by J. R. Ward
This was just like any other night. Nothing unusual. No out-of-whack going on anywhere.
It was an okay enough pep talk and one he’d been giving himself all through his workout down in the training center. The goal was to convince the warning bells in his head that they were wasting their time with all that high-pitched ringing.
Too bad his success rate was zero. Like a tour guide taking a group past a dead body and going, “Nothing to see here, we’re walking, we’re walking.”
Crossing over the mosaic depiction of that apple tree in full bloom, he hit the blood-red runner that went up the ornate staircase and felt like he was dragging a car behind him as he ascended. He hated the fatigue. The fact that he’d put himself through a brutal series of dead lifts and then run sixteen miles in under an hour and a half didn’t matter. His motivation in the gym had been to prove to himself that the bite on his shoulder wasn’t a systemic issue, and the exhaustion he was now feeling made him worried that it was.
Of course, the answer to that debate was to get the wound checked out by Doc Jane or Dr. Manello in the clinic, but he was still undecided on that one. The edges of where those teeth had sunk in seemed the same. At least . . . well, they were mostly the same—
Who the hell was he kidding. The irritation was bigger, the swelling worse, and the pain unrelenting.
Abruptly, he stopped at the top of the stairs. Xhex was standing in front of the open doors of the King’s study, her body fully weaponized with autoloaders and knives, her face pale and tense. Behind her, inside the room, the King was at his desk with Tohr beside him, the pair of males looking out at John as if they weren’t sure whether he was going to need restraining.
What’s going on, he signed.
“I need to talk to you,” Xhex said quietly. “Can we go in here?”
As she nodded over her shoulder, John frowned. What’s it about.
Not a question. Jesus, had they found out about the bite? He hadn’t told anyone—
“Murhder.”
He recoiled. Who’s dead? Someone got killed?
“No, the, ah, the male. Murhder.”
John looked back at his King. Then at Tohr, who was, for all intents and purposes, the father figure John had never had. Clearly, the latter had been called in for whatever issue this was.
Without a word—natch—John went over to the doorway and waited. When Xhex followed, they both stepped inside together, and as the doors closed of their own volition, he was aware of an oppressive feeling across his chest.
Up until now, he hadn’t been worried about the former Brother’s re-arrival. But if it had something to do with his female? Especially if she was looking as tense as she was?
“G’head, Xhex,” Wrath muttered as he petted George’s boxy head.
Even the golden retriever looked nervous, although that, at least, wasn’t unusual.
“I have to go out tonight,” she said as she stared John straight in the eye. “And help Murhder with a problem.”
Okaaaaaay, John thought.
Generally speaking, bonded males didn’t like their females being around members of the opposite sex. And that was a nice way of putting the issue. John had never subscribed much to the truism, however, believing that he and Xhex were part of a new generation of vampires that didn’t fall into that macho bullshit.
It was a nice theory.
Unfortunately, it was also one that was thrown right out the fucking window as a curling aggression clenched his nuts and made him want to hunt down and kill a male he’d never met before. Still, he forced himself to think of what Mary always said about emotions. You weren’t responsible for them and you couldn’t control them, but you were in charge of your response to them.
And he refused to be the hothead who went Cro-Magnon on something like this.
John narrowed his eyes. What kind of problem? And why would you be the one helping him?
Xhex cleared her throat. Then she started to pace, her eyes trained on the Aubusson carpet.
“I told you that at one point I had a brush with some humans.”
Brush? he thought. She’d been kidnapped and tortured by researchers in a clinic somewhere.
To this day, he didn’t know many details of what had been done to her—similar to the situation with Lash, she never talked much about the horror of it. He had always wanted to help her, but he’d had no choice except to respect the line she drew and the privacy she kept.
“Murhder took that personally.” She stopped by the fireplace and stared into the yellow and orange flames. “And started some kind of crusade.”
As those warning bells John had tried to bribe off with that all-normal shit went straight-up cathedral on him, he decided he was becoming clairvoyant.
And when she didn’t go any further, he whistled to bring her head up and around. As part of his role as a Brother, right, he signed. He was avenging the species instead of you specifically.
John knew damn well there was more to it, given the pair’s previous relationship, but he tossed that ditty out there in the hopes he was wrong.
“No, it was personal.” She refocused on the fire. “I told you about him and me.”
John exhaled long and slow. Okay, he thought. He could deal with this. This was not new information, for one thing. But more than that, she was with him now.
Xhex continued, “After I escaped from the lab I’d been in, he kept hunting for humans who were experimenting on vampires. I didn’t know he was doing this—not that that’s relevant. Anyway, he found another site with members of the species in captivity. One of them was a pregnant female, and though he tried to get her out, he ultimately failed. After two decades, she reached out to him, and long story short, he’s going to see her tonight. Because of his . . . instability . . . it’s not a good idea for him to be out in the world unsupervised, so I’m going with him to see the female. Plus, you know . . . I get what happened to her.”
