Chapter 4
Our Father who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be Thy name;
*
Up. Down. Up. Down. Rub. Circle wise, lengthwise. Rub harder. Rinse, then back to rubbing. Only, it seemed to make things worse. Blood was a bitch getting out of upholstery and he should have known it wouldn't work this time either.
Tuck cursed and tossed the rag into the bucket by his feet, the bubbles were more red than white and he wrinkled his nose at it and the sickly sweet smell emanating from the backseat of the car. He'd have to either ditch the car and get a new one, or dig into the savings and get this one cleaned. Damnit! He kicked the door closed and glared at it. Yeah, as if that would help.
Tuck sighed and sank down on the ground with his back to the car door. Absently he rubbed at a stain on his cheek and glanced at the door leading from the underground garage to the den. He hadn't heard a sound from the apartment even though he had left the door wide open, and it was almost dawn too! Where the fuck was the man? Dain had left in such a hurry after they had dumped the hunter at that church. Tuck knew Dain had been deep in blood fever by then, but he could've bloody well stayed to make sure Tuck got away alright.
And yet he couldn't blame Dain; he knew a vampire that deep in hunger only thought with his stomach, and he had been lucky Dain had even spoken to him before he took off. But it still bothered him. And why hadn't Dain bitten the hunter and fed from him then if it was that bad?
Tuck thought back to earlier that night. He had been waiting outside the meeting hall for Dain to return safely and the bad feeling he had gotten when Dain had left him, had increased after he had seen the council's armed loyals sweep the area before taking their masters in.
After about an hour of restless waiting and pacing and checking the car over and again, he had been both surprised and alarmed to feel the tremors of an underground explosion. He had nearly run in after Dain then, but had been stopped by Shiva and Paris, startling him out of his boots when they came at him like that, melting out of the night like… well, like vampires.
Shiva had told him Dain would be along shortly and that he needn't worry. But Tuck had seen Paris' glances back towards the door through which the two had exited, a small crease between the blond eyebrows – Paris never worried! He was too carefree to bother with such – and Tuck had worried even more.
He had asked them why Dain wasn't with them and Shiva, in that infuriatingly and very scary way, had just given him that look that said she knew so much more than any one else. Dain would be along shortly, she had said, and that Tuck should be ready to drive him to a certain location.
Tuck frowned where he sat on the concrete floor and dug in his pocket for the piece of paper Shiva had given him. It was crumpled and he smoothed it out against his knee. It was an address on the other side of town, an insignificant neighborhood with simple people, low salary families where no one would ask questions to which they didn't want to know the answers.
How had Shiva known where the church was? Even Dain didn't know or he would have told Tuck about it, having fun following the hunter back to his HQ after he had played with him.
Damn but he wished Dain would get back soon. Tuck was too tired to do much more with the car and too wound up to even contemplate going to sleep. He knew he wouldn't be able to rest anyway before the man got back. He hoped Dain hadn't run into any more trouble, him ending up homeless because the vampire was on the hunt for food would just be too much.
And why hadn't he bitten that damn hunter?! Fuck. He just knew this meant big trouble.
********
When Dain finally did return home it was to find the kid slumped over the table in the small kitchen. Tuck startled out of exhausted slumber when the inner door to the den slammed shut and he rushed out into the hall in time to see the back of his master heading for the shower, shedding clothes as he went.
Tuck quietly picked up every piece, sorting them in piles for washing, mending or just plain throwing in the trash. It seemed Dain had sated his hunger, if the stains on his shirt were anything to go by. And now he was in the shower, washing away the rest. Tuck sighed deeply, part relief at having the man safely back, part anger at being ignored still.
He picked up the pants outside the toilet, eyeing the closed door just a bit petulantly, and then he saw the knife. Well, he thought it was a knife anyway, even though it didn't look quite like any knife he had seen on the streets before. The blade was longer, more slender than a hunter's knife, the handle wrapped with smooth leader cords and the round, disk-like guard adorned with some strange symbols.
Tuck's eyes widened as he realized what it reminded him of and he hastily put it back where Dain had left it on the bureau. It looked like the Japanese swords Dain had on display on the shelf above his traveler's chest, the one filled with all kinds of stuff Tuck never got to see. And then Tuck just knew Dain had taken it from the hunter. Big trouble indeed.
********
Thy kingdom come;
Thy will be done,
On Earth as it is in Heaven;
*
A frantic pounding on the back door. A non-suspicious man going to answer it. And getting the shock of his life.
Shouting. In the corner of his eye registering a car speeding away into the night. Falling to his knees to grab hold of a lifeless, pale and much too cold body. Still screaming for the lazy ass men and women to get the equipment hooked up and help him, goddamnit! His heart pounding frantically as they wheeled the gurney with the young hunter to the sick-ward, the doc shouting to get the IV hooked up, the blood transfusion running on high, the meds pumping into the unresponsive body.
