Page 25 of King Among the Dead

Rose realized she was shaking. Her legs and back were on fire, her ankles and knees throbbing from standing so long. But the only thing that mattered was the steady, shallow rise and fall of Beck’s chest.

She stared at it now, its light dusting of hair, darker than that on his head, a match for the trail that led down from his navel and disappeared into his waistband. His nipples were drawn up to tight peaks in the cold. His skin was paler on his body than on his face, and even paler now, from the loss of blood. As smooth as his voice – save for the scars, and there were many. A few ugly, puckered marks that looked like old gunshot wounds, and jagged streaks and fishhooks from knives or any number of sharp objects. None looked as wicked as the wound they’d just closed.

“He’ll be okay?”

“Hopefully.” Kay pulled down her mask and stretched out her back with a quiet curse. “He’s strong, and stubborn as all hell. We’ll get him on some meds, make him stay in bed a week or so – or, hell, as long as he’ll let us. He should pull through just fine.” If it was bluster, it sounded real enough.

Rose let out a shaky breath. “I thought…all that blood…”

Kay turned to her, her smile soft and warm. “I know, honey. But you did real good.”

Her eyes burned.

“Nope, no waterworks yet,” Kay said, not unkindly. “We need to move him. That old futon in the pink parlor’s on castors.”

It was, and it wasn’t hard for the two of them to wheel it down the hall and into the kitchen. Rose called on her last reserves of energy, suspecting Kay did the same, and together they laid the futon out flat and made it up with fresh sheets and blankets. Moved all the chairs and maneuvered it in close to the table; locked the wheels and, somehow, slowly, managed to shift Beck over onto it. Gravity helped – the futon was lower – and with Kay cradling his head, and Rose moving his legs, they didn’t jostle him too badly.

Rose helped get his boots and pants off, too tired and worried to spare much thought for the tight black boxer-briefs he wore underneath. Blood had seeped through his jeans and stained his legs, and Rose cleaned it off with a damp towel while Kay stacked two pillows beneath his head.

They built a fire in the kitchen hearth, wheeled the futon close and locked the wheels again. They covered him in blankets, and Kay gave him both a steroid and antibiotic shot. They cleaned up the makeshift operating table, set the med kit to rights.

Now it was just a matter of waiting and hoping and praying.

Beck’s hair had dried in soft, tawny curls. The firelight picked out the golden threads against the warm honey brown; danced down the sharp blade of his nose, and the stretch of his throat. Rose watched the rise and fall of his chest; every so often, it would look like he stopped breathing, but then she’d blink and see that the sheet was in fact still lifting and falling.

“Here, honey.” Kay appeared at her elbow, streaming mug held out in offering.

Rose wondered how long she’d been standing like this, in a daze; she hadn’t heard Kay making tea.

“Thanks.” She took a sip, shocked to feel a burn in her throat that was only partly temperature-related.

“Bourbon,” Kay explained. “You’re as pale as him. Sit down before you fall.”

An excellent idea.

They dragged two chairs over closer to Beck, where the heat of the fire could reach them, and Rose was afraid, after she’d settled into it, that she wouldn’t be able to get back up again. The room spun.

“Drink,” Kay said. “It’ll help.”

She drank, and it did help.

God, if she felt this awful, how must Kay be holding up?

A glance revealed that Kay had lit a cigarette and was working on it steadily, slouched back in her chair. Her body seemed to sag with fatigue, but her gaze was still sharp, contemplative.

A drink and a smoke. Like Beck.After.

Rose took another sip of her own bourbon-laced tea. It was warming her, easing the shaking and tension. Loosening her tongue, too. She felt less cautious; downright reckless. “Who did this to him?”

She expected another tense, calculating stare-down like they’d had that day in Beck’s room. But Kay exhaled a plume of smoke and said, simply, “Some of Castor’s people, I expect. He hunts more than that, but if there were seven, and they got the better of him, I’d put that down to Castor’s goons for sure.”

“AnthonyCastor? The mafia boss?”

“One and the same. His guys are like bowling pins. Knock a few down, and more of ‘em get set up in their place.”

“Is that where he goes at night? Does he go looking for them?”

“Them, usually. Sometimes others.”

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