Tybalt was fine, but I couldn't. I was too stunned to move, much less offer support to Milo. Or Kismet, who looked like she'd been punched in the stomach.

  "I'm very sorry," Dr. Vansis said, and I suspected he meant it. He left an extremely stunned group behind.

  A heartbeat later, Kismet bolted after him.

  My vision blurred. I blinked hard and didn't bother to wipe away the tears that trickled down my cheeks to my neck. Tybalt had fought so hard, overcome so much to take his place in the Watchtower's elite. He would have survived the knife wound. He deserved better than his body shutting down from the effects of an unknown poison.

  He deserved a warrior's death, goddammit.

  Rage and grief bubbled up, and I started to cry in earnest. I didn't care who saw. The distant sounds of choked sobs told me I wasn't the only one breaking down. Wyatt surrounded me, pulled me to the floor, into his arms. I clung to him and cried, hating the unfairness of it all. Hating the idea of facing this constant war without a capable colleague by my side.

  Most of all, I huddled there and mourned my friend.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Thursday, September 4

  10:00 a.m.

  Tybalt's memorial service at the Watchtower was held the day before, giving friends and coworkers a chance to celebrate his life and mourn his passing. We held a private funeral for him on Thursday, at Kismet's request. She arranged for him to be interred in St. Matthew's cemetery, right next to Lucas Moore, and she paid for it all herself. Memorials for two men she'd loved deeply, and in very different ways. One of them a lover, the other as a brother.

  "I owe Tybalt nothing less," she'd told me yesterday.

  A handful of us gathered around the freshly turned earth to pay our respects to our fallen comrade. Astrid and Kismet stood together, finding solace in each other's company. Kismet had aged these last few days, the stress of it all adding a weight to her shoulders and lines around her eyes. Green eyes that had gone cold.

  Milo had been allowed to come, under strict instructions from Dr. Vansis that he keep his butt in a wheelchair and not over-exert himself. Marcus stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder, ever the protective warrior. They both looked beaten, exhausted. They'd each lost a brother.

  I'd lost one too, and I didn't know what to do with my emotions. Tybalt had joined the Triads only a few weeks before I did. He'd been one of the Mercy's Lot Hunters. We hadn't always been friends. I'd punched him in the face once, years ago, when tensions were high between his Triad and mine. Hell, he'd even tried to kill me under orders from the Triad brass.

  None of that mattered, because we'd fought side-by-side for months, and I'd seen his heart. And now he was gone. One more friend I'd outlived.

  Wyatt's arm slipped around my waist, and I leaned into the heat of him, grateful for the support. The Lupa pups, healing and nervous as ever, were waiting in the car just down the hill, near the cemetery entrance. He didn't like leaving them alone for an extended period of time, and the Assembly hadn't made a ruling on them yet. Until he knew something for certain, he was keeping them close.

  I didn't mind it as much as I thought I would. They were good kids. John was especially sweet and eager to please, and they knew the stakes were high. Good behavior was their best chance of not living as fugitives from all Therians everywhere, forever. Wyatt would never let them be executed. He'd take them and leave.

  And I'd go with him.

  No one read Bible verses or sang hymns or recited poetry. There was no need. We'd planned a very simple service.

  Kismet picked up a small box from the ground. From the box, she handed each of us a shot glass. She kept one for herself, then placed the seventh on the small stone marker that simply said "Tybalt Monahan, Brother and Protector." She produced a bottle of whiskey from a paper bag and carefully poured a shot into each glass, including the seventh.

  With the whiskey poured, we six raised our glasses.

  "To Tybalt," Kismet said.

  "To Tybalt," we said in unison.

  The whiskey burned its way down my throat to warm my stomach.

  We left the seventh glass behind, untouched.

  Wyatt didn't lead me straight back to the car, which surprised me. We detoured into another part of the cemetery, and he stopped in front of a simple headstone with the word Petros on it. I studied it, not comprehending, until I looked down at the other words engraved in the marble. Delius. Corissa. Dates of death exactly the same, almost twelve years ago.

  "My parents," he said. He pointed to two smaller headstones on the left. Salena. His sister, who died with their parents. Nicandro. His brother, who died almost a year later.

  "I don't come here often," he said when I didn't speak. I had no idea what to say. "The past is the past, and I need to let it go. Andreas Petros died a long time ago. Even Wyatt Truman, the person I became after, died with the Lupa infection."

