“I don’t doubt it. But you shouldn’t have to. Not right now.” His chin jutted forward. “You boys understand?”
Celluci’s patience showed signs of wear. “We understand, Mr. Delgado.”
“Both of you?”
Henry turned a little farther until he faced down the hall. “We both understand.”
Mr. Delgado squinted at Henry then almost seemed to come to attention. “Had to ask . . .”
“I know.”
“Well, good night.”
Henry inclined his head in dismissal. “Good night.”
The three of them watched as the door closed and then Vicki stepped back out of the way. “You might as well come in.”
“. . . did it never occur to either of you that maybe I wanted to handle this myself?” Vicki paced the length of the living room, reached the window, and glared out into the night. The apartment was half a story below ground, not exactly basement, not exactly first floor. The windows looked out over a narrow strip of grass, then the visitor’s parking, then the sidewalk, then the road. It wasn’t much of a view. Vicki’s mother had invested in both blinds and heavy drapes to keep the world from looking back. Vicki hadn’t bothered closing either. “That maybe,” she continued, her throat tight, “there isn’t anything for you to help with?”
“If you want both of us, or either of us, to go back to Toronto, we will,” Henry told her quietly.
Celluci shot him a look and his mouth opened, but Henry raised a cautionary hand and he closed it again without speaking.
“I want both of you to go back to Toronto!”
“No, you don’t.”
Her laugh held the faintest shading of hysteria. “Are you reading my mind, Henry?” She turned to face them. “All right, you win. As long as you’re here, you might as well stay.” One hand sketched surrender in the air. “You might as well both stay.”
“How did you convince Mike to go to sleep?”
“I merely told him that you’d need him rested tomorrow, that I was the logical choice to keep watch over the night.”
“Merely?”
“Well, perhaps I persuaded him a little.”
She sat on the edge of the twin bed in the room she’d grown up in and smoothed nonexistent wrinkles out of the pillow with the fingers of one hand. “He won’t thank you for that in the morning.”
“Perhaps not.” Henry watched her carefully, not allowing the full extent of his concern to show lest it cause her to bolt. “But I did explain that it was a little difficult for either of us to give comfort when both of us were there. He seemed to agree.” He had, in fact, grunted, “
So leave
.” but Henry saw no need to mention that to Vicki.
“All of that while I was in the bathroom?”
“Should it have taken longer?”
“I guess not.”
He’d been prepared for her to be angry at his high-handedness—would have preferred the bright flame of her anger to the gray acceptance he got. He reached out and gently captured the hand that still stroked the pillow. “You need to sleep, Vicki.”
The skin around her eyes seemed stretched very tight.
“I don’t think I can.”
“I do.”
“If you need to feed, I don’t think . . .”
Henry shook his head. “Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Now get some sleep.”
“I can’t . . . ”
“You can.” His voice deepened slightly and he lifted her chin so that her eyes met his.
They widened as she realized what he was doing and she pushed ineffectually at his fingers.
“Sleep,” he told her again.
Her inarticulate protest became a long, shuddering sigh, and she collapsed back on the bed.
Frowning thoughtfully, Henry tucked her legs up under the covers and moved her glasses to safety on the bedside table. In the morning, the two of them could trade stories about the unfair advantage he’d taken over mortal minds. Perhaps it would bring them closer together. It was a risk he’d had no choice but to take. But for the moment . . . He reached up and flicked off the light.
“For the moment,” he murmured, tucking the blankets around the life that glowed like a beacon in the darkness. “For the moment, I will guard your dreams.”
“Henry . . .” She raised herself up on one elbow and groped for her glasses. The room was gray, not black. It couldn’t be dawn because she could feel his presence even before she managed to find the deeper shadow by the door.
“I can’t stay any longer.” He spread his hands in apology. “The sun is very close to the horizon.”
“Where are you going?”
She could hear the smile in his voice. “Not far. The walk-in closet in your mother’s room will make an adequate sanctuary. It will take very little to block the day.”
“I’m going with you.” She swung her legs out of the bed and stood, ignoring the lack of light. Her mother had made no real changes in the room since she’d left—she’d have to be more than blind to lose her way.
At the door, Henry’s cool fingers wrapped around her arm just above the elbow. She turned, knowing he could see her even though she could barely see the outline of his body.
“Henry.” He moved closer as she reached out and laid her palm against his chest. “My mother . . .” The words wouldn’t come. She could feel him waiting and finally had to shake her head.
His lips brushed very lightly against her hair.
“You were right,” she said instead. “Sleep helped. But . . .” Her fingers twisted in his shirt and she yanked him slightly forward. “. . . don’t ever do that again.”
His hand covered hers. “No promises,” he told her quietly.
Yes, promises,
she wanted to insist.
I won’t have you messing with my head.
But he messed with her head just by existing and under the circumstances, she wouldn’t believe any promises he made. “Get going.” She pushed him toward the door. “Even
I
can feel the sun.”
Celluci lay stretched out on top of her mother’s bed, shoes off but otherwise dressed. She started, seeing him so suddenly appear in the glare of the overhead light and she had to stop herself from shaking him and demanding to know what he was doing there. On her mother’s bed. Except her mother wouldn’t be sleeping in it any more so what difference did it make?
“He won’t wake,” Henry told her as she hesitated by the door. “Not until after I’m . . . asleep.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that.”
“Vicki.”
The sound of her name pulled her forward until they stood only a whisper apart by the closet door.
He reached up and gently caressed her cheek. “Michael Celluci has the day; I cannot share it with him. Don’t ask me to give him the night as well.”
Vicki swallowed. His touch drew heated lines across her skin. “Have I ever asked that of you?”
“No.” His expression twisted and slid a little into sadness. “You’ve never asked anything of me.”
She wanted to protest that she had, but she knew what he meant. “Not now, Henry.”
