Daysider

And he had to protect her. He couldn’t risk being held responsible for an Aegis agent’s death when the situation was so precarious. At another time, he might have let her die.

So he told himself.

With the last of his energy, he shrugged out of his pack, bent over Alexia and tried to assess the damage. She was rapidly losing blood, and her eyelids fluttered in semiconsciousness. Fighting off waves of nausea, Damon removed her pack, worked her jacket off and fumbled inside his pack for the field dressing every Darketan carried in the Zone. He tore open the waterproof packet and applied the treated bandage to her wound, fixing it in place with the attached strip of fabric.

He was forced to lift her body to remove her bandage, and it soon became apparent that the dressing wouldn’t be sufficient to stop the bleeding. There were still bullets inside her, and though they would eventually be pushed out by her healing flesh, she couldn’t afford to lose too much blood or she wouldn’t be able to heal. He rooted inside her pack, found her med kit and unwrapped her field dressing.

Hardly able to catch his breath, Damon applied the second dressing. Alexia’s blood soaked through it almost before he had finished. He yanked the tail of his shirt from the waistband of his pants, tore the bottom half of the shirt into wide strips and folded them together, pressing the makeshift bandage over the soaked field dressings. He knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain the pressure once he was out, so he lay across Alexia’s slender body, using his own weight to hold the bandages in place.

“Hold on, Alexia,” he whispered. “Hold on.”

Then the last of his air ran out.

Alexia woke to throbbing agony that centered in her right shoulder and numbed her arm all the way down to her fingertips. In a flash she remembered the attack, and the bullets that had slammed into her flesh. She knew she had fallen, shocked by the blinding pain and the impact, and then there had been some kind of movement, a voice.

Then nothing. But now she was awake, and alive, and someone was lying on his belly beside her, his cheek pressed against a rough patch of dirt.

Damon. It had been his voice she’d heard, his hands working over her body and tying the bandage that had stanched her wounds. Now the bleeding had stopped, and though she was still very weak, she knew she wasn’t going to die.

But she couldn’t tell from her position if Damon had survived the attack. Her heart lurched. She rolled over on her right side, pressing her hand to her bandages, and watched for signs that he was breathing.

He was. She closed her eyes and sank onto her back again, sick with pain but too grateful to care. She didn’t understand why she should be grateful; Damon was still the enemy and had probably been lying about nearly everything he’d told her to advance his own agenda.

But he’d quite possibly saved her life by giving her body a chance to repair itself. He was probably in stasis himself, letting his own body do its work to heal whatever injuries he had sustained.

Hissing through her teeth, Alexia tried to sit up. It took her three tries, but she finally managed it, taking care not to risk damaging the tissue still knitting under the bandage or jog the bullets working their way out of her back. She scanned the hollow where they lay and the slopes of the hills to each side, but there was no sound, smell or sight of the enemy…whoever they had been.

Not Michael, she thought with relief. Not that she’d ever believed he was capable of turning on her. There had been at least two shooters this time, maybe more, and they had to be either Daysiders or leeches. Damon had denied there could be Daysiders in the colony, and given that their numbers were believed to be very limited, the shooters would almost certainly be vampires.

But were they from the colony, or Erebus? Damon had also dispelled the notion that the Expansionists had their own agents, but even if he believed that, she had no reason to take his word for it.

Alexia crawled over to Damon and touched his back. It rose and fell steadily. There was a hole in his jacket that marked where a large-caliber bullet had pierced his body. Carefully she rolled him a little to the side and felt the front of his torn shirt. There was another hole that matched the first. A through-and-through, then. Thank God for that.

She shivered, quickly realizing that the state of her body, and Damon’s, left them both more vulnerable to the chill of the early autumn night. Getting to her feet, she retrieved her pack and jacket, which Damon must have taken from her after the attack. She draped the jacket over her shoulders, removed the tightly wrapped blanket from the pack, laid the blanket over Damon’s back and picked up the rifle lying about a meter away. It had recently been fired, and she was pretty sure Damon was the one who had done it. With luck, he’d taken down at least one of the shooters.