  Hearing him say that hurt something deep inside of me, even though I knew more than anyone how true it was. How death wasn't always physical or permanent. Sometimes it left you changed and all you could do was adapt.

  "I want to let go of everything, but I can't. Not yet."

  "Why can't you?" I asked.

  "Because I still don't have one answer that I've wanted since my family was murdered."

  Oh God. "The second bounty hunter."

  "Yes."

  Twelve years ago, a group of Halfies had stormed a Greek restaurant and begun killing and torturing the occupants, including Wyatt's parents and sister. A pair of bounty hunters who'd been tracking the Halfies found them, killed the Halfies, and then made the awful decision to burn the place down—survivors included. The knowledge of vampires couldn't get out, and no one would be able to forget what they'd seen. That was how the bounty hunter in charge justified murder.

  Ten months later, Andreas and Nicandro Petros had found the lead bounty hunter, and he paid with his life. The second bounty hunter had never been identified.

  At least, not until a few months ago, when Rufus St. James told me in confidence that he had been the second bounty hunter. Young, inexperienced, deferring to the guy who'd taken him in and was teaching him the ropes, he'd gone along with the slaughter of innocents. Rufus had kept that secret from Wyatt for a decade. Now both of us were keeping it from him.

  "How do you know he's still alive?"

  "I don't. I also don't know that he's dead." He took my hand. "Evy, I want to let the past go. I want to focus on now. On you and the boys and keeping a lid on the pressure cooker that this city has become."

  "But you need to know first."

  "Yeah, I do. Does it make sense?"

  "It makes perfect sense. You know I'd give you the name if I could." So damned true. Rufus hadn't sworn me to secrecy. Sometimes I thought he'd told me so I would tell Wyatt, and then it would be out. But this wasn't my secret to tell, and if Rufus wanted absolution, he needed to see the priest himself.

  "I wish I'd been able to know your family," I said.

  "You'd have loved them. We were a very stereotypically boisterous, food-loving Greek family. My mother was an excellent cook. Her stuffed grape leaves were the best in the country." His voice cracked under the weight of so many memories, so much loss.

  I wrapped my arms around him, and we held each other for a while. Enjoyed this brief moment away from the rest of the world and the dangerous lives we led. For a few minutes, we were the only people who existed. The only people who mattered.

  Movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I pulled back, startled
that someone had approached and gotten so close without either of us noticing. My heart jumped at the familiar blue eyes staring back at me.

  "Phineas?"

  He smiled. Phineas el Chimal looked exactly the same as when he'd left five weeks ago and seemed none the worse for wear. He wore casual clothes and didn't look tense or worried. Only relieved.

  "You're home," I said and launched myself at him. He caught me in a tight hug, and I inhaled the mountain stream smell of him, the scent of flying and freedom.

  "I'm home," Phineas said. He pulled out of the hug, probably because of the warning growl from my overprotective boyfriend. "I heard about Tybalt, Evy. My sincere condolences."

  "Thank you. Not that I don't like you being back, but why did you come home? Did you find more Coni?"

  His expression shuttered. "No. I had no luck in that search. I did, however, find something that will help in our struggles with the Fey."

  "What is it?"

  "Allow me to show you?"

  Wyatt and I followed him down a gravel path toward an older section of the cemetery. A handful of garden crypts stood here, aged and mossy, beneath the shade of an ancient weeping willow. Phineas paused next to one of the crypts.

  "If you pull a dead body out, Phin, I swear—" I began.

  "My surprise is very much alive," Phineas said. "I need you both to keep an open mind. I believe my companion holds the key to defeating Amalie."

  I glanced at Wyatt, whose nose was wrinkled in a way that suggested he smelled fresh dog shit. He looked more suspicious than alarmed though.

  "Okay, I trust you," I said to Phin. "What's the surprise?"

  "Brevin," he said.

  I didn't know the word, which turned out to be a name. A small figure walked out from behind the crypt. About four feet tall, his body inhumanly thin, like he'd been pulled and stretched. Silver hair. Pointed ears and sharp, angular eyebrows.

  I'd seen a creature like this once, many months ago. It had sought to destroy me, to destroy everyone I loved, and to stick a demon in my body when it could no longer have Wyatt's. This wasn't Tovin, because Tovin was long dead.