Blood and Lace: Chapter 9

She was still going to go.

Of course she is. Nicholas felt a pang of irritation at his own surprise. Why would he think otherwise? Their deft teamwork in getting the police to leave had been exciting—he was positive he’d even seen a glint of mirth during the blood phobia bit—but their cooperation had been a matter of survival. They weren't suddenly partners in crime or…anything else. At least Della hadn't abandoned him when the cops showed up; she’d been surprisingly considerate for a blood-thirsty predator.

He lifted his eyes to look at her. She sat with her elbows on the table and hands clasped just below her chin. One shoulder was slightly lower and her new sweater had slipped to reveal the graceful line of a clavicle. He followed it to her delicate throat and then found his gaze drawn higher, to a lovely feminine chin and full kissable lips—and eyes that had noticed his noticing. Della raised one dark brow, expressionless.

“Just...admiring your sweater,” he mumbled.

“Another clothing compliment? I suppose I'm glad you approve…you paid for them.”

“I think I would have remembered—” He frowned. “Oh. You went through my wallet.”

She gave the smallest nod.

“That means you found…”

“The hundred, yes.” She wet her lips, a gesture he was starting to recognize as uncertainty.

The Gilda Devota training had gotten this part so wrong. According to the Guild, vampires were remorseless killers who felt only bloodlust. But he was starting to learn that Della had a subtle palette of emotions—easily missed by a casual onlooker: the tug at the corner of her mouth that indicated irritation, the infinitesimal tightening around her eyes as she pondered a difficult question. But none of her emotional hues made his heart beat like when she licked her perfect lips to gain a few seconds.

“I’m not a thief,” she said suddenly. “Circumstances required the money. I’ll see to it you receive proper repayment.”

“I wasn’t going to accuse you,” he said gently. “I stashed that money for…circumstances.” It was as good a segue as any to broach her impending departure. “So you have a secure place? Access to additional funds? I just…” I don’t want you to leave. “…I don’t want you to rush off without a plan.”

Della stared down at the surface of the table. She idly grabbed his salt shaker, a tacky ceramic barrel with a rodeo clown peeking out, and spun it. Again she licked her lips—then her eyes abruptly flicked to his. “You should know, Nicholas…I can hear your heartbeat.”

He rubbed his eyes in a vain effort to hide. A bloom of embarrassment settled in his chest. “I’m…tired. Not at my best.” After several seconds he heard the sound of the barrel spinning again.

“I have multiple sanctuaries in the city,” she continued. “I simply have to confirm they’re secure. After…recent events…my resources are temporarily unavailable.”

Nicholas was smart enough not to ask for details, but it took an effort. The truth was that he was desperate to know more. About her. About vampire society at large—did they even have a society? What was the strange mark on her wrist about? What did it feel like to use the yoke? How intense was their aversion to large bodies of water? He didn't want tactical briefings from his cell’s intelligence team, or dry scientific reports about “observed behavior” and “known vulnerabilities.” He wanted to hear about vampires from a vampire. From Della.

And she’s leaving. He set his hands on the table. Della was still toying with the shaker, thinking.

“Do you need money?” he asked softly. “More money, I mean?”

She tipped it over on its side. A pause. “I don’t require your charity.”

“No charity,” he replied. “You’ll pay me back.”

Della’s pale blue eyes met his and his breath caught. Another twinge of embarrassment that he ruthlessly quashed. I’m sleep deprived. She’ll just have to deal with my heart.

“I don’t have much time,” she said cautiously.

Nicholas gathered himself, then pushed up to his feet. He shuffled across the kitchen and opened the drawer next to his fridge. Out came the stack of appliance instruction manuals he never used. “Here it is.” He held up a DVD case, then tossed it on the table.

Della picked it up with a trace of humor. “Scars of Dracula?” she read aloud.

“I’m a Hammer Horror fan.” Nicholas grinned, then sobered. “There’s a little over four hundred in there. Would be more, but I had to get a new battery for the truck.”

