Part 36 (1/2)

And then, miraculously, he recovered. The smile came back, albeit a little dimmed. And though his color remained chalky, the sparkle in his eyes was pure sincerity. ”I'm okay,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it gently. ”It's just that hospitals make me kinda nervous.”

”And nurses?”

”Naw.” Once again grinning. ”I like nurses just fine.”

There was another beat of silence, in which he glanced at their empty gla.s.ses. His color was returning, in tandem with her s.e.xual confidence. ”Looks like that waitress has gone and forgotten all about us,” he said, all at once mock-woeful. He looked back to her. ”Darlin', how's about you go and get us a couple o' drinks?”

Tanya smiled. ”Sure,” she said. ”Why not.”

He still had her hand as she slid out of the booth; and as she stood he pulled her over, gave her a little kiss on the neck. ”Don't be long,” he murmured, and nipped her, sharp teeth grazing soft skin. She s.h.i.+vered, smiled again.

”Be back in a flash,” she told him, and he said he'd be here waiting.

But of course, when she got back, he wasn't.

43.

Jane heard the dying sound at exactly ten oh-three.

It separated itself from the rest of the agony by coming so abruptly, and by taking place in the corridor just outside Intensive Care.

It came unexpectedly, yanking her from her twilight haze.

And then, just as suddenly, stopped.

Apprehension settled over her as the near-silence resumed. The half-dozen other inhabitants of the ward stirred uneasily as the sound penetrated through the veil of drugs and destruction, impacted directly on subconscious survival circuits. Instinctively attuned to the subtle frequencies of suffering, they had learned to sift through the minutiae, unconsciously read the many layers of pain.

But this was not the sound of lingering illness.

This was the sound of sudden death.

Jane tensed, shooting fresh agony through her st.i.tched and bandaged torso. The heavy leather restraints on her arms and legs bound her firmly to the bed frame, gave her only a couple of inches of play. The bondage was her reward for resisting the Demerol intravenous they'd forced upon her this afternoon. The drugs left her dazed and groggy, made the arduous task of healing that much more difficult.

Jane fought her way back to the surface; her lidded eyes swam wildly in a head too heavy, too heavy to lift from the pillow. Through the opaqued curtains that ringed her bed she saw only dim light and blurry silhouettes, making a muddled wash of the world.

Then the door opened onto ICU, a bright misshapen rectangle at the far end of the room, and Jane's awareness tweaked up a notch. The drugs and the darkness left her vision blurry and diffuse; she could make out nothing of substance in the dim shadow-world of the ward.

But her hearing was fine; and it was the clack of boot heels that really caught and held her attention. The sound was entirely out of place here, dragging little spurs of dread down her spine as it moved purposefully across the length of the room.

Out in the hall, the phone began ringing at the nurses' station.

The footsteps grew closer. The phone in the hall kept right on ringing. The footsteps were heading directly toward her.

”Syd?” she murmured, barely audible.

Then the smell of him cut through the antiseptic atmosphere; and it was not Syd at all, not by a long shot. And though she had no idea who he was, she knew exactly what he was. That was more than enough. The memory of last night's ambush flooded her with panic, made all the worse by her utter helplessness.

”Oh, G.o.d,” she whimpered, looking desperately for something she could use as a weapon. There was nothing. Not even herself.

The phone stopped ringing. The dark figure came into view: a shadow-shape, looming huge and then halting, strangely hesitant. There was a moment's sheer confusion.

And then the shadow whispered that name; and in that one microsecond of perfect horror, Jane understood everything . . .

. . . and suddenly, Vic understood as well. Understood all too well. He hovered, heart gripped by the coldest certainty he'd ever known. There was a woman in there, yes, but it was not Nora.

And yet pieces of Nora were there.

”No,” he said, though he didn't know why. No was utterly irrelevant when the answer was yes. He reached out for the curtain flap, then staggered back as if struck.

”No.” And then again: ”No.” Like rosary beads he dragged out one at a time. ”No no no . . .” Accelerating now, as if it were a prayer that could erase what was true. He stood, mouth moving in denial of the dawning horror, until he could stand it no longer.

The woman made a tragic trapped-animal sound as he stepped through the curtain. Her pupils were huge, with fear. She tried to lift her head, tried to lift her hand. Vic growled and showed his teeth. She froze and, despite herself, began to cry. It gave them one more thing in common.

There were tears in his eyes as well.

Because they had scrubbed her down for surgery, yes; but there was so much that they'd missed-the little details that, in the end, meant everything. He smelled Nora under her fingernails. He smelled Nora in her hair. He smelled Nora's blood and meat and sweat.

Most of all, he smelled her death.

Vic reeled as the loss struck him fully, floored him with its finality. His heart went nova in his chest, sent a bloodred haze flooding into his skull as he realized that it was over, all of it, there would never again be a Nora, there would be no forgiveness and no second chances and no going back . . .

. . . and suddenly it was hot, too hot in the room, the walls and floor and ceiling too close, the thick milky curtains closing in to smother him as the murderous urge roared up and up. Vic moaned, low and menacing, felt the sound dip down to become a growl . . .

. . . and Jane flinched, unable to escape the onslaught as he began systematically destroying everything around her. The curtains shredded and tore clear from their hooks as his hand raked out, smas.h.i.+ng into the monitor stand that stood beside the bed. The screens flatlined an instant before he destroyed them, previews of coming attractions. Jane winced and mewled as he moved toward the IV stand, shrieked as he wrenched it away and sent it flying, ripping the tubes from her arms and her groin in the process. Plasma and catheter bags splattered against the walls, drenching the floor beneath the bed.

Vic hovered over her like an angel of death, a horrible rictus spreading across his features.

His features, which began to ripple, and Change . . .

. . . and then he stopped: his rage barely tethered, caught in a crossfire of conflicting emotion. Vic was seething with grief and incalculable pain, burning for vengeance. But there was another urge, beneath it. Something equally powerful in its allure.

He wanted to know why.

Vic brought his breathing under control, calming himself as best he could. As he moved closer he caught a whiff of something else on her, and the final piece of the puzzle clicked impossibly into place. Oh, no. The realization instantly reversed itself. Oh, yes.

”Of course,” he muttered. ”Of course.”

Vic started to laugh, then; a coa.r.s.e and guttural chuckle that bubbled up from the depths of his madness. It was too perfect. It really was. And he had to admit, as much as he wanted to taste her blood, as much as he longed to hear her dying screams as he opened her up and sprayed her across the room, he was in awe of her as well. She had taken down Nora, after all. That feat alone commanded his respect.

And now there was no more Nora. . . .