Dear God, if you are up there now, please save this boy!
Then everything slowing down, as if molasses had been poured into the room or someone was playing with the speed button on the VCR. He looked down at his hands in that moment and saw the blood staining his own skin, his own shirt, as if it was he who had been in battle and not Martin. But it was Martin's blood, Martin's sacrifice. No, he couldn't die!
And then everything sped up again as the doc said he'd make it. Probably make it. If he made it through the night without complications. And Mo had slumped where he stood. Not into a chair or onto the edge of the bed or even to the floor. Just slumped, his knees locked to keep him standing and his hands still grasping Martin's. He wasn't sure how he got out into the corridor a while later, but he remembered Sister Jill pressing a cup of hot coffee into his hand at some point during the long wait.
And wait. And wait. And then the doc had told him the worst was over. That's how Father Morris would remember this night. Confusion, horror, fear, stress, losing moments and then having too many of them.
He rubbed a hand over his face and got out of the chair to once again check the IV's attached to both of Martin's arms, the one pumping the meds into his system, the other Martin's own blood that had been stored in the cellar in case of just an emergency such as this. How he had wished and hoped and prayed it never would have come to use.
But wishing and hoping didn't do any good any more. All he could do now was pray that Martin made it through. And Mo was fairly certain he would; Martin had always been too stubborn for his own good.
And proud, he mused, even as a child. Mo had fostered Martin from the age of three, teaching the boy all he needed to know to make it in the Big World in case he would prove to be unfit for the harsh life of a hunter. But when Martin was six he was caught playing with a gun – explaining he had seen one of the "strange men" doing the same thing when he visited the rooms under the church, which incidentally were the armories and the dojo, among others, where children such as Martin were forbidden to enter – and that was the last day of his innocence. If he had ever had any.
Mo remembered one such time when the matter of Martin's pride had been seriously questioned. Nichole had been at the shooting range for hours, trying to get used to her new sniper rifle and Jason hadn't been around to give her pointers. She had come back looking for someone to ask for help and found Martin in the gym, running through his endless martial arts drills and katas and forms. She had asked why he put so much effort into close combat skills when all he really needed was a good aim and a converted rifle, and he had said he wanted to kick some freak ass and the way to do it was to get close enough for his boot to connect.
Mo wondered if suicidal perhaps wasn't a better suited word, but that wasn't fair on Martin. The young man had returned after numerous of successful missions and had taken out just as many if not more dark creatures than any other hunter active these days, despite his young years. So obviously he must do something right.
Nichole had voiced her concerns for Martin, though. After a joint mission several months ago she had told Mo of the unnecessary risks Martin took and asked him to talk to the young hunter. Martin had walked off in a temper and Mo hadn't seen him for four days. Then he came back with some trophies, some of which Mo rather not recall, and asked what was so wrong about his way of getting the job done. Mo had settled for compromising, asking Martin to at least use traps and bombs and other tricks before jumping into the fray, or bring some of the other hunters as back-up. No, Martin worked alone. However, the traps could be useful.
Mo sighed as he realized he had started pacing sometime during his musings, and sank back down into his chair. The seat was worn and lumpy and did little to ease the stiffness he began to feel after sitting there all night. He wondered what Nichole would say when she found out Martin had gone and gotten himself nearly killed. He supposed he should give her a call soon, or she would let him know what she thought of being kept out of the loop. But she had been injured not long ago as well, although not as bad as Martin, and Mo was a bit reluctant to drag her back here yet.
His eyes lingered on the slow beat in Martin's neck, right above the bandages. He tried not to think about it but it was hard to forget the previous night. He remembered the doc cataloging Martin's injuries after he had been stabilized, seeing them all for himself. Sprained left wrist, ruptured right thigh musculature, claw-marks across his back (which the leather jacket should have protected him from, only he hadn't had it on when they found him), bruises and scratches that told of a close quarter battle – Martin showing his tendencies to get too close to his targets for safety – and the bite to his neck.
Then doc had left to let Mo take care of the sponging off of all the now dried blood and sweat and dirt. Mo was used to it, having been the heart and leader of this church since he himself left the life of a hunter, and he handled the limp body with confident care. He had not been surprised to learn Martin had had another tattoo made; a red and black Yin and Yang in the small of his back. He carefully didn't consider the implications in the choice of colors. What had surprised him though was the piercing in his bellybutton, and he had been utterly shocked to find the one behind Martin's scrotum when he cleaned and changed the catheter.
Martin always went his own way, Mo knew this, even when others had urged him to follow. Even in a matter as simple as choosing his code name. Where the other hunters took code names according to the custom of their trade – names of mythological or ancient heroes and deities – Martin had taken the name of a religion. A religion colored by shadows and suspicions by those who didn't know much about it.
