Beneath a Blood Red Moon Read online

Page 36

 

  She dipped the little triangle into cocktail sauce.

  Sean realized that it looked as if they were all dipping into a little pot of blood.

  Rutger Leon swaggered down the street, arms swinging at his sides. He patted his pocket, making sure he carried his knife.

  The cop had brought him down.

  His lawyer had set him free. Old Iggy— Esquire, as he liked to call himself—couldn’t make it without Rutger’s kind of money. Drug money. Blood money.

  Rutger felt like laughing again.

  The bitch was going to get hers. That damned Callie. Coming to him whining, begging for another pop when she wasn’t pulling her own weight in any shape or form. Once, she’d been a pretty little thing, good in bed, eager to please. Man, she’d do anything for a fix—anything. He liked the taste he got in his mouth, just thinking about it. Still, she’d caused this, caused him to get arrested—and Ray killed. Of course, Ray had gone off the deep end— charging an armed cop, but it was still her damned fault, and now she was going to get hers.

  The cops assumed the bitch was safe. But there were always leaks. So now little Callie was in the hospital, shaking away by now, he was certain, facing withdrawal. Poor baby.

  He walked around the corner, looking up at the building. He had the room number, the floor number, and his hospital greens. Callie was going to have the words “whore” and “bitch” carved into her back cheeks before the cops on duty ever suspected trouble.

  Maybe it was a good thing Ray got killed. Rutger wanted Callie back. Wanted her when she was in one of those moods to do anything— anything—at all that he wanted. And she wouldn’t be too quick to make it with anyone other than a john he’d picked out for her—not with her butt all carved up with his signature descriptions. Actually, she wasn’t going to get much punishment—not half of what she deserved.

  He smiled, thinking about her expression while he told her what he meant to do . . .

  Hospitals—no matter how the administration tried to modernize them—smelled like hospitals. Maggie didn’t mind visiting, but she was always glad to leave.

  She was glad she and Sean had come. It was good to see Callie all scrubbed up, pale and wan and hurting still, but sedated to get through the night.

  Callie smiled when she saw them.

  “You guys really came. ”

  “Sure,” Sean said, sitting at the foot of her bed.

  Callie twitched. She’d probably twitch now and then for a long time to come, Maggie thought. Drugs were a disease like no other.

  Callie looked at Maggie shyly. “You’re not even a cop. ”

  Maggie shook her head. “We just wanted to see how you’re doing. ”

  “Hand’s all wrapped up,” Callie said. She winced suddenly, and closed her eyes, groaning. “Oh, God, I don’t know, I don’t know . . . ”

  Maggie reached out suddenly, squeezing her hand. “Fight it. Think that you’re going to be clean, you’re going to start over. Hell, Callie, think about that guy’s teeth! That’s enough to keep you off the street. ” Callie had been in hellish pain. It was evident in her ashen coloring. Still, she smiled. “His teeth do just suck, don’t they? Thank God, Rutger’s in jail. I hope they throw away the key!” Sean glanced at Maggie, then back to Callie. “Actually, Callie, they let Rutger out. ”

  “Oh, God, I’m a dead woman!” Callie breathed.

  “No, you’re not,” Maggie said firmly.

  “You have two cops out in the hall, Callie. Friends of mine— good guys. Two more cops will spell them in a while. You’re going to be fine. ”

  Tears pooled in Callie’s eyes. She looked like a little girl lost, so small against the white expanse of her hospital bed, frail beneath the worn hospital gown. “I wish I could believe you!”

  “Well, you’ll believe me come the morning. I’ll be back in about ten. ”

  “Nine,” Maggie corrected.

  Sean looked at her.

  “We’ll come before you take me into work, and I really need to be in by ten. A Monday morning, you know. ”

  Sean offered her the half-smile she loved so much, and touched Callie’s cheek. “Try to get some rest.

  They’re going to give you another shot. Help you along a little, okay?” Callie tried to smile.

  “You’re going to be all right,” Sean assured her. His voice was determined, gentle.

  He rose, and took Maggie’s hand. They paused to talk to the two cops outside Callie’s door.

  “Maggie, Jimmy Cross, Angus Canham—guys, Maggie Montgomery,” Sean said, introducing them.

  Jimmy was about thirty, crinkly brown hair, friendly hazel eyes. Angus was older, white-haired, with pale-blue sparkling eyes. They both shook her hand, acknowledging her with a speculation Sean ignored.

