Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 25

Inside the truck, Lucien slouches on the stretcher, cradling his ribs while I clean his wounds. A two-inch laceration gapes above his eye and there is another ugly gash on his cheek. I bite my lip in frustration. Santos has proven his instability. He is too emotional to deal with this. I long for William's cool calm and suddenly the memory of his hot kiss comes, unbidden and disorienting.

It feels like that was weeks ago.

"What am I going to do?" Lucien asks.

"Wait and let things die down."

"They're going to throw my ass in jail. If they don't find who did this, they're going to blame me. Even if I get off, I'll never live it down. It will follow me my entire life."

I throw a wad of bloody gauze in the trash and pull out my suture kit. Lucien will scar without stitches. Lucky for him I'm the best plastic surgeon in town.

They won't find the person who did this. They will never get near him, and there is nothing I can do about it. Too many know what I am. Santos and possibly William and Lucien. But more dangerous than that is the Alpha. He is the greatest danger of all. It's possible he doesn't yet know I'm here, but if he finds me, I'm done for. I will not live as another's slave, a degraded addition to a madman's harem. I should be in my car, fleeing as quickly as I can this very minute. But there's Lucien to deal with. He needs stitches. There's Ivanhoe, my home. It will take time to make arrangements. I can't abandon my library, my notebooks.

And William.

***

When I'm done suturing Lucien, I ask him if he's okay to drive his car. I don't want to deliver him to the hospital and expose him to an audience.

"Keep a low profile. Stay calm and tell the truth. Hopefully, Santos will run interference for you. He's a bit unhinged, but he isn't a liar. He won't want an innocent man locked up for this."

Lucien looks unconvinced.

"You've done nothing wrong," I say.

"You think that matters? That don't matter. Claire is dead. I could get the chair for this."

"That's not going to happen. They have no evidence. You didn't touch her. Have a little faith, Lucien. Santos and I won't let you take the fall for this."

Gravely, Lucien steps out. I climb in front with Dana, who sits frozen, staring out the window. She's in the passenger seat, normally my place. The heat is off, and I'm surprised she's not shivering in the cold. I turn it up, put us back in service, and head toward town.

"You okay?" I ask. "That was disturbing. It's perfectly natural to be upset by it. If you weren't, I'd worry."

She stares out the window. I get back on the radio. "Rescue 1 to dispatch. Show me out of service for decon." We don't need to decontaminate anything but Dana can't work like this. I drive to the station, which is thankfully empty, and pull into the dimly lit bay. Most of the lights are off, but a single overhead bulb flickers, casting shadows across steel lockers and the concrete floor. Dana doesn't move. Inside, I make a pot of coffee and bring two cups out to the truck for us.

"Dana. Talk to me. Don't lock your feelings away."

Silence.

"Do you want to go home?"

"No!" she says. "I don't want to be alone. I don't want to think about it. That poor girl. Only a monster would do that."

Is that what we are? Monsters? What about the hunter or soldier? Why are they absolved? Is a deer so different from a girl? Does it not feel pain or fear? Have a soul? Gasp and twitch as it fights for its final breath?

If only I could believe some souls are expendable, how much easier the killing would be.

The thought of Claire's father's grief sends pain ripping through my chest. I rub it with my hand as if that will ease it, even though I know nothing will relieve his pain. Ever.

Time heals all wounds—what a fantastic lie.

In the darkness of the truck, Dana and I sip cheap coffee or at least I pretend to.

"Is this how Anne felt?" she asks.

"Anne who?"

"That Brontë chick. Surrounded by death. Watching it come for everyone she loved. Seeing all those dead bodies. No wonder she died so young. She probably just gave up, too tired to go on anymore. Their lives were so sad. I don't want to write about it or think about it."

"That was life then, Dana. It is life. Death will come for us all. True, the Brontës had a greater share than most, but they had more love than most too."

"More love? Anne didn't love. Or Emily. Charlotte was barely married when she died. What did they know of love?"

"There was more love in that family than most people experience in their entire lives."

"But they never had a man's love. They never held their own children in their arms. Each one of them was so alone."

I think of Emily and Branwell and the ways they've hurt me. I should hate them for it, but I don't. Despite all the betrayal and brutality, I love them more deeply than ever.

"There are all kinds of love. They may not have experienced romantic love, but they had each other, even if they weren't living in the same place. Their love connected them all like a steel thread, impossible to sever."

"Until they started dying. Then each one fell like dominoes." Dana begins to cry, and I'm moved by her feeling. I didn't know it was there. Then it dawns on me. She isn't crying for the Brontës; she's crying for the golden girl on the mountain.

Dana puts her head in her hands and sobs. I let her. This is good. Far better than silence. She must let out the pain or it will consume her. After a few minutes of hearty sobbing, she wipes the tears from her face.

"Okay," she sniffs. "Enough of that. Let's get back in service."

Her mascara is smeared. I reach over and wipe it away with a finger, surprised at the deep coolness of her skin.