Prey (41 page)

Paris glared at him. “Do I know you?”

Diego stepped forward, neatly inserting himself between him and the junior cruiser, as if afraid Paris might haul off and smack him. “This is Matt Skouris, he was with Roan at the scene, and coincidentally his mother was the doctor that treated him once we reached the ER.”

“I called and asked her to see him when they got here,” Matt said, almost meekly. “She’s a real hard-ass, y’know, but she’s a great doctor.”

“Why the hell were you there?” he snapped, feeling an inexplicable surge of anger toward this kid. Roan probably took the bullet for him, didn’t he? Roan would do that; he would take a bullet for a complete stranger because that was sadly the kind of guy he was. He was a born protector.

Matt looked genuinely surprised and took a step back, as if he intuited Paris’s rage level accurately. “Uh, I, um, went with him to Ashley’s apartment. I had the key, y’know, I had to let him in—”

Paris nodded and gestured sharply for him to stop, as he really didn’t want to have a discussion with anyone right now. “Yeah, okay, Ro said something about that.” He shifted his gaze to Diego. “Where is he?”

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Diego pointed to a door on the left side of the hall, barely three meters away. He headed straight for it, and Matt called after him, “Um, nice to meet you.…”

“Tell him to stop being such a fuckhead,” Diego added emphatically.

As soon as he was inside and the door slapped closed behind him, Paris found himself hammered by a sudden surge of emotion. He’d been okay up to this point; he’d held it together with what he felt was startlingly great aplomb. But now he was in a tiny ivory-walled hospital room that smelled of disinfectant and blood, with Roan looking unusually small and pale in a bed of starched white sheets and blankets, and he found it hard to breathe due to the sheer size of the lump in his throat. Somebody had tried to kill him; the killer had tried to add him to the list. Holy fuck. That was wrong on several levels, but the most basic one was that Paris was supposed to die first, not Roan. The tiger was going to kill him from the inside out, and Roan would survive because he always survived.

But before he could completely tear up, Roan looked at him, his eerie green eyes slightly glazed, and said, “Good, somebody who can get me the fuck out of here.”

This startled the tears back in his eye sockets. “What?”

Roan sat up, making the bags on the IV stands sway slightly as he threw his legs over the side and started to slide out of bed. “I ain’t staying here. I’m fine, they’re overreacting. Fucking doctors.”

Paris rushed to his side as he attempted to stand and almost fell over.

He steadied Roan, accidentally hitting one of the tubes that connected him to the IV bags (one was filled with clear fluid, the other was filled with something that wasn’t), and held him firmly by the shoulders. “You are not going anywhere. Get back in bed.”

Ro glared at him. Although his usual fire was there, that odd glaze remained. Was he in shock? “Don’t baby me. I’m fine.”

“Fine? You were shot in the fucking chest! That earns you a time-out.”

He grunted in disgust. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

“Fuck you, Black Knight.” He grabbed Roan by the face and stared straight into his eyes, making sure he had his full attention before he spoke. “You are going to get back into that bed and tell me what happened. You are going to answer my questions, and then I’ll think about 256

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getting you out of here. If you don’t, I’m going to leave without you.

Understand?”

He stared at him sullenly. “This is stupid.”

“I don’t care.” He dropped his hands to Roan’s shoulders and forced him to sit down. Normally he couldn’t, but Ro was clearly not at his best at the moment. For the first time, he actually noticed that he was wearing one of those awful paper hospital gowns, and it made him look that much more pale. Shit, how much blood had he lost? “Humor me.”

Ro rolled his eyes, but he sat back, slumping against his pillows.

“Why’d you bring the Beretta?”

“What?”

“I can smell the gun oil on you. You’re not planning to go all
Death
Wish
on me, are you? ’Cause that’s my job, not yours.”

Sometimes that super-smelling thing could be such a pain in the ass.

“What happened?”

He told him, in a slow but concise monotone. How could he remember so many details when he was being shot at? It was typical of him, but no less bizarre. So there were two killers, or at the very least an active accomplice—did that kick Karen Hammond off the suspect list?

