Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 11-15 - Laurell K. Hamilton [1049]
He nodded. “You think he can do it, what we do?”
“I think so, if this little adventure didn’t take all the fun out of it for him.”
He nodded again. “I’ll go find a doctor.” He walked out without a backward glance. I lay in the bed, listening to the sudden whispering silence of the room. I prayed that Peter wouldn’t be a lycanthrope. I prayed that the council wouldn’t let the Harlequin declare war on us. I prayed that we’d all survive. Well, I guess it was too late for Cisco. I hadn’t known him that well, but he’d died defending me. He’d died at eighteen doing his job, defending the people he’d signed up to defend. It was an honorable death, a good death, so why didn’t that make me feel better? Did he have family? Was he somebody’s little boy? Someone’s sweetheart? Who was crying right now for him? Or was there no one to mourn him? Were we, his coworkers and friends, all he had? Strangely, that thought made me more sad than any of the thoughts that had come before.
36
THERE WAS A soft knock at the door. Edward wouldn’t knock, and if a doctor knocks it’s followed with an opening door. Who knocks in a hospital? I asked, “Who is it?”
The answer came, “It’s Truth.”
A second voice called, “And Wicked.”
They were brothers, and vampires, and had only recently joined Jean-Claude’s group. The first time I’d met them, Truth had nearly died trying to help me catch a bad guy. They’d been warriors and mercenaries for centuries. Now they were ours. Jean-Claude’s and mine.
Wicked came through the door first, in his pale-brown designer suit, tailored to the wide sweep of shoulder and the strain of muscles in his arms and legs. He actually went to the gym and had added some bulk to the muscles they’d both started with. His shirt was buttoned up tight, with an elegant tie and a gold tie clip. His blond hair was cut long enough to cover his ears, but still had a few inches to go before it reached shoulder length. He was clean-shaven so that the deep dimple in his chin showed. He was handsome, utterly masculine, and utterly modern from his haircut to his shined shoes. Only the sword hilt peeking from behind one shoulder spoiled the modern effect.
Truth followed at his brother’s side as he usually did. He had the same half-growth of dark beard he’d had since I met him. It wasn’t a beard, just as if when he’d died he hadn’t shaved in a while, and he’d never gotten around to changing it. The almost-beard hid the clean, perfect masculine face, the dimple that they shared. You had to stare at them side-by-side for a while to realize how terribly much alike they looked. Truth’s hair was shoulder length, a dark, nondescript brown that was almost black. The hair wasn’t exactly stringy, but it was far from his brother’s shining halo of hair. He wore leather, but it wasn’t Goth leather. It was like fifteenth-century battle-hardened leather crossed with modern motorcycle leather. His boots were knee high, and they had a look about them that said they might be as old as he was, but they fit, they were comfortable, and they were just his boots. He liked them in the way that some men like that favorite chair that has molded to their bodies. So what if they were a little patched and worn; they were comfy.
Truth had a sword at his back, too. I knew they both were carrying guns—one hidden under the beautiful suit jacket, the other hidden under a leather jacket that had seen better days. The brothers were always well armed.
“Requiem said he didn’t trust himself around you, so Jean-Claude sent us,” Wicked said. He said it with a smile that filled his blue eyes with speculation.
“Why would Requiem say that?” Truth asked. His eyes were the mirrors of his brother’s, but the expression in them was totally different. Truth was so sincere it almost hurt. Wicked always seemed to be laughing at me, or at himself, or the world in general.
“The Harlequin messed with his mind.