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Closet was nothing but black clothes, big boots, and a fireproof cabinet. With a lock on it.
The bathroom didn't offer any escape. There was no window and no vent big enough for her to squeeze through.
She came back out. Man, this wasn't a bedroom. It was a cell with a mattress.
And this was not a dream.
Her adrenal glands got kicking, her heart going gidda-wild in her chest. She told herself that the police must be looking for her. Had to be. With all the security cameras and personnel at the hospital, someone must have seen them take her and the patient out of there. Plus, if she missed her interview, questions would start rolling.
Trying to get a grip, Jane closed herself in the bathroom, the lock of which had been removed, natch. After using the facilities, she washed her face and grabbed a towel that was hanging off the back of the door. As she put her nose into the folds, she caught an amazing scent that stopped her dead. It was the smell of the patient. He must have used this, probably before he went out and took that bullet in the chest.
She closed her eyes and breathed in deep. Sex was the first and only thing that came to her mind. God, if they could bottle this, these boys could feed their gambling and drug habits by going legit.
Disgust with herself, she dropped the towel like it was trash and caught a flash behind the toilet. Bending down to the marble tile, she found a straight-edged razor, the old-fashioned kind that made her think of Western movies. As she picked it up, she stared at the shiny blade.
Now, this was a fine weapon, she thought. A damn fine weapon.
She slipped it in her white coat just as she heard the bedroom door open.
Leaving the bathroom, she kept her hand in her pocket and her eyes sharp. Red Sox was back, and he had a pair of duffels with him. The load didn't seem substantial, at least not for someone as big as him, but he struggled under it.
"This should be a good enough start," he said in a raspy, tired voice, the word start pronounced staht in classic Bostonian fashion.
"Start what?"
"Treating him."
"Excuse me?"
Red Sox bent down and opened one of the bags. Inside were boxes of bandages and gauze wraps. Latex gloves. Plastic mauve bedpans. Bottles of pills.
"He told us what you'd need."
"Did he." Damn it. She had no interest in playing doc. It was a big enough job being Kidnap Victim, thank you very much.
The guy straightened carefully, like he was lightheaded. "You're going to take care of him."
"Am I?"
"Yeah. And before you ask, yes, you're going to make it out of here alive."
"Assuming I do the medical thing, right?"
"Pretty much. But I'm not worried. You'd do it anyway, wouldn't you."
Jane stared at the guy. Not much showed of his face underneath the baseball cap, but his jaw had a curve to it she recognized. And there was that Boston accent.
"Do I know you?" she asked.
"Not anymore."
In the silence she ran a clinical eye over him. His skin was gray and pasty, his cheeks hollow, his hands shaking. He looked like he'd been on a two-week bender, weaving on his feet, his breathing off. And what was that smell? God, he reminded her of her grandmother: all denatured perfume and facial powder. Or... maybe it was something else, something that took her back to medical school... Yeah, that was more like it. He reeked of formaldehyde from Gross Human Anatomy.
He certainly had the pallor of a corpse. And ill as he was, she wondered if she might be able to take him down.
Feeling the razor in her pocket, she measured the distance between them and decided to hang tight. Even though he was weak, the door was shut and relocked. If she attacked him, she'd just risk getting hurt or killed and wouldn't be any closer to getting out. Her best bet was to wait next to the jamb until one of them came in. She was going to need the element of surprise, because sure as hell they would overpower her otherwise.
Except what did she do once she was on the other side? Was she in a big house? A little one? She had a feeling that the Fort Knox routine on the windows was standard-issue everywhere else.
"I want out," she said.
Red Sox exhaled like he was exhausted. "In a couple of days you'll go back to your life without remembering any of this."
"Yeah, right. Being kidnapped has a way of sticking with a person."
"You'll see. Or not, as the case will be." As Red Sox went to the bedside, he used the bureau, then the wall to steady himself. "He looks better."
She wanted to shout at him to get away from her patient.
"V?" Red Sox sat down carefully on the bed. "V?"
The patient's eyes opened after a moment, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Cop."
The two men reached for each other's hands at exactly the same moment, and as she watched them, she decided the two of them had to be brothers - except their coloring was so different. Maybe they were just tight friends? Or lovers?
The patient's eyes slid over to her and ran up and down her body as if he was checking that she was unharmed. Then he looked at the food she hadn't touched and frowned like he disapproved.
"Didn't we just do this?" Red Sox murmured to the patient. " 'Cept I was the guy in the bed? How about we call it even now and not pull this wounded shit anymore."
Those icy bright eyes left her and shifted to his buddy. The frown didn't leave his face. "You look like hell."
"And you're Miss America."
The patient brought his other arm out of the sheets like the thing weighed as much as a piano. "Help me get my glove off - "
"Forget it. You're not ready."
"You're getting worse."
"Tomorrow - "
"Now. We do it now." The patient's voice lowered to a whisper. "In another day you won't be able to stand. You know what happens."
Red Sox dropped his head until it hung like a bag of flour off his neck. Then he cursed softly and reached for the patient's gloved hand.
Jane backed away until she hit the chair she'd been passed out in. That hand had put her nurse flat on the floor with a seizure, and yet the two men were both going about their business like contact with that thing was no big deal.
Red Sox gently worked the black leather free, revealing a hand covered with tattoos. Good God, the skin seemed to glow.
"Come here," the patient said, opening his arms wide to the other man. "Lay with me."
Jane's breath stopped in her chest.
Cormia walked the halls of the adytum, her bare feet silent, her white robe making no sound, her very breath passing in and out of her lungs with nary a sigh to note its travels. It was thus that she ambulated as a Chosen should, casting no shadow to eye nor whisper to ear.
Except she had a personal purpose, and that was wrong. As a Chosen you were to serve the Scribe Virgin at all times, your intentions always for Her.
Cormia's own need was such as to be undeniable, however.
The Temple of Books was at the end of a long colonnade and its double doors were always open. Of all the sanctuary's buildings, even the one that contained the gems, this held the most prized lot: Herein rested the Scribe Virgin's records of the race, a diary that was of incomprehensible scope, spanning thousands of years. Dictated by Her Holiness to specially trained Chosen, the labor of love was a testament of both history and faith.
Inside the ivory wall, in the glow of white candles Cormia padded over the marble floor, passing countless stacks, walking faster and faster as she got more anxious. The diary's volumes were arranged chronologically, and within each year by social class, but what she was after wouldn't be in this general section.
Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was around, she ducked down a corridor and came up to a glossy red door. In the middle of the panels was a depiction of two black daggers crossed at the blade, handles down. Around the hilts in gold leaf was a sacred motto in the Old Language:
The Black Dagger Brotherhood
To Defend and Protect
Our Mother, Our race, Our Brothers
Her hand shook as she put it on the golden handle. This area was restricted, and if she was caught she would be punished, but she cared naught. Even as she feared the quest she was on, she could no longer bear her lack of knowledge.
The room was of stately size and proportion, its high ceiling gold leafed, its stacks not white but shiny black. The books ringing the walls were bound in black leather, their spines marked in gold that reflected the light from candles the color of shadows. The carpet on the floor was bloodred and soft as a pelt.