John closed his eyes as he thought about the horrible things the two females had in common. Then he looked to Tohr. The Brother had his arms crossed over his tremendous chest, his navy-blue eyes grave, the white streak in his dark hair out of its cowlick because he’d clearly been dragging a hand through the stuff.
“Murhder needs an escort,” Tohr said. “And given the fragility of the situation, it does make sense for Xhex to go with him.”
“The female has been through a lot,” Xhex said. “And so has Murhder.”
Okay, and I’m going with you, too, John signed. Give me ten minutes to shower—
“No,” Xhex said. “We don’t need anyone else.”
John narrowed his eyes. The hell you don’t. And I’m not pulling a bonded male thing here. If Murhder is so unstable that he’s been kicked out of the Brotherhood, and you don’t trust him to go see a female alone, why do you think it’s okay for you to be the only one on backup?
“She won’t be,” Tohr interjected. “The Brotherhood will be on standby in the area. He puts one foot out of line and we’ll be all over him.”
All right. So then I’ll be with the Brotherhood.
“We’re good, John,” Tohr said as he shook his head. “We’ve got this.”
One more on the fringes is not going to hurt.
When Tohr didn’t respond, John trained his eyes on Xhex, and waited for her to speak up. Surely she’d want him there. Surely she’d understand how badly he wanted to be there.
When his mate just went back to staring at the fire, John looked at Wrath. The King was sitting tall on his throne, his wraparounds hiding his eyes, his jaw clenched—but when was that mandible ever relaxed?
I’m not going to attack the guy, John signed. If that’s what you people are worried about. Bonded male or not, I can control myself. And if he throws shit at me, I’ll handle it.
When Tohr didn’t translate to the King, John motioned toward Wrath and stamped his foot. After a moment, Tohr dropped his head and murmured to the great male.
Say something
, John thought at the King. Tell them they have to let me go because I’m a damn good fighter and this is my mate and I deserve to be there. This may be Brotherhood business, but it involves my shellan, so it’s mine, too.
As silence stretched out, somebody laughed outside in the hall, and then there were voices, muffled but distinct enough for him to recognize. Rhage, it was Rhage. And he was talking with Qhuinn, no doubt as they both hit the stairs to go down for First Meal.
Brothers, now, even though they did not share blood.
John turned and started for the door.
“John.” Tohr spoke up. “This about Murhder. It’s not a reflection on you, I promise.”
There was no responding to that because he either railed against not being in the Brotherhood, which was a bitch move, or he came across as not trusting his mate, which was also a bitch move.
Or wait, there was a door number three: He could admit that he wanted to kill another male for no good reason. In which case he was no different than Murhder because that shit was crazy.
Out of the study, he headed down the Hall of Statues, passing by the Greco-Roman masterpieces in their various poses.
Footfalls, quick and nimble, rode up on him.
“John, please—”
As Xhex took his arm, he jerked out of her hold and turned around. Suspicion, as insidious as any disease, had taken root in his heart and it colored her as she stood in front of him. Even as nothing about her, or them, had technically changed, everything felt different.
Of all the people he’d expect to advocate for him, Xhex hadn’t had his six, and he had a feeling he knew why.
She didn’t want him to come. That was why she hadn’t said anything.
“This won’t take long,” she maintained. “We’re just going to go talk to the female and see if we can help her. She’s looking for her son.”
Those gunmetal-gray eyes, the ones that he felt like he’d spent a lifetime looking into, were steady as they held his, and she certainly seemed sincere in this noble quest vibe she was rocking.
Good move, throwing a kid into the mix, too, he thought. Made everything even harder to discount. Made him seem, on the surface, all the more unreasonable for throwing a hissy fit.
John’s hands started signing before he could stop them. When was the last time you saw Murhder?
“There is absolutely nothing going on between him and me.”
Not the question I asked.
She looked away. Looked back. “Last night. I saw him last night.”
John took a deep breath. Before or after that blow job you gave me.
“Really. You’re going there.”
I’m going nowhere, apparently. John took a step back. Do your thing. I’m the last person to order you around and I thought that was why we worked. Tonight? I’m thinking it makes me a pussy.
“You’re out of line on that one.”
The fact that you think so makes me feel like I’m not. You don’t want me to go with you, and you’re hiding behind the Brotherhood-only bullshit so you don’t have to admit it. If I were you, I’d ask myself why that’s so hard to cop to and why you want to be alone with him. I know those are the questions on my mind right now.
“This is not about you.”
Yeah, that’s the party line lately, isn’t it. He touched his chest. Let me tell you that on my end, this feels very much about me.
“Murhder is highly unstable, and that makes him dangerous—”
John threw his head back and laughed mutely. Are you really trying to toss around the it’s-for-my-own-safety shit? You know how well I can defend myself. You can’t possibly be worried about me fighting with him. I think it’s more like you don’t want me to see how much he cares about you, or you don’t want me to see how much you care about him.
This time, when he turned away, she let him go, but he could feel her eyes boring into his back as he headed down to the bedroom they shared.
This was not how he’d expected the night to start. Not even close.
