She couldn’t tell how to feel. Her entire body was numb except for her mouth, where her teeth were moving as if conscious. The sensation was right out of a nightmare, and the necklace, tucked under her coat, was far warmer than it ought to be as well.
“Well, your eyes ent glowing and you ent leaping on me, so I think you’re all right.” Wren peered at her, a flash of teeth showing through his mustache. “You just stay in control of yourself now, you hear? I’d hate to have to shoot you.”
“If you shoot her, will it work?” Hardison wanted to know.
Bea’s eyes widened, and even though the van’s interior was dim for humans Wren could clearly see as much. “Jaysus, Jimmy, that’s no way way to talk. Besides, she has to be alive or’n it won’t work, so far’s I can tell.”
She strained to think. Maybe they didn’t like their boss, so they’d…
Oh. Oh boy. And now they’re discussing what to do with me. Why didn’t they shoot me too?
“Miss Dunlevy?” At least Wren was being polite. And if he suspected she was a bloodsucker, holding a gun on her was a pretty smart move. “Don’t mind young James here, he’s just a bit excited. Once we’ve gotten what we need, we can all go our separate ways. I’ve no desire to kill ye, lassie, but I will if I have to. Understand?”
Bea nodded. Several times, in fact. The motion made her teeth even more sensitive, which was a really bad sign.
“Hot damn,” Hardison said, and the van swayed as he took another corner at slightly more than advisable speed. “We did it. We really did it!”
He sounded super happy. Bea kept her eyes on Wren, waiting to find out what the hell.
“We did some of it,” Wren corrected. “Now there’s the rest, and we’ll live forever. Just so long as Miss Dunlevy here keeps a calm head.”
Her mouth had calmed down a bit by the time the van stopped; the sweet taste was near overpowering, numbing the inside of her throat as well. The goddamn thirst had begun to tickle, and she hoped they couldn’t tell.
It sounded like they wanted something, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what. She hoped it was the necklace, but they could just shoot her and take it, right? Killing Lukas was way more difficult than getting rid of one tired, worn-out whatever-she’d-become. Leman, fledgling, sanguinant.
Monster. You’re a monster now.
Now that her chompers weren’t shifting around, they felt normal when she ran her tongue nervously against them. But behind the dull ache masked by sweet novocaine—apparently she could make her own oral analgesic now, which was both interesting and faintly disgusting—she sensed other shapes packed against her jaw, under her cheekbones. She wondered if she’d have to learn to talk again, or if she’d sound drunk trying to speak with a mouthful of painkilling spit.
Hardison got out; when he opened the van’s side door everything outside poured in, sound and scent plus pale fluorescent light. Impressions of space, metal girders, thin walls, lapping water, concrete pilings—this place was near a river, and it sounded big.
Warehouse big.
Wren duck-walked to the door, keeping the gun trained on her the entire time. Bea did her best to look nonthreatening. It wasn’t hard, she just wanted to curl up in a corner and hyperventilate for a while.
A long, long while.
“Come on out, then. Slowly.” Wren backed up. His big black boots squeaked on stained, smooth concrete.
It was indeed a warehouse, jammed with what looked like mounds of trash and rotting corpses of heavy equipment. Tiny squeaks and scurries were probably rats in the walls, and Bea shivered as she eased out of the van. Her legs shook.
A few things were now clear. Both men didn’t just dislike but actively hated their boss, though Hardison’s fear was almost as strong. Wren was the one in charge now, and he clearly felt Lukas had stiffed him of something.
“This way.” Wren indicated with the rifle; Bea moved very slowly. She wasn’t sure if she could use superspeed right now; her limbs felt both weak and leaden. She couldn’t tell if it was from shock, fear, the thirst, having a night that crowned an entirely insane however-long she’d been dealing with all this bullshit, the approach of dawn, or sheer rage.
Because she was furious. Sure, she’d tried staking a semi-innocent bloodsucker, so it could be argued this was just the consequences of her own damn actions.
But for God’s sake, it was ridiculous. Why couldn’t they just go complain to their employer, leaving her the hell-and-breakfast out of it?
Tucked against an outside wall, the warehouse’s office was a surprise—clean and cozy, done up like a studio apartment. Two futon couches on unvarnished wooden frames, a trim little kitchen with a two-burner countertop stove plus a mini-fridge, a foldable dinette set with a pair of spindly chairs, and clean, practically new blue carpet. One corner held a small empty desk, its surface covered with a light scrim of dust. The place smelled unused, but that was the only problem.
Wren motioned her to one of the couches; Bea hobbled in that direction as Hardison rummaged in the kitchen. The younger man seemed a bit more relaxed now.
“Sit down.” Wren’s fixed smile was not at all comforting, and his left cheek twitched at random intervals. “We told our hunter friends that you tried to ram a stake through our master’s heart, and for that they’ll let you live. But you do anything unwise now, Miss Dunlevy, and you won’t just have to worry about my wee popgun here. They’re professionals, and have done for many a sanguinant. Nasty way to go, fire.”
Bea nodded, sinking by degrees onto the futon. It felt great to sit down, actually. She couldn’t tell if the numbness creeping into her fingers and toes was the approach of that black needle-skip of having to sleep during daylight.
What would happen at dawn? If she passed out…