Her Vampire Slayer, however, was gone. That didn’t surprise her. But if the shooters had gotten so close and intended to do so much damage, why in hell had they left her and Damon alive?

She sat beside him and sipped from her canteen, drawing her knees up to her chest to combat the chill. There was no question of leaving him. They had become partners of a sort, and no field agent abandoned her partner.

Except Michael had. He’d gone far enough away from her that he hadn’t known she was being attacked.

Not good. Not good at all.

She dozed a little, chin on knees, unable to help herself. Some time later she jerked awake again, aware for the first time of another ache she hadn’t noticed before, camouflaged by the greater pain of her shoulder. She removed her jacket, wincing at the stabs of pain radiating out from her shoulder, and touched her left inner arm. Her shirtsleeve was crusted with dried blood.

Suddenly alarmed, she unbuttoned her shirt, pulled it open and slid it down behind her shoulders. There was a thick scab under her arm where her patch should have been.

It was gone. Someone had dug it out in a hasty, brutal attempt at surgery, leaving it to heal over.

Leaving her without the drugs she needed to survive.

Chapter 4

Alexia closed her eyes, breathing deeply to control her panic. Calm, she told herself. You have choices. Think.

But she really didn’t have choices at all.

Damon shifted slightly, a low groan catching in his throat. That was a positive sign…the only good news she had to cling to at the moment, aside from the fact that she could feel the bullets in her shoulder emerging from the skin of her back. She loosened the bandage and ran her hand across the exit wound, dislodging the nearly scoured bullets and brushing them off like dead ticks.

She moved the bandage back into place and rose to her feet, determined to stay awake. She paced the little hollow, measuring out its width from the base of one hill to the other. By the time she sensed the coming dawn, her legs would barely carry her.

It wasn’t just lack of sleep and her body’s need to heal. The effect of the drugs in her bloodstream would already be diminishing. She’d be able to get through a few days—a week, maybe, if she was lucky—before she began to starve.

Dropping down beside Damon again, she took one of the bags of field rations out of her pack and withdrew a dense nutrient bar. She ate it slowly as misty light crept into the hollow. Soon her ability to digest solid food would be seriously compromised, and so she had to use all her rations while she could.

She had just finished her third bar when Damon opened his eyes. He looked at her through slitted lids and tried to lift himself on his elbows. Her blanket slid from his back.

Alexia hurried to his side, intending to tell him that he was moving much too soon. But he was already pushing his body up, though stiffly, and rolling onto his knees. He grimaced and sat there with his hands braced on his muscular thighs. His skin was still extremely pale, almost as light as a Nightsider’s. Even though he was recovering from a serious wound, the change in color seemed almost unnatural, considering the darkness of his tan the previous day.

He spoke before she could. “You’re all right,” he said, his voice rasping with pain. “How long have I been out?”

“I don’t know,” she said, crouching to hand him his canteen. “I remember going down almost as soon as we were attacked. That was around sunset. Considering it’s almost dawn, I’d say we were both dead to the world all night.”

Damon drank with a nod of thanks, set down the canteen and raised his hand to pluck at the front of his bloody shirt. Alexia realized for the first time that the garment was in tatters, the hem ripped off almost to the level of his pectorals.

“They shot me soon after you fell,” he said grimly. “I didn’t know if you had—”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “The shooters haven’t come back.”

Damon nodded and dropped his hand from his chest. “They let us live.”

“Yes. Considering how badly they wounded us, that’s a little surprising. Any idea why?”

“None.”

“You didn’t see anything? Recognize any scents?”

“I could not identify them. But I don’t think they are the same as the first shooter.”

“What makes you say that?”

“A feeling.” He said the word almost mockingly, as if he recognized how ridiculous a reason it was. “Did they take anything?”

“One of my weapons.” She hesitated, wondering how much she should tell him about her real state. She knew what she had to do to survive: abandon the mission and return to the Border.