She opened the case and regarded the folded bills tucked neatly within the inside cover. After a brief hesitation, she slid them out and pocketed them. “Thank you, Nicholas.” He couldn’t immediately identify the emotions in her voice.

“And take this.” He quickly set it next to her hand. The spare key had never been used and gleamed silver under the kitchen lights. She stared at it for a moment and then stood.

“Della.” They were face-to-face, only a foot apart. She looked at him, expressionless. When she wasn't pretending to be human, the sheer power of her presence was daunting. The command, the beauty, the raw longevity he beheld made him want to turn away. He forced himself not to flinch, to meet her gaze evenly. “Please take it. Just in case. It would make me feel better.”

She kept staring at him, completely opaque now. Unreadable. His resolve faltered. He abruptly looked down, suddenly feeling winded and self-conscious. But his heart leapt when he saw her delicate fingers slide the key into her palm and grip it. She stepped around him and made her way into the living room.

He stumbled after her, holding himself in the kitchen doorway while she gathered up her shopping. She turned away and put her hand on the doorknob.

“You’ve shown me both mercy and kindness, strange hunter. I won't forget it, and I will repay you.” She paused, not quite looking over her shoulder. “There’s one piece of information I will share. Your attack on the townhouse? Other vampires set it up. You were used as executioners. Tools.”

Nicholas was bemused, then realization rocked him. He suddenly felt woozy, and staggered before bracing his body. “What?” he heard himself say.

“You hunters should inspect your home,” she replied. “It has rats.” Della opened the door and stepped through.

“That can’t…Della—”

“Goodbye, Nicholas.” The door closed and she was gone.

Nicholas stood for some time, trying to marshal his thoughts. The air felt charged and expectant against his flushed skin, like he was standing outside and watching a storm roll in.

“Does this hurt?”

Nicholas didn't have to fake the hiss of pain when Dr. Yun touched his lower back. He wrapped his arms around the exam table like he could pull himself inside it. “Feels peachy,” he said with a strained voice. It wasn't a real attempt to deceive, he was just being a smartass.

Yun chuckled. “I’ll bet.” He shifted his hands to either side of Nicholas's spine. “Brace up now, Nick, I need to check your ribs.”

The pain in his back immediately tripled in intensity. Nicholas failed to conceal a cry as he pressed into the table’s surface in a futile effort to add some distance. The good doctor adjusted to follow his every flinch. He wanted to ask if Yun was examining his ribs by directly stripping away muscle, but it hurt too much to speak. At last, mercifully, the doctor stepped away. Nicholas heard the sound of his gloves peeling off.

“Ribs are okay, but you have one hell of a back sprain.”

“Thanks…for making that clear, Doc.” The paper on the exam table crinkled as Nicholas painfully straightened into a sit.

“Easy now.” Dr. Peter Yun was a large Korean-American man with kind eyes and a pleasing baritone voice—luckily this was one of his two clinic days at the warehouse.

Nicholas began gingerly pulling his T-shirt on. “What’s the prognosis?”

“Based on your—”

The exam room door flew open and a woman filled the doorway. Silence descended like it was her invited guest. Nicholas suppressed a sigh.

Her outfit was almost colorless: white jacket, white pants, and a metallic slate blouse that perfectly complemented her elegantly styled silver-gray hair. Her face was remote and refined, an imposing modern Athena. The only thing that wasn’t colorless were her eyes, a rich brown color that exactly matched Nicholas’s own.

“Hello, mother.” Nicholas said.

Her eyes flicked to Dr. Yun, then back to him. A reminder.

“Director Bowers,” he amended.

She gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement, then turned to Yun. “Peter. How is he?”

The doctor cleared his throat. “He’s got a fairly serious back sprain, Ms. Bowers. Whatever you had him do, he did too much of it.” He tried a folksy smile, but it made little headway.

His mother offered a single noncommittal syllable and crossed her arms.

“Nick will be fine,” Dr. Yun assured her, then looked stern, “but I want him off his feet for the next two days. Give those muscles a chance to recover.”

