Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [88]
He only said, “I’m not shitting you. I know exactly where they are. I buried them under the marker my parents put up for Isabelle, in the Memorial Lawn Cemetery.”
9
When I rose at dusk, I could smell Adrian somewhere nearby, and for a moment it confused me. I’m easily confused when I first awaken—which probably sets me apart from very few people, I know—but it’s always a strange moment, that first snapping open of the eyelids. Many nights I awaken on the verge of a panic attack, wondering what new and hideous situation I’ve gotten myself into now. So when I shuddered myself to consciousness and smelled the burly drag queen (and the leftover glitter, and a hint of somebody’s body lotion. Mine? I guess he helped himself) … I spent a split second wondering where the hell he was and if he was trying to kill me.
The other half of that split second remembered that I’d brought him here and he was ostensibly cooperating with me, which took me down a notch back to “cautious alertness” instead of “barely lucid hysteria.”
From lying in bed, in my shut and locked bedroom with the curtains that could stop a bullet, I could hear him puttering around in the living area. Things were banging softly, as if he were being careful not to make too much noise—which was either considerate, or worrisome.
As I dragged myself out from between the sheets I also smelled coffee and fast food—something with french fries—and that meant he’d left the apartment. I didn’t like it. He didn’t have a key, and if he’d left, it meant he’d left the place unlocked. While I slept! He may as well have hung out a shingle that said DISTURB, WITH PREJUDICE!
God. Waking up is hard.
I filed all my stupid, crazy thoughts into their appropriate drawer in my head, found some clothes to throw on, and followed them up with a pair of combat boots I’d nabbed from an army/navy surplus store years ago. Because irony is my friend, that’s why—and because we were supposed to go digging in a graveyard. No need to break out anything expensive if it was only going to wind up covered in mud anyway.
I unlocked and opened my bedroom door to find the condo mostly dark, except for the lights in the kitchen. I wandered toward them like a moth, and found Adrian polishing off the french fries I’d smelled. Somewhere, he’d scored a couple of shovels and a black shirt. The shovels were tarnished with a thin layer of rust but appeared otherwise sound, if filthy. The shirt fit him like a paint job. I approved.
“Where’d you get this … stuff?” I asked in greeting. I didn’t really want the shovels on my counters, even though I never ate off them or prepared food. Irrational, yes, but you should expect that by now.
All he said was, “I know a guy.”
I grunted, stretched, and popped my neck and back in a couple of moves that weren’t very graceful, but made me feel much better. “Well, I hope he’s the kind of guy who can keep his mouth shut.”
“He is.”
“And I hope nobody saw you.”
“Nobody did.”
“Not even—”
“Look,” he cut in. “You gave me the speech yesterday about flying under radars, right? Well, here’s mine: I’ve been on the run from the military, the government, my family, and a neighborhood-ful of grabby frat boys trying to check my package for the last few years. So trust me, I know how to lie low. By the way, you didn’t get my parents killed.”
“Good to hear.”
“Yeah, it is. Because if I’d found out you’d done anything to get them involved in this in any way, you wouldn’t have awakened this morning … this evening. You know what I mean.” He said it deadpan, his mouth working around the gummy starch of a half-chewed fry.
A thousand comebacks came to mind, and great personal affront welled up behind them—shoving them forward—but I swallowed them back down. For one thing, if I’d gotten his parents killed, he would’ve been right to be murderously pissed. For another, Navy SEAL or no, he’d have to be a supernatural goddamn ninja to take me while I slept. Some people drive defensively. Vampires sleep defensively.