But there was something else at stake besides her life. Someone—vampires, either from Erebus or the colony—had stolen her patch. Aegis had always assumed that the Nightsiders didn’t know about the inherent weakness in a percentage of Enclave agents, or they would have exploited it long ago.

Apparently Aegis had been wrong. The shooters had obviously known what to look for. That meant the Nightsiders must already be aware of the patches and that they had some essential purpose, even if they’d never been able to get their hands on one before.

Maybe Damon knew about them as well. If he did…

Keeping her face perfectly still, Alexia reconsidered what she’d assumed about his motives. He had outright admitted that the Council had sent him to join her. Sometimes telling part of the truth was more effective than an all-out lie. Had their “partnership” been part of the plan to get her patch? Had he lulled her suspicions just enough to leave her vulnerable?

Had they caught Michael and done the same thing to him?

She examined Damon’s face covertly, feeling such a conflicting jumble of emotions that she could hardly think straight. She had almost begun to trust him, forgetting all her rigorous training, because he’d sounded so reasonable. And, if she were honest with herself, because she had felt drawn to him in ways that defied logic. In the brief time she’d known him, they had forged enough of a bond that she’d been sick with worry that he might be fatally injured, or already dead.

That was all in the past now. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. But the question remained: If Damon had been assigned to take her where the Nightsiders could get to her, why would they try to kill him? Or had they deliberately aimed their shot so that he would be able to heal?

Somehow she had to find out what he was up to. The colony wasn’t her only priority now; she had to discover just how much the Nightsiders—including Damon—knew about the patch and the drugs in it.

Since she had no way of knowing when she’d meet up with Michael again, she had to proceed on the assumption that she would be working alone. And if she didn’t succeed very quickly—quickly enough so that she could still make it to the Border in a condition to report whatever she’d learned—she would die here in the Zone.

In the meantime, she would have to pretend she accepted whatever Damon chose to tell her. That they were still on the same side.

“Which weapon?” Damon asked.

She shook herself, realizing she had been silent for an uncomfortably long time and he must be wondering why.

“My VS120,” she said quickly, unwilling to dwell on the subject. She rummaged inside her ration kit and pulled out the last nutrient bar.

“You’d better take this,” she told him. “You need nourishment to heal properly.”

He stared at the bar, and she sensed he was aware that her offer was another test. Aegis knew that Daysiders could go for long stretches without blood—much longer than a Nightsider—but they weren’t certain if the Citadel operatives could digest “human” food as dhampires could. That would be an extremely useful thing to know.

After a long period of silence, he shook his head. “You keep it,” he said. “I had sufficient nourishment before I left Erebus.”

Of course, he’d lie anyway if he knew what he’d taken in Erebus wasn’t enough to fuel his healing. But if his job was done…

All the anger she’d been suppressing burst like a suppurating wound inside her chest. “I suppose if you need more, you’ll take it from me?” she asked.

“No,” he said firmly. “Never.”

“Why not? It’s not as if you’d have to kill me.”

“We are partners, Agent Fox,” he reminded her. “That makes us equals, does it not?”

“And I wouldn’t be your ‘equal’ if we weren’t? What if I were human? Would that make me fair game?” She leaned toward him, her breath fanning his neck. “Tell me…does it work the same with Daysiders as it does with leeches? Could you make me do whatever you want? Would I become your serf?”

Damon’s expression hardened, but Alexia almost didn’t notice. As the first beams of sunlight pierced through the trees on the hill above them, touching Damon’s face, his skin began to darken. Within a minute it had returned to its previous tan, transforming like the pelt of a leopard that had suddenly changed from black on gold to gold on black.

If Damon had glimpsed her surprise before she concealed it, he didn’t give any sign. “Fishing for information, Agent Fox?” he mused with a faint, ironic smile.

She returned the smile. “Didn’t you hope you’d gain useful intelligence from working with an Enclave field agent?”

He inclined his head, acknowledging her point. “But I would not have you constantly worried that I might tamper with your mind,” he said. “Only some Bloodmasters and Bloodlords are capable of what you suggest, and Darketans can’t do it at all.”

