I am human. I don’t want immortality; perhaps I don’t have the courage for it. But I am a member. There are a lot of humans in the coven, people who want to work with Peter’s shadows, to aid them.”
It was all too much for Nikki; she shook her head, shivered, turned away. On the nightstand was a small pitcher of water and a glass. Slowly she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Nikki gritted her teeth against the pain in her belly and arm, but she tried not to let her pain show.
After she’d had half a glass of water, she spoke again. Without turning, she asked, “Why? Why would you want to help them? Even if they aren’t like the others, they are still vampires. I’m sorry, but they are. And they drink blood, don’t they?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” George said, obviously beginning to lose his patience. “But you should rest. Maybe later we can talk about it more. Suffice it to say that Peter’s coven is the only thing standing in the way of Hannibal eventually turning the entire human race into slaves or, even worse, cattle.
“I know it’s a lot to handle all at once, but he’s a good man, Miss Wydra. If he weren’t, do you think you’d still be alive? Maybe you ought to think about that a bit,” the old doctor said.
“I’m Nikki,” she said quickly, before he could leave. It was almost an apology, offering him her first name. Almost, but not quite.
“I’m Dr. Marcopoulos,” the old man replied. “But please, call me George.”
“Will you come back, George?” she asked, feeling very lost.
“Of course. I’ll just let you sleep a bit more, and then we can talk again. You have a lot of deciding to do. Old Antoine’s is gone, I’m afraid. And Tsumi, the woman who attacked you, is still out there in the city somewhere. If she thinks you mean something to Peter, she’ll be looking for you.”
“Wonderful,” Nikki sneered, and the sarcasm somehow made her feel better. “But I don’t understand why she would think I meant anything to your friend.”
George smiled warmly, and for a moment it was almost as though he were the grandfather who’d died when she was too young to remember.
“Ah, but you fail to see the obvious,” he said. “Peter has shut out pretty much everyone since the traumatic experiences he had in Salzburg and in—and before that battle. Everyone with the exception of myself, for which I am grateful.
“But somehow, you do mean something to him. Your music does, at least. That’s why he kept going back to the club. He hoped to meet you last night, though I’m sure the horror of the circumstances weren’t what he had in mind,” the old man said.
Nikki remembered the way Peter had looked at her, when she’d thought he was just another man. Remembered his smiling eyes, and the easy intelligence with which he carried himself. Remembered, with an embarassed flush, that she’d walked offstage and been about to approach him at the bar, when all hell broke loose. But she couldn’t help also remembering the killing and the fire and the screaming. And that he wasn’t just another man. Wasn’t a man at all, despite everything George had said.
“Is this his room?” she asked.
The doctor looked at her oddly, cocking his head slightly.
“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, it is.”
Nikki glanced around the room. A large cherry wardrobe stood against the far wall. On a small table in front of the window was an array of flowers that looked several days old. Not for her, then. Just because he liked them? The walls were bare but for two large paintings. One was an apparently unremarkable seascape, the kind of thing she had seen bedraggled fishermen working on in beach parking lots her whole life.
The other was an extraordinary portrait of a woman grieving over the body of a child, a domed cathedral in the distance. The eyes reminded her of something by El Greco, a painter who could give more life to a face on canvas than anyone else ever
It was all too much for Nikki; she shook her head, shivered, turned away. On the nightstand was a small pitcher of water and a glass. Slowly she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Nikki gritted her teeth against the pain in her belly and arm, but she tried not to let her pain show.
After she’d had half a glass of water, she spoke again. Without turning, she asked, “Why? Why would you want to help them? Even if they aren’t like the others, they are still vampires. I’m sorry, but they are. And they drink blood, don’t they?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” George said, obviously beginning to lose his patience. “But you should rest. Maybe later we can talk about it more. Suffice it to say that Peter’s coven is the only thing standing in the way of Hannibal eventually turning the entire human race into slaves or, even worse, cattle.
“I know it’s a lot to handle all at once, but he’s a good man, Miss Wydra. If he weren’t, do you think you’d still be alive? Maybe you ought to think about that a bit,” the old doctor said.
“I’m Nikki,” she said quickly, before he could leave. It was almost an apology, offering him her first name. Almost, but not quite.
“I’m Dr. Marcopoulos,” the old man replied. “But please, call me George.”
“Will you come back, George?” she asked, feeling very lost.
“Of course. I’ll just let you sleep a bit more, and then we can talk again. You have a lot of deciding to do. Old Antoine’s is gone, I’m afraid. And Tsumi, the woman who attacked you, is still out there in the city somewhere. If she thinks you mean something to Peter, she’ll be looking for you.”
“Wonderful,” Nikki sneered, and the sarcasm somehow made her feel better. “But I don’t understand why she would think I meant anything to your friend.”
George smiled warmly, and for a moment it was almost as though he were the grandfather who’d died when she was too young to remember.
“Ah, but you fail to see the obvious,” he said. “Peter has shut out pretty much everyone since the traumatic experiences he had in Salzburg and in—and before that battle. Everyone with the exception of myself, for which I am grateful.
“But somehow, you do mean something to him. Your music does, at least. That’s why he kept going back to the club. He hoped to meet you last night, though I’m sure the horror of the circumstances weren’t what he had in mind,” the old man said.
Nikki remembered the way Peter had looked at her, when she’d thought he was just another man. Remembered his smiling eyes, and the easy intelligence with which he carried himself. Remembered, with an embarassed flush, that she’d walked offstage and been about to approach him at the bar, when all hell broke loose. But she couldn’t help also remembering the killing and the fire and the screaming. And that he wasn’t just another man. Wasn’t a man at all, despite everything George had said.
“Is this his room?” she asked.
The doctor looked at her oddly, cocking his head slightly.
“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, it is.”
Nikki glanced around the room. A large cherry wardrobe stood against the far wall. On a small table in front of the window was an array of flowers that looked several days old. Not for her, then. Just because he liked them? The walls were bare but for two large paintings. One was an apparently unremarkable seascape, the kind of thing she had seen bedraggled fishermen working on in beach parking lots her whole life.
The other was an extraordinary portrait of a woman grieving over the body of a child, a domed cathedral in the distance. The eyes reminded her of something by El Greco, a painter who could give more life to a face on canvas than anyone else ever
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