So Mo understood this new piece of ornamentation was just another way for Martin to display his determination, but it still shocked him. He wondered at the meaning of this latest addition.
Mo didn't know if he should envy or be concerned for Martin's strength of will. Probably a bit of both. He also wondered where he had been wrong in the upbringing of this child.
********
Give this day our daily bread;
Forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us;
*
Dain rolled his head from side to side, stretched his arms above his head and sighed. He had been too hyped on the blood he had consumed last night to fall asleep when dawn broke, so he had spent several daylight hours pacing the room instead.
Tuck had been eyeing him warily the entire morning, until the kid had been too tired to keep his eyes open any longer. The respite when Tuck had fallen asleep in a graceless sprawl on the divan had been what Dain needed, now he could contemplate his actions in peace.
And some actions they were! He had rescued one of the enemy last night and threatened a lowblood – one of his own, however much quarrel he had with this particular lowblood, and then taken the hunter back to his church to be helped by his comrades. Before that he had shared treacherous information with his confidantes, defied and deceived the council, and then hid when the hunter had appeared on the scene instead of protected his peers like a proper highblood should, especially since he knew the hunter in question.
Well, not exactly knew, but more than any of the others did anyway. And he wanted to know more. He craved more. More… And he would have it.
So he decided to go against the council's wishes and keep this hunter for himself, as had been his intentions to begin with. And he knew what that would mean for himself. A public humiliation, stripping of rank and title, banned, and if they got their hands on him even tortured. The risks were many and great.
He wondered if any of his friends would even look at him after all this set in motion. He hoped Shiva, or at least Paris, would care to deal with him.
********
When Tuck woke up again Dain was still up, though in a less foul, if not less brooding, mood. Dain gave his loyal a brief glance, his thoughts elsewhere, but noticed the puzzled look Tuck gave him. He stopped in his renewed pacing to give the kid a closer examination and the puzzled look turned wary, then shuttered. And then Tuck yawned and silently headed to the kitchen, moving with obviously restrained haste.
After a minute Dain heard the clinking of cutlery, then a sizzle as eggs were broken and poured into the hot frying-pan. Food for humans. Dain grimaced and sank down in the vacated space on the divan. He enjoyed wine, and on occasion a rare piece of meat, but eggs he just simply couldn't stand.
Human. Tuck's behavior just now piqued Dain's curiosity. Tuck had looked guilty, or maybe it was that the kid thought he should be guilty. But of what? Suspicion rose in him as he contemplated this.
He heard the scrape of a chair and rose from the divan. Time to go see what his loyal had to say about last night.
Tuck barely looked up at him as he entered, but the kid visibly tensed at his approach. Dain took the other chair, spun it around and straddled it backwards, resting his arms on the back. Tuck stubbornly didn't look at him, and the usual snort and comment about Dain behaving too modernly for his own good didn't happen either. And so he knew he was right to be suspicious.
It didn't take long. Tuck chewed and swallowed his omelet but each turn of the fork took longer and it seemed the food grew in the kid's mouth. Tuck's eyes flicked his way, then the other way, and finally he threw down the fork.
"What?" Dain said innocently. He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes.
Tuck dared point a finger at him. "You took off last night, kept me waiting, didn't come home until dawn, didn't say anything to me when you did come home, then you've been up all day and now you're here looking at me like I'm the one at fault!"
Dain snorted. "You sound like my wife."
Tuck snorted too. "Yeah? Well, if you ever had one I hope she ripped you a new one when you did this to her. It's fucking annoying!"
Dain knew the kid had been worried for him, but that didn't warrant this kind of behavior. "Mind your language!" he scolded. "And you are in no position to talk."
It didn't take more than that. Tuck blanched and turned his face away.
"I didn't do anything wrong," he mumbled after a minute. Then after a minute more, "Shiva told me to take you there."
Shiva. Dain gritted his teeth; she just couldn't help herself sometimes, but damn the woman for withholding information from him!
"Take me where?" Dain kept his voice low and flat.
"To the church. She gave me this note…"
Dain held out his hand. Tuck looked up at him and a desperate expression came over his face.
"Ah, man! You don't plan to go there, are ya?" Tuck whined. "You know it's dangerous; they'll be on you like a pack of rabid dogs!"
"Give. It. To. Me."
Tuck slowly and with great reluctance dug his hand in the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a crumbled piece of paper and sighed. He slapped it down in Dain's waiting palm and then crossed his arms over his chest with a sullen expression.