And hey, there were so many dark hours left.
God only knew what was going to go tits up next.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hepatitis C. Bacterial pneumonia. Viral pneumonia. Seven different kinds of cancer including melanoma, adenocarcinoma, and neuroblastoma.
Sarah sat back on the futon. Then she put the laptop aside and rubbed at the hot spot it had left on her lap.
She had read or reviewed every single file, and God only knew how many hours it had taken. What emerged, as far as she could fathom, was a research protocol that had involved administering various diseases to a living patient housed at BioMed. The monitoring that followed was intended to measure the systemic response.
Which seemed to be none. Whatsoever.
But that had to wrong. There was no way a human being could be exposed to that kind of virulent disease, on top of a suppressed immune system, and not be overcome with the cancer, the viruses, the bacteria. The whole thing defied logic—and ethics. What person would consent to such a thing? And didn’t that raise alarm bells: When you had to ask that question, the underlying assumption was that it was a rhetorical because nobody would.
Nobody would ever agree to this. So had the patient been lied to? Or worse, were they being held against their will?
No. That couldn’t possibly have happened . . . could it?
The whole thing was like falling into a Michael Crichton novel, except it appeared to be actually happening.
Sarah glanced over at the computer screen as she thought through, for the hundredth time, the images she’d looked at—the PET scans, the CAT scans, the MRIs, the results of blood tests, the cardiac imaging.
She could explain none of it. Not the protocol, which violated every ethical standard in medicine, not the patient’s response, which was inexplicable, and certainly not BioMed’s participation in a study that would expose the corporation to probable criminal liability as well as problems with the federal government, the FDA, the AMA, and all kinds of professional groups.
She also could not explain Gerry’s role.
It was clear that this was a protocol run out of BioMed’s Infectious Disease division. On one of the reports, both BioMed’s logo and the IDD’s notation had appeared at the bottom, as if a document template had been used out of habit. Clearly, none of the study’s lead researchers wanted their name anywhere, and they had taken care to remove all other identifiers of the lab. That one had slipped through, however.
And Gerry obviously had gained access to the study at some point. Probably when his security clearance had been increased. But did he participate in the unlawful practices?
The mere idea of that made Sarah want to vomit.
She thought of his boss, Dr. Thomas McCaid. Tom McCaid had been the one who’d hired Gerry, and she’d told that FBI agent that the man had been a lab supervisor—which was true, but there was more to it. McCaid was the only researcher with that ranking who reported directly to the CEO, Dr. Robert Kraiten.
Not that McCaid was reporting to anyone, anymore.
Sarah had never met the fabled Dr. Robert Kraiten in person. Her hiring had been coordinated through her lab supervisor. But she’d seen the man speak, both at company-wide annual meetings, and on the Internet. He had a TED Talk which had been widely circulated throughout BioMed, on the limitless horizons of bioengineering.
“We are still in the dark ages of medicine . . .” was how he’d opened his speech. After which he’d gone on to point out that things like organ donation with its immune system problems and Draconian chemotherapy protocols for cancer patients were going to be akin to the leeches, tubercular sleeping porches, and lack of sterilization of the past. Fifty years from now, he maintained, replacement parts for the human body were going to be grown in labs, cancer was going to be battled at the molecular level by the immune system, and aging was going to be a matter of choice rather than inevitability.
Sarah could see some of what he was saying.
What she hadn’t liked about him was his messianic affect, like he was a self-proclaimed pied piper with all the answers, leading a drop-footed, dumber populace to the promise land of science of which only he was aware.
Then again, the man was worth how much? Having billions could make a megalomaniac out of anybody.
Given that McCaid had been head of the IDD lab, he had to know about this research. And by extrapolation, if McCaid reported directly to Kraiten, then the CEO had to know about this research.
In fact, a strong conclusion could be made that both men had promoted it, one by doing the work and the other by providing the funding and facilities.
Unless she was missing something. But how else could you explain it? Kraiten either had unethical experimentation being conducted in his lab by a rogue researcher with unlimited access to restricted-use MRI machines, PET and CAT scans, and X-rays as well as a blood laboratory and a fucking patient . . . or Kraiten was paying for the research to occur and keeping a lid on everything.
Even if it meant killing the scientists who were doing the work.
And God . . . what happened to the patient? Was he even alive anymore? The files were all two years old.
Sarah brought the laptop back into place and reviewed the directory one more time. She knew what she was looking for, knew that the hunt was stupid and fruitless. Knew that she was bound to be disappointed.
And she was.
Nothing from Gerry. No directions as to what to do with all this. No recounting of why he’d lifted all of this data.
Most importantly, no indication of what his role was in the protocol.
The Gerry she knew would never have endangered the life of a patient in the pursuit of scientific knowledge or advancement. He believed in the sanctity of life and had a commitment to the alleviation of suffering. Both were the reasons he’d gotten into medicine.
But this was his Infectious Disease division. And he obviously had not gone to the authorities with any of this—otherwise, all of BioMed would have been shut down.