“That’s comforting,” she quipped.

“As is the fact that we seem to have very similar healing abilities.”

“You’re telling me Erebus didn’t have that information before?”

“Did Aegis?”

She snorted and bit into the ration bar. “I didn’t know a Daysider’s skin changes color with the light.” Damon rubbed his jaw. The shadow of a beard had darkened it overnight. that was a very human characteristic, one that male dhampires shared.

“Aegis must be aware that Darketans have a natural adaptation that makes the melanin content of our skin alter in accordance with the level of illumination.” He dropped his hand back to his knee.

“What is ‘Darketan’?” she asked. “I’ve never heard the word before.”

“That is what we call ourselves.” He climbed carefully to his feet. “It’s a name from ancient legend.”

“What legend?”

Instead of answering, he bent to retrieve her blanket, folded it neatly and handed it to her. “Thank you for keeping watch,” he said.

“Should I thank you for saving my life again?”

“Since I was ordered to work with you, it would hardly appear to my advantage if I were to let you die.”

“Of course.”

And that was that. she hadn’t expected him to answer any differently, though part of her had hoped…

She cut off that line of thought and focused on her own body. Though it was early yet, she was just beginning to feel a faint crawling sensation under her skin, a twitching of certain deep muscles, an ache in her bones. It wasn’t likely to get much worse for some time, but she had to conserve her strength, and she needed sleep.

But she also wanted Damon to reveal his plans. “What do we do now?” she asked.

“You need rest,” he said. “I’ll watch.”

Alexia had to remind herself again that there was nothing remotely personal in his concern. “We can’t stay here,” she told him.

Damon scanned the hollow in every direction. “I think the shooters are gone, at least for the time being.”

“Then you don’t think they’ll attack again if we move?”

He cast her a probing glance, undoubtedly wondering why she was asking him what he couldn’t possibly know.

“There’s only one way to find out,” he said. “If you want to risk it.”

Gingerly, Alexia shrugged into her pack and secured her rifle. “We’d have to leave sooner or later,” she agreed. “No reason to sit around healing if we’re going to die, anyway.”

His dark, piercing gaze continued to hold hers. “We are not going to die,” he said.

She nodded without comment as he removed his jacket, rummaged in his pack for a fresh shirt, and put on the new one. She quickly turned away from the sight of his bare, muscular chest and started up the hill to the south. There were no more bullets, nor did Alexia sense anyone else, vampire or otherwise, in the vicinity. It seemed the shooters had, indeed, accomplished their mission. With or without Damon’s help.

She was panting by the time they reached the third hilltop. Damon took her arm and herded her into the shade of a large, stately oak.

His touch seared her skin, but all at once the crawling sensation was gone. She worked her arm loose from his grip and sank onto the patchy grass among the oak’s thick roots.

“Rest now,” Damon said, helping her remove her pack. “We’re at a good vantage point, and I’ll know if anyone approaches.”

Alexia didn’t want to sleep with Damon standing over her, but she wouldn’t last even twelve more hours without it. By the time she woke up the shakes could be worse, and it would take concentration to keep Damon from seeing them.

Maybe, when she was well rested, she might even figure out why he thought he could keep her alive if he had any idea just how desperately she needed the patch.

Maybe he doesn’t know, she thought. Maybe Erebus is still in the dark…for now.

“Sleep,” Damon said, his voice soft with what almost sounded like concern. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”

She was trying to figure out what he meant when her bone-deep exhaustion carried her away.

There was something wrong with her.

Damon crouched over Alexia as he had when she’d lain injured in the hollow, the same unbidden emotions crowding his chest and filling his throat.

It wasn’t just her injury. Soon after she’d fallen asleep, he had carefully checked her wound and found it nearly healed under the bandages, enough so that he was able to remove most of them to let her skin breathe.

Yet in spite of the healing, he had seen her get subtly but steadily worse since they’d begun hiking again, though she did her best to hide it. The smell of dried blood was still strong on her clothing, but there was another scent now, a mingling of chemical odor and the scent of illness that any Opir—or Darketan—could detect from a kilometer away.