Dain looked at him for a minute, caring enough of the boy to not want to lose him, but too set in his old ways to show it and risk a shift in balance between master and loyal. He didn't know if he would be able to handle the kid if they became too close, yet Tuck seemed to have already formed such and attachment by himself.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," Dain heard Tuck mutter when he rose to leave the kitchen. He didn't see Tuck again for the rest of the day, the door to the kid's room firmly shutting him out. And after nightfall, when Tuck silently slipped out again, Dain had already left.
********
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from Evil.
*
Mo sank back down in the old chair that had become his faithful companion these past two nights. Watching over Martin was not something he particularly enjoyed, he'd much rather have the young man awake and well, but someone had to do it. Sister Jill had sent Mo to his own bed early this morning and he had slept like the dead for eleven hours. He wasn't young any longer, the years having swept past him when he was occupied with other matters, but damn if he would let age keep him away from the sickbed of a dear friend.
So here he was again, sitting in the lamplight by Martin's bed, musing about the young man and the whys and wherefores of their existence. He glanced briefly at the pulse monitor and the slowly blipping green line on its screen. Not much of a change, for the better or the worse.
"You enjoy worrying me like this, Martin?" he asked the unconscious young man. Mo reached out to pat an unresponsive, cold hand. "No? Well, you do anyway, son. You should consider my old heart," he said with a sigh.
At first he couldn't put his finger on what it was, but something was not right. A cold tendril swept down his spine, like a window left open on a winter's day to let in a chilled breeze. Instincts which had been dormant for many years suddenly kicked in and the hairs on his neck stood on end. He was no longer alone in the room.
"Do not fret," a velvet voice told him from the corner across the bed where Martin lay. "I do not intend harm to you or your hunter."
Mo forced himself to remain still, to pull another breath. Doing something foolish now would gain him nothing; the vampire would have him bleeding his life away in a heartbeat if he so choose. "Who are you and what are you doing here? This is hallowed ground!" He hoped he sounded as assured of himself as he wanted to feel.
The shadows stirred and released a dark clad figure; tall, slender, beautiful in a porcelain doll kind of way. Dangerous, Mo's senses screamed at him.
"Hallowed," the vampire purred. "And I shall respect it."
A highblood, Mo realized, or he wouldn't be able to stand there so calmly. "You are the one!" he hissed and couldn't help rising from the chair despite his decision not to show any anxiety. The vampire smiled and inclined his head at the recognition.
"Indeed I am. You have heard of me. I cannot decide whether I should be flattered or offended." The man gracefully moved closer to the bed and Mo instinctively took a step forward to protect the helpless young man lying in it. The vampire glanced up at him and stopped where he was.
"No harm, you say?" Mo raised his chin and squared his shoulder, aiming to look taller, deadlier than he was. He hadn't been in a confrontation anywhere close to physical in too many years to be of much use, but he hoped the show of confidence would be enough. "You bit him and left him for dead on my doorstep! No harm? I curse you and the day Hell gave birth to you!"
The vampire bared his teeth in an angry expression, his fangs long but not growing. Not here to feed, which surprised Mo enough to fall silent in the middle of his outburst.
"I did not bite your hunter, Father," the vampire ground out. "I saved him from a shameful death by the hands of a mere lowblood." He moved closer, his green eyes pinning Mo where he stood. "I intend no harm to him," he hissed and Mo shuddered at the sound of a thousand cold winds stirring through dead leaf.
Such speech, Mo though in the middle of all this, such manners. This highblood was old, Blueblood too, certainly. What had Martin stumbled onto out there to warrant such a visit? To what lengths would the vampire go to rid himself of such a threat? Mo swallowed and shook himself, no time for panic now.
"Then why are you here?" he managed to ask. A sweat was breaking out on his brow.
The other man glanced at Martin. "To see that he is well taken care of."
Mo stared, he couldn't help it. "Taken care of?"
"As in alive and healing, yes." The vampire seemed amused with Mo's dumbfounded expression.
"Why?"
"You are full of questions. I'm not here for your entertainment, only to see to it that my efforts weren't wasted. I have a lot weighing on this man's resolve."
Mo stared. Efforts? "You were the one that brought him here? But why?"
But the vampire wouldn't say any more. He slowly reached out a pale hand and stroked away a red strand of matted hair that lay across Martin's forehead. Mo's mouth fell open at the show of tenderness. Or was it concern? Or compassion? No, none of those emotions fit with the man before him; every hunter knew vampires were incapable of feelings beyond those of self-preservation.
"When he wakes, tell him I have something that belongs to him," the vampire murmured, his eyes still on Martin's face. "I wish to return it to him."
Mo was to ask what it was and why and how, but the vampire didn't even glance at him before he vanished back into the darkness he had come from.
*
Amen.
********
The psalm I used in this chapter is called the Lord's Prayer.
I hope I didn't offend anyone by using it in my fiction and I apologize
if I did. I'm not a religious person myself, but I do believe...
|
|