His mother’s lips compressed to a perfectly flat line. It was an expression Nicholas saw so often that he’d given it a nickname: the minus. When directed at him—like it was now—the minus meant his personal stock with her was in the red. “Don’t leave until you’ve come to my office,” she warned. Then, arms still folded, she walked out.

Dr. Yun gave a low whistle and turned to Nicholas with a sympathetic smile. “You know, Nick, it does me good whenever I have to treat you.” He leaned in, and his smile turned conspiratorial. “Your mom may be the only one tougher than mine.”

Nicholas felt a grin steal over his face. It was weak, but it helped scrub away the permanent grimace he’d been wearing since waking up two hours late. Score one for Dr. Yun—his bedside manner was unconventional, but effective. “I’m thrilled to make someone happy, Doc.”

Yun chuckled. “Do you need anything for the pain?”

“I think I’ll be okay. Thanks for checking me out.”

He nodded. “Get some sleep, okay? And don’t spend the next two days doing paperwork. Get your head out of the game and rest.” He cocked his head. “I don’t like your color. It suggests you’ve been working yourself to exhaustion.”

Nicholas nodded and looked contrite, grateful he wasn’t hooked up to a blood pressure monitor. Just a quart low, Doc, he thought sardonically. He slid off the exam table and walked into the hallway at the best speed he could manage: a shuffling half-step.

He cursed the timing when he spotted Mike sitting on one of the chairs outside. The other man's eyes were red and puffy and Nicholas didn’t need to ask what was wrong. Their cell’s scouting was performed under the guise of yardwork, and Fall allergy season was in full swing.

“Pollen rough this year?” Nicholas asked, trying his best at a friendly overture.

“Wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t covering extra shifts,” Mike said in a dour voice. He turned to face Nicholas and abruptly stiffened. “On second thought…” He looked Nicholas over carefully. “…forget I said it. You look like shit, man.”

Nicholas gave a sarcastic smile and pointed in the doorway. “The doctor will see you now.” He continued down the hall at the same awkward gait. It wasn’t so bad, moving like an octogenarian. It gave a man time to think.

You hunters should inspect your home. It has rats.

Della’s words had settled in his bones, chilling him with the implications. The warning had been one of the reasons his sleep had suffered. Her abrupt departure had been the other. Don't think about it. One shitty thing at a time.

Even though he’d decided to trust Della, Nicholas was aware that their haphazard alliance had limits. “Tipping off a human hunter” should have been one of them, but whoever had placed her in that townhouse had evidently forfeited any claim to vampiric loyalty. And her warning was bolstered by something else: he’d also thought something was wrong that night. Even before he’d stumbled across Della, there’d been the high number of ghouls, the condition of the so-called safe house…

“Nick. Hold up.”

Nicholas rotated awkwardly to avoid using his back. Mike was strolling to meet him, a bundle of glossy paper clutched in one hand.

“Doc Yun said you left these.”

He brandished the new O’Donnell Weed Killer Max literature, succinctly summarized across twelve lurid pamphlets. Ricky had handed the packet to Nicholas with a mingled look of relief and apology just before he’d visited the exam room. Nicholas hadn’t consciously left them behind, but he wasn't thrilled to be reunited.

“Oh…yeah,” he said. “Thanks.” Mike handed them over with a smirk and started back. Seized by a sudden hunch, Nicholas called after him. “Hey man, can I ask you something?”

“Kind of on a schedule,” Mike muttered, but he stopped and waited for Nicholas to limp closer.

“It’s about the raid.” Nicholas kept his voice low, but carefully casual. “The door you guys took out in the basement.”

Mike looked at him, a faint suspicion stirring. “What about it?”

“Did you actually see the leech close it, or was it locked when you arrived?”