“You’re right.” He nodded and withdrew his hand. “Not now.”
Fortunately, the closet had plenty of room for a not so tall man to lie safely hidden away from the sun.
“I’ll block the door from the inside, so it can’t be opened accidentally, and I brought the blackout curtain you hung in my bedroom to wrap around me. I’ll be back with you this evening.”
With memory’s eyes she could see him, rising with the darkness after a day spent . . . lifeless.
“Henry.”
He paused, half through the door.
“My mother is dead.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll never die.”
The four-hundred-and-fifty-year-old bastard son of Henry the VIII nodded. “I’ll never die,” he agreed.
“Should I resent you for that?”
“Should I resent you for the day?”
Her brows snapped down and the movement pushed her glasses forward on her nose. “I hate it when you answer a question with a question.”
“I know.”
His smile held so many things that she couldn’t hope to understand them all before the closet door closed between them.
“Vicki, you can’t possibly agree with what Fitzroy did!” When she suddenly became engrossed in sponging a bit of dirt off her good shoes, he realized she did, indeed, agree. “Vicki!”
“What?”
“He knocked me out, put me to sleep, violated my free will!”
“He just wanted the same time alone that you’re getting now. Guaranteed free of interruption.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending him!”
“I’m not. Exactly. I just understand his reasons.”
Celluci snorted and jammed his arms into the sleeves of his suit jacket. A few stitches popped in protest. “And what did the two of you do during that time alone free of interruption?”
“He put me to sleep as well. Then sat and watched over me until dawn.”
“That’s it?”
Vicki turned to face him, both brows well above the upper edge of her glasses. “That’s it. Not that it’s any of your damned business.”
“That won’t wash this time, Vicki.” He stepped forward, took the shoe from her hand, and dropped to one knee with it. “Fitzroy made it my business when he pulled that Prince of Darkness shit.”
She sighed and let him guide her foot into the plain black pump. “Yeah, I suppose he did. I needed to sleep, Mike.” She reached down and brushed the long curl of hair back off his face. “I couldn’t have done it without him. He gave me the night to sleep when he could have taken it for himself.”
“Very noble of him,” Celluci grunted, sliding her other foot into the second shoe.
And it was very noble,
he admitted to himself as he stood.
Noble in the running roughshod I know best so don’t bother expressing an opinion sort of a way that went out with the fucking feudal system.
Still, Fitzroy had acted in what he considered to be Vicki’s best interests. And he honestly didn’t think that he could have left them alone together—as Fitzroy had no choice but to do come morning.
So I suppose I might have done the same thing under similar circumstances. Which doesn’t excuse his royal fucking undead highness one bit.
What bothered him the most about it was how little Vicki seemed to care, how much she seemed to be operating on cruise control, and how little she seemed to be interacting with the world around her. He recognized the effects of grief and shock—he’d seen them both often enough over the years—but they were somehow harder to deal with because they were applied here and now to Vicki.
He wanted to make it better for her.
He knew he couldn’t.
He hated having to accept that.
All right, Fitzroy, you gave her sleep last night, I’ll give her support today. Maybe together we can get her through it.
He got her to eat but eventually, when even trying to start an argument failed, he gave up trying to get her to talk.
About noon, Mr. Delgado arrived to ask if Vicki needed a lift to the funeral home. She looked up from where she sat, silently rocking, and shook her head.
“Humph,” he snorted, stepping back out into the hall and once again looking Celluci over. “You one of her friends from the police?”
“Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci.”
“Yeah. I thought so. You look like a cop. Louis Delgado.” His grip was still strong, his palm hard with a workman’s calluses. “What happened to the other guy?”
“He sat up with her all night. He’s still sleeping.”
“He’s not a cop.”
“No.”
To Celluci’s surprise the old man chuckled. “In my day two men fighting over one woman, there would have been blood on the street, let me tell you.”
“What makes you think . . .”
“You think maybe I shut my brain off when I retired? I saw the three of you together last night, remember?” His face grew suddenly somber. “Maybe it’s a good thing people got more civilized; she doesn’t need fighting around her right now. I saw her grow up. Watched her decide to be an adult when she should have been enjoying being a child. Tried to take care of her mother, insisted on taking care of herself.” He sighed. “She won’t bend, you know. Now that this terrible thing has happened, you and that other fellow, don’t you let her break.”
“We’ll do our best.”
“Humph.” He snorted again and swiped at his eyes with a snowy white handkerchief, his opinion of their best obviously not high.
Celluci watched him return to his own apartment, then quietly closed the door. “Mr. Delgado cares about you a great deal,” he said, crossing the room to stand by Vicki’s side.
She shook her head. “He was very fond of my mother.”
She didn’t speak again until they were in the car on the way to the funeral home.
“Mike?”
He glanced sideways. She wore her courtroom face. Not even the most diligent of defense attorneys could have found an opinion on it.
“I didn’t call her. And when she called me, I didn’t answer. And then she died.”
“You know there’s no connection.” He said it as gently as he could. He didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t get one.
There wasn’t anything else to say, so he reached down and covered her left hand with his. After a long moment, her fingers turned and she clutched at him with such force that he had to bite back an exclamation of pain. Only her hand moved. Her fingers were freezing.
“It really is for your own good.” Catherine finished fastening the chest strap and lightly touched number nine on the shoulder. “I know you don’t like it, but we can’t take a chance on you jerking the needles free. That’s what happened to number six and we lost her.” She smiled down into the isolation box. “You’ve come so much farther than the rest, even if your kidneys aren’t working yet, that we’d hate to lose you, too.” Reaching behind his left ear, she jacked the computer hookup into the implanted plug, fingertips checking that the skin hadn’t pulled out from under the surgical steel collar clamped tight against scalp and skull.