"Back off, Z," Phury cut in. "He has no voice. He can't talk." Phury tilted the pad his way. "He apologizes."
John resisted the urge to hide behind the chair as he got raked over visually. But then the aggression radiating from the guy eased up.
"You can't talk at all?"
John shook his head.
"Well, I can't read. So we're SOL, you and me."
John worked his Bic quickly. As he showed the pad to Phury, the male with the black stare frowned. "What did the kid write?"
"He says that's okay. He's a good listener. You can do the talking."
Those soulless eyes shifted away. "Got nothing to say. Now what the hell do I set a thermostat at?"
"Ah, seventy degrees." Phury went across the room. "The dial should be here. See?"
"I didn't turn it up enough."
"And you've got to make sure this switch on the bottom of the unit is all the way over to the right. Otherwise, no matter what the dial is on, the heat won't kick in."
"Yeah... okay. And can you tell me what this says?"
Phury looked down at a square piece of paper. "It's the dosage information for the shot."
"No shit. So what do I do?"
"Is she uncomfortable?"
"Not right now, but I want you to fill this up for me and tell me what to do. I need one dose ready to go in case Havers can't get here fast enough."
Phury took the vial and unwrapped the needle. "Okay."
"Do it right." When Phury was finished with the syringe, he recapped it and the two spoke for a while in the Old Language. Then the scary guy asked, "How long will you be gone?"
"Maybe an hour."
"Do me a favor first, then. Lose that sedan I brought her back in."
"I already did."
The scarred man nodded and left, the door closing with a clap.
Phury put his hands on his hips and stared at the floor.
Then he went over to a mahogany box on a bureau and took out what looked like a blunt. Holding the hand-rolled between his thumb and forefinger, he lit it and breathed in deep, keeping the inhale down, closing his eyes. When he exhaled, the smoke smelled like roasting coffee beans and hot chocolate combined. Delicious.
As John's muscles relaxed, he wondered what the stuff was. Not marijuana, certainly. But it wasn't just a cigarette.
Who is he? John wrote, and showed the pad.
"Zsadist. My twin." Phury laughed a little when John's mouth went slack. "Yeah, I know, we don't look much alike. At least, not anymore. Listen, he's a little touchy, so you might want to give him some space."
No shit, John thought.
Phury slipped on a shoulder holster and popped a gun in on one side and a black-bladed dagger on the other. He went into a closet and came back wearing a black leather peacoat.
He put the joint or whatever it was out in a silver ashtray next to the bed. "All right, let's go."
Chapter Eleven
Zsadist was quiet as he stole back into his room. After he fixed the thermostat and put the medicine on the bureau, he went over to the bed and leaned against the wall, staying in the shadows. He became suspended in time as he loomed over Bella and measured the slight rise and fall of the covers that marked her breathing. He could feel the minutes dripping into hours, and yet he could not move even as his legs grew numb.
In the candlelight he watched her skin heal right in front of his eyes. It was miraculous, the bruises fading from her face, the swelling around her eyes draining away, the cuts disappearing. Thanks to the deep sleep she was in, her body was throwing off the damage, and as her beauty was revealed once again, he was so damned grateful. In the lofty circles she ran in, a female with imperfections of any kind would be shunned. Aristocrats were like that.
He pictured his twin's unmarred, handsome face and knew Phury should be the one taking care of her. Phury was perfect savior material, and it was obvious he was into her. Plus she would like to wake up to a male like that. Any female would.
So why the hell didn't he just pick her up and put her in Phury's bed? Right now.
But he couldn't move. And as he stared down at her while she lay on pillows he'd never used, between sheets he'd never turned back for himself,