The other hunter folded his arms. “What’s this about?” His tone had shifted in a decidedly unfriendly direction. “If you’re trying to make the rest of us look bad ‘cause you couldn't handle clean-up—”

“It’s nothing like that.” Nicholas refused to rise to the bait despite a flare of anger. This was important, and a run-of-the-mill asshole wasn’t going to derail him. “You guys were awesome that night. I’m just trying to make up for my injury by doing some analysis.”

“Oh.” Mike considered it, then shrugged. “It was already closed when we got there. Didn't even know there was a leech behind it till we got in.”

“What kind of door was it? One of those heavy security ones?”

The other hunter nodded. “Couldn’t kick it down, that’s for damn sure.”

“And the lock was on your side? Standard key lock?”

Mike frowned, thinking. “I guess. Yeah…that’s right. It was.”

Nicholas felt his pulse speed up. “Okay. Last question: did you notice the other side? Had the leech barred it from inside the room?”

“Dude, after we got done with it, there was no other side!” Mike laughed and Nicholas did his best to join in. Fuck.

“Thanks, Mike. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, sure thing. Look, Nick…” He clapped his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder in what was probably intended as a friendly gesture. Nicolas winced. “…you were always great at the intelligence stuff. Maybe data analysis is more your thing, you know?”

Mike grinned and headed back towards the exam room. Nicholas watched him in silence, dimly aware of a rustling sound. He wondered if Mike knew that his mother had once said something very similar. An ache in his hand made him look down in surprise. The rustling was coming from the pamphlets being crushed. He relaxed his grip with a loud sigh, and made a half-hearted effort to uncrumple the abused stack.

Nicholas whipped back around, welcoming the responding flare of back pain as a distraction. He didn't have time to deal with Mike. And he refused to even think about Della. He’d been refusing since last night. Wouldn’t speculate on where she was. Wouldn’t consider if she’d found a safe place to shelter during the day. Wouldn’t picture the secret smile he’d glimpsed for half-a-heartbeat when he’d made that joke about blood phobia.

And he definitely wouldn't imagine her in those yoga pants minus the sweater…or minus the pants. The rustling sound again. “Damn it.” The O’Donnell line was taking a beating today. He resumed heading towards the Director’s office.

The information he’d learned from Mike wasn’t conclusive, but it lined up with his suspicions. Maybe the place in the basement hadn’t been some sort of vampire panic room. Maybe it had been a cell. Locked from the outside. A present for hunters just waiting to be unwrapped. It fit, but he needed more information, and he knew where he could find it.

He knocked on the door to his mother’s office.

“Enter.”

The office mirrored its owner. Everything was elegant and some shade of white or gray. The darkest items were the ash-colored filing cabinets taking up an entire wall. Their most sensitive files were locked there—including a comprehensive collection of property maps, structural plans, and utility grid overlays; Mother insisted on planning all major raids personally despite the punishing workload of running one of the largest Gilda Devota cells in the country.

She was seated behind her white table desk, face partially occluded by an imposing silver monitor. The tell-tale soft clicks let him know she was writing an email or report. Without waiting for a response, Nicholas slid into one of the two modernist white chairs facing it. They were low-slung, giving her a significant height advantage. Intentional, no doubt.

He leaned over until her face came into view, appraising her while she typed. Was his mother the kind of person who would work with—or for—vampires? Her position would certainly enable any level of collaboration. He took a long uncomfortable moment to consider it.

No.

Mother was ambitious, but the eradication of vampires was the closest thing to a holy calling she had. He couldn’t see her working with them even as a means to an end.

You never thought you would work with vampires.

The thought disturbed him. Nicholas sucked in a breath, staring down at the pale carpet. Was that what he was doing? His initial actions hadn’t been collaboration—Della had asked to die and he’d refused. And the things that happened afterward, the things that were happening in his head now, didn’t make him feel like a traitor. It was different. Wasn’t it?

“Nicholas.”

He startled and met his mother’s assessing gaze. The minus was gone, replaced by the more common “vague disapproval.”

“Where were you just now?”

“Came straight here after the exam.”

“I was referring to your thoughts.”