  “I understand you guys have all managed to be here on your own time. It’s great, and I really appreciate it. ”

  “Hey, Sean, it’s a tough time for all of us,” Jimmy said. “The last weeks have been brutal. If we can help the little waif in there, all the better. ”

  Angus nodded. “Sean, now, ye’re a man puttin‘ in his own fair share of hours, and we heard ye were afraid fer the wee lass,” he said. Obviously, Maggie thought, Angus was as Scottish as his name. He smiled at her. “He’s a right fine fellow there, eh, Ms. Montgomery? We’d do a lot fer the likes of him, we would. ”

  “That’s great!” she assured him. Impulsively, she kissed his cheek. “Thanks. ”

  “Hey!” Sean protested, laughing. “Angus, you’re stealing my girl. It’s that accent. Women are suckers for an accent!”

  “Hey, Angus, want to teach me an accent?” Jimmy queried hopefully.

  “ ‘Tis me charm, and not me accent, young whipper-snapper!” Angus claimed.

  They all laughed, bidding one another good night. When they reached Sean’s place, Maggie immediately turned into his arms as he closed the door, throwing her arms around him, kissing him hungrily, with passion, need—and tenderness.

  “Hey!” he murmured softly against her lips, tugging at her zipper, and then her hemline. “What did I do to deserve this?”

  “You’re just you!” she whispered against his mouth, kissing him again. “You’re just . . . you . . . ” He kissed her back. Their clothing was strewn. She was up in his arms, feeling his strength, his warmth.

  Naked, he crawled over her in his bed. He threaded his fingers through her hair. She studied his face.

  Loved his eyes. The planes of his cheeks. His dimples. His smile. Loved the strength that lay within his heart.

  “Sean . . . ” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “I . . . ”

  “Yesss . . . ?” he teased softly, nuzzling her lower lip with his own, planting a kiss between her breasts.

  “I’m falling in love with you,” she whispered.

  He stiffened slightly; stared at her. Smiled very slowly, and then his smile faded and his eyes were dead serious. “I fell the moment I met you,” he told her.

  And his teasing attitude was dropped. And he made love to her with a wild, wicked passion that exceeded her every expectation.

  He dwelt in darkness. A strange darkness.

  Then he was aware of noise, and of a moving sensation.

  He felt as if he were very slowly struggling awake after a long and incredibly deep sleep.

  He was cold; he shivered.

  No wonder. He was sleeping on something very hard, and very cold. He was aware suddenly of unyielding . . . steel? . . . beneath his body. He inhaled suddenly, sharply. Something was sucked into his mouth. In panic, he pawed at it. A sheet. He’d drawn his sheet all the way over his head.

  He became aware of light then; light, pools of piercing light that fought back the shadows that hovered over most of the room.

  He began to hear a trickling of water.

  Up. He neede
d to get up. It seemed so hard. He was accustomed to doing whatever the hell he damned pleased. He was a strong man. Hell, he cracked heads when he felt like it.

  But he’d had that fight, though. With the cop. The asshole had shot him, that was it, he was in the hospital, he was . . .

  Hungry.

  Hungry in a way he’d never imagined. Desperately hungry for meat. Red meat. Raw meat. No, no, no . . .

  Something red, but. . .

  Oh, yeah. Real raw.

  Blood.

  He managed to sit up. He looked around. Hospital room. Sterile tile. Water running. Shadows of night still in the room, yet a brilliant pool of light over his bed. He squinted. Something else up there. A microphone?

  And the bedside table . . .

  It wasn’t quite right.

  He scratched his hairy abdomen and looked down at his round belly and flaccid penis. Shit. He was sleeping naked in the hospital?

  He grinned. Maybe it was a Catholic hospital. And maybe he could stir up an erection before a nun showed up.

  He felt great all of a sudden. Strong as an ox. And still, so damned . . . thirsty.

  Hungry.

  Desperate for something . . .

  Red.

  Strange. Everything was strange. Some hospital. He looked at the bedside table again. There were surgical instruments on it. Something that looked like a damned bone saw. Scalpels, things that looked like forceps . . .

  A doorway was open. He was distracted from the bedside table as he saw someone walk by. A woman in a lab coat. Pretty, young. Short, dark hair, nice, clean-scrubbed face. She looked like a med student, maybe. He found himself staring at her throat. Amazing. He could hear her heartbeat. He could see the veins in her neck . . . pulsing. He wanted to touch her. Kiss her. Suck her neck. Bite down, see blood gushing all around her.

  Ah, yes . . .

  Bite, rip, break, tear . . .

  Drink.

  He heard a whir of movement and turned. He blinked, wondering if he was dreaming up the hospital, if he wasn’t already dead, and if—strangely—he hadn’t arrived in heaven. There was an angel moving toward him. Moving in smoke, in clouds, or in mist, coming toward him. Naked. Whoa.

  But there was something in the angel’s eyes, something angry. The angel had read his mind. But he was feeling powerful. So powerful. More powerful even than he had begun to feel before . . .