While he listened, he casually brushed the hair out of Roan’s eyes—

his hair was growing out fast again—and noticed how cool his skin was to the touch. He let his hand trail down to the side of his throat, where he unobtrusively felt his pulse through his neck. It was a bit slower than usual, but reassuringly strong and steady. But his eyelids were heavy and kept threatening to close, even though Ro kept fighting it like the stubborn bastard he was. As soon as he was done telling the story, Paris kissed him gently on the forehead, and told him, “Get some rest. I’ll go talk to the doctor and see when I can get you out of here, okay?”

His eyes narrowed angrily and he scowled, unnaturally pale lips twisting downwards. “No, get me outta here now. I’ll sleep at home.”

“Diego told me you need surgery and you’re refusing it. Why?”

“I don’t need surgery. I can repair my muscles myself.”

Paris took a moment to try and make sense out of that, but failed.

“With what? A staple gun?”

Ro stared at him in dazed disbelief. “No. If I can trigger a partial Infected: Prey

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change, the muscles will fix themselves.”

“Are you hearing what you’re saying?”

“Oh come on, Par, you know what happens when we change: bones break and reset, muscles tear and reattach themselves. It’s the trauma that eventually kills us all, right? If I hurt enough or get angry enough, I can get a partial change that I can control as long as I don’t go too far over the edge. But those fucks drugged me after I tore my IVs out—”

“You what?” He looked at Roan’s arm, and sure enough, where the tubes entered his skin, they were wrapped up with what seemed to be an excessive amount of gauze and tape.

“ —and I have no idea what they gave me, but it makes me feel too good to be angry. Also, I tried punching the wound, but I seemed too ready for it, braced for it. It didn’t work. Oh hey, that gives me an idea. You punch me.”

Now he knew he was out of his goddamn mind. “What the fuck did they give you, angel dust?”

Roan slipped one arm out of his paper gown, and then realized he wasn’t going to get the other out with the tubes in the way, so he just ripped it down until he exposed a large, hand-sized rectangular gauze pad taped to his chest. There were tiny speckles of blood on it. “I know I can do it. Remember when I punched out the deadbolt? I can manage a partial change. I just need some stimulus, apparently—believe me, I have tried without it. It’s not enough. Just punch the wound, as hard as you can. It’ll hurt me for a second, but it’ll help me a hell of a lot more. Come on.”

“No! I am not going to punch you! Jesus.…”

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this, but you can see why, right? It’s not human to be able to change your musculature. But I can, and I can be back on my feet by tonight; I don’t need to be laid up for a week due to surgery. I need to get back out there.”

This was completely freaky, and yet the plea was obvious in Roan’s voice. What did you do in a situation like this? He certainly wasn’t going to hurt him. It had to be the drugs, right? Maybe he was serious about being able to trigger a partial change, but… for some reason, Paris found it hard to wrap his brain around it. What Roan needed to be was sober so they could discuss this. Paris sat on the edge of the bed and slid his arm around his shoulders. Roan needed to stop fighting the drugs and sleep, 258

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and he knew exactly how to make it happen. He couldn’t talk him into it, but he could trick him into it.

“I started investigating Karen Hammond. I found out a couple of interesting things,” he said, launching into a slow, steady monologue in a quiet voice, and gently stroking the back of Roan’s neck. Paris made sure he told him the truth but nothing actually interesting, and he took his damn time about it. It took a few minutes, but finally Ro slumped against him, the drugs overwhelming him. Took long enough. If willpower alone could blast holes in mountains, the Cascades would look like Swiss cheese once Roan was through with them.

A nurse came in, but she was a frightening-looking thing, wearing gloves up to her elbows and a thick surgical mask over her nose and mouth. He forgot they were treated like plague victims; it was easy to forget when you lived in your own little world, far from “normal” people.

