Page 57 of The Shadow of the Count
“Stop calling me names.”
There was the sound of a tussle, but then Clark appeared, pulling up a chair between him and the bed next to him, a book in hand.
A hospital ward. That was where he was. He recognized it now, with the curtains and the awful bed he lay in and the smell of antiseptic.
He opened his mouth, intending to ask what was wrong, and nothing—not so much as a peep escaped.
Clark turned toward him anyway. “Still no voice, eh? Just nod or shake your head now. How are you feeling?”
Peter shrugged, but he winced as his arm screamed at him. He looked at it, then at Clark, trying to remember what had happened.
“The count. He did something to you. I don’t know what, but you’ve taken a hit.”
He put his good hand to his throat.
“That’s not an injury. The doctors have no idea.” Clark shook his head. “Your arm is broken. They said it will heal well.”
He motioned to his lover, and why was Don here? What had happened?
“The count bit him.” Clark held up a hand when he tried to struggle upright. “He doesn’t appear to have drunk the count’s blood in return. He’s not exhibiting any of the signs that Reynaud fellow did.”
Well, that was a relief, because Reynaud had been mad.But is he okay? What happened? What is going on?His heart sped, the pounding ringing in his head.
“The count attacked him while we were at the crypt. He’s lost a lot of blood.”
He’d always suspected that Clark could read minds, but then his question was obvious.
“And Douglas broke his back. He’s not well.”
His mouth pushed out a string of expletives, even if his throat didn’t. Damn it all. Douglas. Donnie would be heartbroken if Douglas didn’t recover. Peter couldn’t blame him. They were family, and they depended on each other.
This was his fault.
Every bit of this.
He had to fix it.
Peter tried to sit up, get himself off the bed. He would go now, find the count, and set his coffin on fire.
“Peter. You’re still in shock. You need to rest. Flying off without a plan is Jeb’s job.”
That surprised a silent laugh out of him.
“Sad but true. He’s a hooligan of the highest order.”
Peter nodded. And he hoped that said hooligan really was getting some rest rather than lurking outside the ward. Jeb could be stubborn in the extreme.
Jeb might be the one he could convince to help him chase the count down. The thought took root, and he glanced sideways at Clark, a little superstitious about the man now.
Clark closed his book. “One way or the other, we will kill him, Peter. It’s a directive from Grant now. We’re to use any and all of his resources. And those are extensive.”
He nodded. Good. He needed to avenge his lover, earn Don’s forgiveness. If he broke the hold the count had on them, they could all heal.
“However, like Jeb, you need rest. Stay here where there’s a crowd. Sleep. Heal a few days. Then we can talk about what comes next.” Clark stared right into him, eyes dark with emotion.
I’m sorry, he mouthed. He hadn’t meant to do this.
“No. No blame exists here except for the count. Everyone else was acting on the best of themselves.” Clark opened his book. “Now, lie back. I’ll read to you.”
