Angel's Pain. Maggie Shayne

overindulgence in freakin’ Buckingham Palace to keep her from thinking about that. About him.

      Reaper.

      He wanted something from her. He was up to something. She wasn’t stupid enough to think men ever did anything for any other reason. And she thought he was a little bit beyond the caveman-level mentality. It wasn’t just sex, like with her stepfather. That Neanderthal hadn’t had another thought in his entire head. There’d been no motive, no scheme or scam or reason. Just beady eyes that were way too close together, and a serious death wish she had yet to fulfill.

      It was on her list. Gregor first, though. Then Stepdaddy-dearest. And then she would move on through the rest of them. The pimps, the dealers, the Johns. All of them. They would pay.

      She wasn’t a lost, weak, homeless addict anymore. She was a vampire now. Thanks to Gregor. Ironic, that.

      Reaper, though…he was different. Smart. Even halfway decent. So he wanted something, he had something to gain, besides a good time, by getting into her pants again. What was it?

      She didn’t know. And she wasn’t going to figure it out in the time between her shower and sunrise, so she toweled off, slung the giant towel over the wide rack to dry and padded into the bedroom. She snagged a fleece bathrobe from a hook on the way. The thing was as soft as down, cream-colored, knee-length. She pulled it on, and, in spite of herself, hugged it around her a little bit. Then she headed through the living room and toward Crisa’s door. It was closed, but the glass of blood she’d left on the table just this side of it was gone.

      She moved closer, opened the door very quietly, just a little, and peeked inside.

      Crisa lay in the bed, sound asleep, but uneasy. She twitched every few seconds, and her head kept moving from side to side. Roxy was still there, but she got up when she saw Briar peering in, crossed the room on tiptoe and joined her in the living room.

      As she closed the door quietly behind her, she met Briar’s eyes. “I don’t like it.”

      “No, neither do I.”

      “It just doesn’t make any damn sense. If she didn’t hear voices or see things or get these headaches before, why now? What’s changed?”

      “I don’t know. Maybe her damn Rey-Rey had her on some kind of medication that we don’t know about. Something that kept all this shit under control.”

      “What kind of medication would work on a vampire, Briar?”

      “Only two that we know of. The tranquilizer, and that potion of Rhiannon’s that lets us stay awake by day, and makes us meaner than hell and twice as jittery. But that doesn’t mean there might not be more.”

      “Right. Antipsychotics for the undead. Makes all kinds of sense.”

      She shot Roxy a look. “If it’s not that, then what?”

      “I don’t know. Some kind of possession?”

      “You don’t believe it could be drugs, but demons seem like a possibility to you?” Briar rolled her eyes.

      “Maybe some other vampire is messing around with her head, then?”

      “Why would anyone want to?”

      “I’m damned if I know!” Roxy lowered her head. “I know, I know, you’re as baffled by this as I am. I just hate seeing her in pain. And so confused by it. And the way she’s changing…No, I don’t like it. I want to help.”

      Briar lowered her head, because it was becoming too heavy to hold up. The sun must be near to rising. “The Reiki helps. Both of us.”

      “That’s something, anyway.” Roxy patted Briar on the shoulder. “Go on to bed before you collapse and I have to carry you. She’s out for the day. She’ll be fine until sundown.”

      “Yeah, but what then?”

      “We’ll decide when it gets here.”

      Briar nodded and went back into the bedroom. She just managed to crawl into the lush nest of teddy-bear-soft fabrics before the sleep took her gently into its embrace.

      In the basement of the mansion in Byram, Connecticut, the ten-year-old boy stood in the open doorway and stared at the man inside the room. Derrick Dwyer dangled. His hands were chained together, the chain looped over a hook in the ceiling. His toes barely reached the floor. The man’s head hung low, chin touching his chest. He was barefoot. His shirt was gone, and so was a strip of his skin, on his forearm. It looked as if someone had peeled him there, like peeling a potato.

      He wasn’t dead. Matt could tell, because he was still breathing. It was raspy enough to hear without listening too hard.

      His father must have gotten whatever he wanted from the man, because he’d told Matt to get him down and tend to his wounds, as he’d gone running from the house. That had been an hour ago, and it had been pretty close to sunrise, so Matt thought wherever his father was going, it must have been pretty important.

      He knew what his father was. A vampire. They were mean, evil creatures, but he didn’t suppose they could help it. And besides, now that his mom had died, his dad was all he had left.

      So he tried to obey and not be too afraid, though he sure did see a lot of things to be afraid of.

      He grabbed a wooden chair and dragged it closer to the man. Then he climbed up on it, but he couldn’t reach the hook in the ceiling. As he stood there, contemplating what to do, the man moaned and lifted his head just slightly.

      “Hey, are you awake?” Matt asked him.

      The man lifted his head higher and stared straight into Matt’s eyes.

      “Father said I should get you down now. Only I can’t reach.”

      The man kept staring, as if not understanding him, so Matt pointed upward until the guy looked up, too, and saw the hook beyond the boy’s reach.

      “If you can get up on this chair, though, you could probably get it off yourself. You think you can?”

      The man nodded weakly, so Matt hopped down from the chair and then steadied the older guy so he could get up onto it. It took some doing. The man was weak, and his wrists were bleeding. But he finally got up onto the chair and got the chain off the hook. He lowered his arms with a groan, gripped the back of the chair and climbed down again.

      “Here, give me your hands.” Matt tugged the key from his jeans pocket and waited. When the man lifted his hands, Matt slid the key into the little lock, wincing at the blood that was all over it, and popped the wrist shackles open.

      They were not handcuffs. Handcuffs would have been worse. These things had wide metal bands that had cut into his skin as he’d hung there, but Matt was pretty sure handcuffs would have cut him clean to the bone.

      The guy peeled off one manacle, then the other, grating his teeth and baring them in a grimace of pain.

      “Can you walk, do you think?”

      “Not very far. Why? Where are you takin’ me?”

      “Well, I wasn’t supposed to take you anywhere. Just patch you up and leave you locked in here. But it’s daylight, and my father didn’t come back, so he won’t be home until dark. And I’m all alone, ’cause the drones are all sleeping, too. Not that they’re any fun, anyway.” He knew he was talking a mile a minute. His father would have cuffed him upside the head and told him to slow down, be quiet, say only what needed saying and then shut the hell up. But this old man seemed to be listening with interest, and maybe even a little amusement.

      “So you can come upstairs if you want. I can bandage you up way better up there. And you can take a shower or a bath—if you think it won’t hurt too much. And then we can eat—I never have anyone to eat with. ’Cause, you know, they don’t eat.”

      “I know.”

      Matt took the man’s hand and led the way