As my blood drips onto Mr. Grey’s ugly bruise, the swollen tissue immediately absorbs the red fluid as if it were hungry, and a sigh seems to go through the length of his body. Placing my hand on his wrist, I feel for his pulse and sit back and wait.
The transformation comes quick. Within minutes the bruise has shrunk in size and his breathing has deepened and gained strength. His pulse has improved as well. His heart steadies at sixty beats a minute.
“Mr. Grey,” I say softly. “Time to open your eyes.”
His long brown lashes blink as he looks up at me and smiles. “You didn’t kill me, Sita. I’m glad.”
“How do you feel?”
He tries to sit up and falls back down. “Weak. Dizzy.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“You’re the Last Vampire.”
“Who told you that?”
“My superiors. They told me about you and Matt. His father was Yaksha, greatest of all the vampires, and his mother was Umara, one of the ancient Telar.”
“Impressive. Who are your superiors?”
“That’s going to be a problem. I can lie to you or I can admit that I can’t tell you.” He pauses. “I’d rather do the latter.”
“Are you working for the government?”
“I have nothing to do with the manhunt that’s chasing you.”
“Then how do you know about the manhunt?”
“My superiors told me about it.”
“Is that going to be your answer to every difficult question?”
“To a lot of them.”
“Why were you watching the Goodwins?”
“I was there to protect them. And I was hoping you would show up so we could meet.”
“What made you think I would show up?”
He hesitates. “The veil.”
“How do you know about the veil?”
“It’s famous, in certain circles.” He pauses. “Will you please not kill me if I tell you that my superiors belong to those circles?”
I sigh. “You’re not giving me a lot to work with. My friends don’t trust you. Come morning, if all I can tell them is your superiors sent you, they’re going to want me to get rid of you. And I mean get rid of you in a permanent sort of way.” I pause. “Give me something.”
Mr. Grey considers. “Tell Matt and Seymour and Brutran that I can help you guys find the veil.”
“You know where it is?”
“I know the next best thing. I know how to call off the manhunt.”
“How are you going to do that?”
He winces in pain and closes his eyes. He continues in a quiet voice. “There’s a bag I had with me, when I was outside the Goodwins’ house. It should still be there. It’s near the road, in a bunch of—”
“We found it, we have it.”
He’s surprised, which is in itself a surprise. Not much seems to startle Mr. Grey. Opening his eyes, he tries again to sit up. “Give it to me. I can help you.”
“Tomorrow,” I say, pushing him gently down. “The two who attacked the Goodwins cracked your skull. You have a serious concussion. You have to lie still.”
He feels his scalp wound. “It was worse earlier. Did you . . . ?”
“Yes. I gave you a few drops of my blood.”
He suddenly smiles. “Does that mean we’re going steady?”
“You’re weird. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“My superiors.” His eyes close and his breathing deepens, sleep forcing itself on his beaten body. “Sita,” he whispers.
I lean close. “Yes, Mr. Grey?”
“I’m happy to be here . . . with you.”
He blacks out and I’m left alone with my thoughts. Rising from the bed, I huddle in a chair in the corner of the room, determined to stay awake to keep an eye on Mr. Grey. I’m not a neurologist but I know enough about head injuries to be concerned. Even with an infusion of my blood there’s an excellent chance his concussion could drag him into a coma from which he might never awaken. It’s critical I monitor his heartbeat and breathing. I’m exhausted but long ago I learned how to rest without sleeping.
I sit quietly, eyes closed, and think of Krishna’s eyes.
Unfortunately, the memories of the Nazis and the war intrude on my meditation. Dark thoughts that would keep any man or woman awake until dawn. The nightmare of Auschwitz: the trainloads of refugees; the screams in the gas showers; the mountains of corpses; the ovens; the stink of burning flesh. It was more than seventy years ago and it still feels like yesterday.
No, I think. I won’t sleep tonight.
EIGHT
I have only ten days left, I think miserably. Ten days to rescue Anton Petit, a key leader in the French Resistance, from the Nazis’ Gestapo. Ten days to finish mapping the minefields on and off the coast of France. The pressure on me is immense. Yet, ironically, even the leaders of the British and American forces don’t realize how much they are depending on me.
Only a mid-level officer on General Eisenhower’s staff named Lieutenant Frank Darling knows who I am and what I am. It’s Frank who’s told me that in ten days the massed might of the Allies will attempt to storm Normandy’s beaches. Of course, it could be nine days, or eleven or twelve, depending on the weather.
Anton, a dear friend, is key because he’s the only member of the French Resistance who has complete knowledge of their plans to disrupt the Nazis prior to and immediately following the invasion. Just his luck that he was captured six hours ago while quietly sipping coffee at a café outside the most famous museum on earth, the Louvre. Anton’s casual behavior—I should call it foolhardiness—was typical of him. With the fate of his nation hanging in balance, he screamed at me that he absolutely could not miss his morning coffee and cheese sandwich, before vanishing out the door.
I love Anton, I truly do, but a part of me worries I will kill him when I rescue him. Like many French men he can be terribly stubborn.
Ah, but he’s wonderful in bed.
I must keep him alive, I remind myself, even as I stare across the dark cobblestone street at the unimposing three-story building where he is being held captive. I’m in the southwest corner of Paris, on the fringe of the city, studying what used to be an elementary school. What’s interesting about the structure is how few of the local population know it’s a Gestapo stronghold. A secret entrance, which opens two blocks away, is the reason it has gone overlooked. But the fact it even has such an opening makes me think it was used by French intelligence before the country was overrun.