Nicholas blinked. “I…was thinking about the raid. From an analytical standpoint. There were aspects that make it unique in our case studies.”

“Hm.” Mother set her elbows on the desk and laid her forearms flat, one over the other. “Perhaps you should have attended the debriefing.”

“I wanted to.” Nicholas could hear a sullen tone creeping in. God, the woman could strip his emotional defenses with a glance. If he wasn’t careful he’d end this meeting feeling eight-years-old again. That had been the year she’d told him that his reliance on toys and make-believe was unhealthy.

“You know that this life requires sacrifice, Nicholas,” she said, “especially for hunters.”

“Mother…” Nicholas began rubbing his temples. “…this isn’t a case of me failing to ‘play through the pain.’ I’m well aware of the need to push past my physical limits—my back sprain should be proof of that. But yesterday the pain wouldn’t let me focus, which is kind of a necessity for any post-mission analysis.”

“Leaving that aside,” she answered, “I also have concerns about your performance on WHIRLWIND REAP. You were injured on your first cleared mission in a support role.” She brought her arms up, folding them in disapproval. “You were the second-worse casualty in the entire raid. The death of Linden was the first.”

“We had a record number of kills, Mom!” Nicholas welcomed the exasperation and anger. It helped counteract the guilt of lying about the real cause of his injury and appearance. “I lugged eight bodies up and down stairs over a short period of time.” And a bonus body wrapped in heavy carpet up three flights. “One person on clean-up isn’t ideal for those numbers—our success simply outstripped our protocols. But if you’d rather believe I’ve let you down, fine.”

“Self pity isn't an attractive trait, Nicholas.”

I met somebody, he suddenly wanted to tell her. She’s incredible and terrifying and I think she's all alone. Also she’s a vampire. I let her feed from me and I'd do it again if she asked. I think it may be more than just a crush I’m feeling. Want to offer some motherly advice? Or just be hopeful for me? He glowered at the floor, teeth clenched against the words.

“You’re off the next operation,” Her tone was cool and brusque, calculated for maximum impact.

“What?” Nicholas shot up out of the chair. “I performed my duty in full!” He struggled to keep his voice under control. “I've already explained my reasoning for the injury. You can’t revoke—”

“I am the Director of this cell.” Her voice lowered as she spoke, which only made each word more powerful. More final. “I have full authority to make staff changes wherever and whenever I see fit. Do you dispute that, Mr. Howell?” The use of his surname—his father’s—was how he knew she was furious.

Nicholas could hear his blood in his ears. An angry ball of adrenaline-fueled tension had started to pulse in his gut. He imagined suddenly sweeping the monitor to the floor, then tipping her cabinets over like dominoes, one by one. It was a petty fantasy, but undeniably satisfying.

“No,” he finally managed. He held his body rigid and kept his eyeline on the far wall.

She remained silent for several seconds, letting him simmer in his useless anger. “I’m not taking you off the active hunter list,” she added.

Nicholas twitched in surprise, hating himself for feeling relief and even a trace of pathetic gratitude. “You’re not?”

“Not at this time,” she said with infuriating vagueness. “You did, as you say, ‘perform your duty.’ So you’re still receiving your hunter designation. It’s up to you to prove you’ve earned it. In the meantime, I’m shifting you to active reconnaissance when you return to duty.”

He nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

She leaned forward, and for a moment it seemed like she was about to say something more, then her mouth tightened and she looked down at her desk. “We’re done, unless there’s anything else.”

Nicholas shook his head. He started for the door and then halted, remembering his ultimate goal. He turned back. “Wait, there was one thing. I'd like to access the planning for WHIRLWIND REAP. I want to get started on a case study while I’m down.”

She considered it long enough to make him nervous. “I’ll make the files accessible over the VPN.”

Nicholas felt a small flush of satisfaction. That’s one thing at least.

“But make sure you memorize the new O’Donnell line as well.”

Shit. Nothing was ever free. Nicholas held up the rumpled brochures and waggled them in answer. Then he opened the door and got the hell out.