She wanted him out of there, so he went, but he made sure Roan was asleep and still sleeping before he left, and once out in the hall he felt strangely drained. He slumped in one of the plastic chairs sporadically placed throughout the corridor, and he was relieved that Diego wasn’t loitering out here. That damn junior cruiser was still here, but he was far down the hall, talking to a female doctor with short blonde hair the exact same color as his. Obviously that was his mother, and he caught a random bit of conversation. The kid was saying “ —no, I’m not using again, that had nothing to do with this—”

His rage had cooled to a hard lump in his stomach, but he still felt like punching something (although not Roan). So he could trigger a partial change? Could he trigger a full one? That was the next logical step, wasn’t it? Of course he’d never heard of anyone actually being able to do that, but then again he’d never heard of someone spending more time in cat form than human form until he met Michael Henstridge. The virus children, the ones with the viral DNA in their basic genetic makeup, were starting to change everything they knew about this disease, and they knew so little about it even after all this time. It was like they were rewriting the laws of physics as they went along.

He wondered what kind of experimenting Roan had done when he snuck out late at night, how far he had pushed the boundaries, and if that was why he was so scared to talk about it. Or if he didn’t talk about it because Paris really wasn’t one of his kind. He was, he was infected, but he wasn’t really, because he started off as human and became otherwise.

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Roan had always been a bit more than that.

He checked his cell, if only to get his mind off this topic, and after hoping it wasn’t Annie calling him (his cell phone number wasn’t listed, to his knowledge, but a lawyer had to have resources beyond the norm), he realized the message left was even stranger. “Hi, Kevin, this is Tim Barlow, from the Humanity First group the other night. I know this is last minute, but we’re having a private meeting tonight at eight-thirty at 817

Roland Avenue, and we’d be glad to have you there if you can make it. No need to call back, just come on by, although if you can’t make it there should be another one in a week or two. And also, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone. As I said, this is a private meeting, personal invitees only. So… anyway, hope to see you there. Bye.”

Okay, he hadn’t been expecting that. He—no, sorry, Kevin Stiles, that prick from the lacrosse team—must have passed inspection, whatever that was. Or, considering the timing, it was a trap.

Could go either way, couldn’t it? It was a meeting at a private household because potentially illegal activity would be discussed—or it was a setup because they’d figured out he was infected and wanted to find out how much he knew in a setting where they wouldn’t be bothered by any pesky witnesses.

The hubbub from Roan joining the police force had flared and died years ago (and his resignation was never actually covered), but it was possible that someone had recognized him in spite of his pseudonym. And because he was an infected that dared to get close, they had him shot today, and now they were going to privately bring in his friend after fucking the hit up. He would be an easier mark up close and personal. Was that it? Did these fucks have Roan shot? Were they planning something similar for him?

Paris knew if there were any doubts that he shouldn’t risk it, he shouldn’t go, and if Ro were awake and not as high as the International Space Station he’d also give him an emphatic “Hell no, you don’t go.” But his rage flared anew, a burning warmth that actually felt good, and he realized he absolutely had to go. If these assholes had tried to kill Roan, he wanted to know right this goddamn second. If they wanted to try something with him, they were free to do so.

But if they expected him to go without a fight, they were in for one hell of a nasty shock.

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9

Intolerance

PARIS was leaving the hospital when he saw a familiar face coming in.

“So how’s our guy?” Sergeant Murphy asked him, pulling him aside in the lobby.

Darinda—or as Roan called her, Dropkick—was actually a fairly petite woman, he had to look down to face her, but built solidly enough that it looked like she could slap the cuffs on your average offender with no problem at all. She looked neat and presentable in an off-the-rack black suit with a no-nonsense ivory blouse and leather flats, her badge clipped to her belt and barely visible beneath her jacket. Her hair was cut in a shorter than average bob—her dark brown hair laced with the occasional silver—

her open, friendly face unadorned with makeup, and her eyes burned with an intelligence that was fearsome. She was in her forties but looked good for it.

“He’s asleep. Diego said he was going to be okay, and considering how combative he was, I can believe it.”

“Combative?” She raised a delicately arched eyebrow, her hazel eyes bright with mischief. “Dare I ask what he did?”

“Oh, ripped out his IVs, attempted to storm out. They drugged him and he fought it for a very long time.”