Page 75 of Close Quarter
Rhys scooped up his jacket and donned it. It hid all but a trace of the blood on his shirt.
Hopefully that would be enough.
Rhys stooped again, this time to pick up Silas's gladius. "You might need this." He handed it to Silas. "I'll be as fast as I can."
Element flared when their fingers met.
Silas nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak. Only when Rhys had vanished down the deck did he allow himself to voice the moan he'd been holding.
Rhys knew. He had to have felt how much damage Anaxandros had done. Casting a glamour over the floor--even the simple caution tape Rhys suggested--sapped more of his strength than he had hoped. He laid his sword across his thighs and leaned his head against the bulkhead.
It wasn't the loss of blood or the breeze that set him shivering, but the memory of Anaxandros's lips against his throat, the question he had posed, and the fact that the soulless had not killed him.
Silas had never been afraid to die, especially during that long century of torture in Anaxandros's cave. No, death had held no terror.
That had changed. Utterly and completely.
Silas shivered again. Anaxandros had felt that change, knew its source.
"Oh, Fortuna," Silas prayed into the night, "be with Rhys. Smile on him. Bring him back to me."
****
Rhys breathed deeply upon entering the tropical garden and slowed his steps a fraction. If he was a battery, this was where he could recharge, and certainly Silas needed all the energy Rhys could give him.
The damn fool kept going after Ajax--or whatever that thing's fucking name was--and nearly getting himself killed. Rhys balled his hands into fists in his pants pockets. They were still stained with Silas's blood and whatever the vampire leaked.
Silas.
Rhys stopped walking and drew in the energy of the trees. Or at least he hoped he did.
Silas wanted to stay with him. Silas loved him. They would be together in New York. It would have been a dream come true, but for the nightmare of the vampires and all that blood...
Long strides took him across the distance between the far end of the garden and the bar in moments.
Vasil--and no one else--was cleaning the empty bar. He didn't look up from his task. "I'm sorry. We're closed. We open again at six for breakfast."
"Vasil."
At the sound of Rhys's voice, the waiter snapped his head up, and his hand froze in midwipe. "Mr. Matherton." He let go of the rag.
"You're bleeding."
"It's not mine. It's Silas's. He's been injured."
A bit of color drained from the waiter's face.
His lips pressed thin before he spoke. "I'm not a doctor."
"It's not that. It's the deck. We need to clean it. He can't hide the blood forever."
"Blood?" Vasil let go of the rag. "On the deck?"
"Yeah. The vampire--"
Vasil cut him off with a gesture and something that sounded like a hiss. "Don't speak of them." He sighed and glanced around the bar.
"I can help you clean up here afterward."
