Delaney’s heart became erratic, wildly so, skipping beats over words she so wanted to believe meant more than just Clyde being noble. “Let’s worry about problem number one. You have a time limit. I don’t, that we know of, anyway.”
Clyde kissed the tips of her fingers. “For the moment, but I’m not getting back into anything, bodies or otherwise, until I know you’ll be okay. So where were we?”
“Sick, you were sick as a kid.”
“Yes. I was pretty sick.”
“But you obviously got better—this”—she waved her hand over his abs—“being your true human form.”
“I did. I worked out, got a degree, and never had a single problem after that.”
“After what?”
“My heart transplant.”
“You had a heart transplant?”
“When I was twenty-two.”
“Wait, you said you were almost thirty-seven. So in 1994?”
“Yep. November 21, 1994. It’s a day I’ll never forget.”
Delaney bolted upright. No. Oh, fuck. No. Any date but that date. Delaney paled, her blood running through her veins like ice. “Where?”
“Lang Memorial Hospital in North Dakota. Where I had all of my surgeries.” He said it with such clarity, it startled them both.
“You remembered . . .”
He smiled. “Yeah. Look at that . . .”
The room became a narrow pinpoint of nothing but the scar on Clyde’s chest. It all added up. The doctor, Florence Nightingale, and finally, Robert Young. Fear threaded its way through her veins. Cold and throbbing. “Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” The words spilled from her mouth. She’d seen those papers. She knew where Vincent’s heart had gone. Lang Memorial Hospital. Duh! That’s what Robert Young had been doing when he’d popped up, handing her the last piece of this crazy jigsaw puzzle. Marcus Welby must have worked at Lang Memorial Hospital. She yanked the laptop from the edge of the nightstand and typed in the URL for Wikipedia. Her fingers trembled, waiting for it to pop up. Her throat tightened as she hit the backspace three times before she was able to type in correctly Marcus Welby, M.D.
Oh, God. OhGodohGodohGod.
“Delaney? What’s wrong?”
“You got Vincent’s heart . . .”
“Who?”
She gripped his hands. “Oh, my God, Clyde. Don’t you see? This explains everything. There must have been some kind of mix-up . . . it explains how you ended up in Hell. It explains your ridiculous love of banana Slurpees . . .”
“Okay, slow down. Who the hell is Vincent and what does this explain?”
Her breath quickened, and a cold, clammy sweat formed in her palms. “Have you always loved banana Slurpees or did that happen after your heart transplant?”
He rubbed his jaw in thought. “I guess after. Wait. Definitely after. I remember going into a 7-Eleven and heading straight for the Slurpee machine without really knowing why I absolutely had to have one. I’d never had one before.”
“And isn’t it true that sometimes a heart transplant recipient takes on characteristics of the donor? Or in this case, the cravings of a donor?”
Clyde’s brow wrinkled, his next words hesitant and measured. “I’ve read it’s not uncommon.”
Words were impossible. She had none. She’d done this. She was responsible. What she’d once thought was an act of redemption had turned into—into—Clyde being doomed to Hell.
How could that be? Vincent’s heart had nothing to do with Clyde’s soul. If Clyde’s soul was clean, how could having Vincent’s heart have destined him for this?
“This is my fault,” she choked out, covering her mouth with her hand.
“What’s your fault, Delaney?”
“Why you’re in Hell. It’s my fault. Oh, God, Clyde. If I had known I never would have . . .”
“Would have what? You’re not making any sense.”
“I never would have donated Vincent’s heart. Never. I swear it.” She’d condemned an innocent soul to Hell. Shit. She was officially a soul fucker-upper.
“Delaney, who is Vincent and what does this have to do with me?”
Her hands reached for the edge of the bed, seeking support while the world reeled.
Clyde pulled her back to him. “Talk to me. Who—is—Vincent?”
“My brother. My half brother.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“That has to be it. You got his heart. It explains all the roadblocks we’ve run into. You got Vincent’s black, black, cold heart.”
eighteen
Clyde’s gaze never wavered. “So you owe me an explanation.”
“Yeah, yeah, I do.”
“So hit me.”
“With my best shot?”
Clyde almost grinned, then sobered. “Now.”
“I kinda like you when you get all alpha on me. It’s super-duper hot—especially on a tame guy like you.”
“Wanna see me not so tame?”
“No. I’m sorry. I was making light again, wasn’t I?”