Chapter 5

      Late that night, Mark stormed into the office he shared with two other part-time physicians at Redwood General Hospital. He slammed the door behind him, beyond frustrated. Larson wasn’t talking.

      At first, it had been understandable because he was unconscious. The wound was serious, but Mark had tended to it and thankfully Larson would recover.

      But once Larson was awake, he hadn’t talked because he was afraid. Someone had threatened his grandchildren. Someone he feared more than Mark—and that was saying something.

      The phone rang. Mark snatched it up. “What?”

      There was a beat of silence. “I see someone had their grumpy pills today.”

      It was Faran Kenyon, werewolf and fellow member of the Horsemen.

      “What?” Mark snapped again. He wasn’t in the mood for Kenyon’s antics. His skin itched like the devil. He’d been exposed to too much sun on the plane and now he looked pink. He’d already used half a tube of medicated cream and smelled like the victim of a bad diaper rash.

      And the scent of blood on the plane had gotten to him badly. As a doctor, he was used to it, but Bree had been bleeding. The blood of strangers was one thing. The blood of a woman who had caught his notice was something else. Dangerous. Tantalizing.

      “Next time you send a top-secret report to the captain, blind copy me,” Kenyon said, breaking through his thoughts. “Otherwise, all I get are bits and scraps. I heard about the damsel in distress showing up and you deciding to get her and a sick rug rat to town, but why the shoot-out in the bush?”

      “I was tracked. I found a letter inside my cabin.”

      “Who from? The health department?”

      “The Knights of Vidon.”

      Kenyon swore.

      “Indeed,” Mark said with wry humor. “Vampire slayers apparently take no vacations. Therefore, I don’t get one, either. Unfortunately, the letter was from one of my longtime fans. It was a surprise. I haven’t heard from that family for a very long time.”

      “Who?”

      “Nicholas Ferrel. I knew the taste of his ancestor.”

      “Creepy. How long ago was that?”

      Mark sat down at the desk, and was greeted with stacks of files plastered with sticky notes. Sign this form. Initial that one. Complete another mountain of logs and charts. He shoved them aside with a sweep of his arm. “Five hundred thirty years, give or take.”

      “And his descendant still holds a grudge? What in blazes did you do?”

      “It was a different era. Listen, I’m sending some blood samples by courier. I’ve addressed them to you, but would you send them over to the lab when they arrive?”

      “Sure. Anything I should know?”

      “They’re for the boy. There’s something about his case that worries me. Redwood is just a small regional hospital. I want the Varney labs on it.”

      The Varney Center in Los Angeles was the West Coast hub of the Company and the North American headquarters for the Horsemen. As well as the usual mountains of data intelligence, spy toys and black ops coffeemakers, it had an exceptional medical facility. There were few things that made Mark go weak in the knees, but those labs counted. The fact that he got to work there was one of the main reasons he had joined the Horsemen.

      “Not to sound like the trolls in accounting, but he’s a human, right? Should we be using our resources for this?”

      “Do I ever ask for favors?” He knew very well that the answer was negative.

      Kenyon sighed. “Dare I ask why now?”

      “The woman has insurance issues. If there’s a hassle, tell them to take it out of my pay.”

      Kenyon was quiet for a moment. “If you’re that involved—”

      “I’m not involved,” he said quickly. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong, and that frustrates me. I became a doctor for this kind of science.” Not to mention atonement for all the lives he’d taken.

      Kenyon’s voice was cautious. “The boy’s really sick, isn’t he?”

      “Maybe. Probably.” Closer examination had confirmed his earlier fears. Whatever was wrong was chronic and debilitating—almost certainly something in his blood. He could smell it. “But I don’t want to say anything until I’m absolutely certain. I don’t want to put his mother through any false alarms.”

      He swiveled the chair around so that he could look out the window. All he got was a view of the parking lot, growing dim in the fading light. Besides sending a brief report to L.A., he’d spent hours treating Larson, then more time testing Jonathan and looking in on some other patients he had in long-term care. He’d lost track of time, and now the clock said it was after six in the evening.

      A whole day back in the human world. He already missed the green of his island retreat, where he didn’t have to fight to wear a civilized mask. Where choices were easy.

      “I have bad news,” Kenyon said. “You don’t get to hang around up there playing Dr. McGrumpy. The boss wants you in L.A.”

      “Now?”

      “Right now. He’s sending a plane to pick up Larson. Raphael got the copy of your statement.”

      The boss. Raphael. “His timing is inconvenient.”

      “Sorry. He wants you on the plane. He’s scooping up Larson’s family, bringing the whole lot of them in so that they’ll be safe. Then he’s going to question Larson again. He wants you present for that.”

      We’ll see. Mark had never liked having his leash yanked, and thoroughly resented it now. “Then I need you to do one more thing. I want an ID on this woman. Her name is Bree. The boy’s name is Jonathan. He’s almost four years old.”

      “Last name?”

      “I don’t have one. I suppose Bree is short for something.”

      “Uh-huh. Date of birth? Place of birth? Maybe a Swedish accent to give us a clue?”

      Mark considered. “I’d say Californian.”

      “Californians don’t have an accent.”

      “They do if you’re Italian.” California hadn’t even been discovered when he was born in 1452. By the time Columbus sailed for the New World forty years later, Marco Farnese had been Undead for a decade. “Parlo la lingua del canto e della seduzione.” I speak the language of song and seduction.

      Kenyon gave a short, dry laugh. “Right. Like I’d call you for phone sex. There’s something sad about an Italian vampire. All that great garlicky cuisine going to waste.”

      Mark grunted. “Call me when you find something.”

      “When is optimistic. Stick to if.”

      “Nonsense. You’re a bloodhound.”

      “I’m a