Damon had no idea what it was. He had never come closer to a dhampir than shooting distance; though he wouldn’t have disobeyed an order to kill any Enclave agent who stood in the way of an assignment, he had been forbidden those missions that might involve such acts.

Now that he wanted to keep a dhampir alive, his ignorance about Alexia’s kind was no longer a minor inconvenience. The Council had provided no information about dhampir illnesses; that was no surprise, since the breed was believed to be as hardy as Darketans. Perhaps this was something that also afflicted humans, but his instincts told him otherwise. Even a mild sickness might become deadly to one as weakened as Alexia was.

And though he’d told her that he didn’t think the shooters would attempt another assault, he knew nothing of the kind. Either the original plans had drastically changed, or some other party had been involved.

After the first sniper’s attack, Damon had been quick to deny any possibility that the opposing faction might send operatives to stop him and the Enclave agents. The gunman had been a good shot, too good to miss unless it was deliberate. Damon could well believe he had been carrying out his or her part of the mission as planned.

But these last shooters had been out to kill or incapacitate Damon and Alexia—or send a powerful warning. They could have been colonists. That still seemed by far the most likely possibility.

If the attack had been meant as a warning, it might explain why the shooters hadn’t killed him and Alexia. Murdering sanctioned operatives would be making a move too provocative to be ignored by the Council or Aegis. Surely the shooters would realize that.

Just the attack alone was provocation enough.

Damon rose and paced back and forth under the gnarled branches of the grandfather oak. Once again he was faced with a crucial decision: leave Alexia under cover while he tried to find the shooters, or stay with her and wait until she was recovered enough to continue. He couldn’t imagine her agreeing to stay behind; she’d drive herself into her grave first.

He stopped to gaze down at her, wondering if it was his imagination that her breathing was much more labored than it had been even an hour ago. She had become steadily weaker since the attack, and he could easily overpower her if he had to.

But then he would have to tie her down, and she’d be helpless. With a curse Damon began to circle around the oak, noting every detail of their location: the number of nearby trees and shrubs, the various angles of potential attack, the approaches and avenues of escape.

Still no sign of the shooters. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there, just beyond Damon’s senses.

Making his decision, he knelt beside Alexia and carefully gathered her up in his arms. She moaned as he carried her to a thicket of low shrubs just outside the circle of shade and laid her down again under the entangled branches. He searched her pack and found the small, thin blanket she had covered him with before, laid it over her, and then began to gather twigs, fallen branches, rotting leaves—anything he might use to camouflage her while he was gone. When he was finished, he knelt beside her and touched her shoulder. Her skin had become so feverish that he could feel the heat through her shirt and jacket.

“Alexia,” he said.

Her lips parted, soft lips that seemed to beckon him now that they were no longer stiff with suspicion. Her eyelashes fluttered.

“Damon?” she murmured, lifting one hand toward him. “What is it? Is it time to go?”

She sounded like a child, innocent and trusting, certain that the one who loved her would make sure everything was all right. It must be the fever talking, he thought. A delirious, fever dream.

“Not yet,” he said gently, taking her hand in his. “I have to leave for a short time, to make sure we’re safe here. I need you to stay under cover while I’m gone.”

Her eyes opened, searching for his as if she couldn’t quite make out his face. “I’m going with you,” she said.

He stroked her fingers, aware of a painful and inexplicable wave of tenderness that threatened to dissolve the foundation of everything he had worked so hard to build since Eirene’s death. “You aren’t in any shape to help now,” he said. “The best thing you can do is rest until I return.” He laid her hand on her chest, picked up his canteen and held it to her lips. “Drink.”

Alexia did as he asked without protest, though she wouldn’t take more than a few drops. Her eyelids grew heavy again.

“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded. A small vertical line had formed between her arched brows, suggesting an inner struggle of which she was hardly aware. Damon smoothed it out with his thumb.