chapter 29
Blake blinked as a faint ray of sunshine tickled his nose through the half-closed curtains. He’d been too tired the night before to pull them shut completely and had fallen into bed after gorging himself on the delicious stew Nina had cooked.
He squinted at the radio alarm on the nightstand. It was already midday. Sitting up, he listened for any sounds in the house, but it was quiet. He padded to the window in his pajama bottoms and pulled up the sash to let fresh air into the room. Instantly, the room was even brighter than before.
He pushed the curtains back and looked down into the back yard, the fire escape right outside his window partially blocking his view. As he pulled his head back in, he bumped against the window.
“Ouch!” he complained, rubbing the back of his head.
His eyes caught at the glass, and he suddenly noticed that it seemed much darker than a conventional windowpane. He leaned in to inspect it and noticed what appeared to be a thin plastic film covering the glass. It had a light brown color. Odd! Why would somebody want to darken the room when San Francisco wasn’t exactly graced with all-year-round sunny weather. There was no chance of overheating in this foggy city.
He shrugged and held his overly full stomach. The rich food was giving him heartburn. Maybe he should have warned Nina that he was lactose intolerant so she would go easy on the cream she’d poured into the stew. But he would have rather bitten his lip than do so. He didn’t want to be looked at as a weakling by his trainers. For all he knew, they would drop him from the program like a hot potato.
And what an odd program this was. Their unconventional hours were only the start. Spending half the day and evening at the safe house in Twin Peaks had been strange to say the least. He’d passed the time playing Wii with the other agents. Were they actually paying him for this? He could hardly believe his luck.
Feeling another bout of heartburn assault him he turned to his bag and rummaged through it, but realized quickly that he’d forgotten to pack antacids in his haste. Oliver and Cain had rushed him when packing his stuff to move to the house, and now he was paying the price for it. Somewhere in this house they had to have some sort of medicine cabinet stocked with the basics.
Without getting dressed, he left his room, wearing only his PJ bottoms, and trotted downstairs.
It was still quiet despite the late hour. Suited him fine; he wasn’t a morning person anyway, and if this company preferred to operate later in the day and into the night, he had no objections.
Nobody had really explained the layout of the home all that thoroughly when he’d moved in two days earlier, so he decided to simply open a few doors to see what he could find. Truth be told, he was antsy and raring to do something, preferably take part in another training exercise. And this time, he wanted to be the decoy. He was sure that Wesley had had fun in that role. Now it was his turn.
Pushing the first door along the first floor corridor open, he entered and looked around. It was an office. He glanced around quickly. It was tidy. Trying a few of the drawers, he realized that everything was locked. Shrugging, he left and continued his explorations.
When he reached the next door, he eased it open and peered inside the room. An oversized washer and dryer lined one wall. Since there was no chance of finding antacids in a laundry room, he turned to leave, but something odd caught his eye. He pivoted and took two steps into the room.
His hand reached out and lifted the empty bottle that stood on the dryer. Remnants of red liquid were encrusted on its bottom. The clear glass was imprinted with only two letters: AB+.
Blake sniffed and recoiled, instantly being reminded of the many bar fights that lay in his past. The smell was the same as when he’d tasted his own blood when some jerk had broken his nose with a well-aimed punch.
“Yuck!” he ground out.
This couldn’t possibly be what it smelled like. No way did blood come in bottles. Sure, if there was a bleeder in the house, then maybe he might keep bags of blood in the fridge for an emergency transfusion, he knew that much from the science channel, but who on earth would keep blood in bottles? No, his sense of smell had to be off. Maybe it was because of that damn heartburn that plagued him.
He set the weird bottle back where he found it and left the room. His best chance at finding a remedy for his stomach troubles was most likely in the kitchen. For sure, that’s where they kept any meds like that.
Blake entered the kitchen and was surprised to see Wesley sitting at the kitchen table, his head buried in a book. At the sound of the door closing behind him, the other trainee’s head snapped toward him.
“Oh, hey, Blake. Didn’t think you’d be up this early.”
“Early? Guess you’re not used to this odd schedule either, huh? I mean—” He motioned his head to the ceiling. “—can you believe that our trainers sleep practically all day? What kind of company allows that?”
Wesley grinned from one ear to the other. “A pretty cool company.” Then he pointed to the kitchen counter. “Want some coffee? I made a fresh pot.”
Blake was about to decline, knowing that coffee would make him feel even worse, but thought otherwise of it. He didn’t want Wesley to think he was a weakling.
“Sure.”
“Milk is in the fridge.”
“I drink it black, thanks.” No need to add another dose of lactose to his sensitive stomach.
As he poured himself a cup, he opened up one of the cabinets, clandestinely looking for some antacids.
“What do you need?” Wesley asked.
“Uh, sugar,” he lied and opened another cabinet, but came up empty once more. Darn, was he the only one in this house who used antacids?
“On the table.”
Pasting a smile on his face he turned back to Wesley and joined him at the kitchen table.
“What are you reading?”
“Just some research,” Wesley deflected and closed the book, shoving it under a newspaper, before Blake could read the title.
His curiosity aroused, he reached for it and pulled it out before his fellow trainee had a chance to stop him.
“Hey, that’s mine!”
Wesley reached for it, but Blake pulled away from the table, then read the book’s title.
“Witchcraft: Get your potions just right?” He tossed Wesley an incredulous look. “You’d better not have any of the trainers see what crap you’re reading. They’ll think you’re wacko!”
Wesley tore the book from his grip and rose hastily, his chair making a loud noise as it scraped along the kitchen floor. “None of your business, or theirs! And I would suggest that you don’t start snooping around. You might not like what you find.”
Clearly annoyed, he turned and headed for the door.
“Hey, Wesley, don’t be such a hothead. I don’t care what you read. I’m not gonna tell the others.”
But Wesley was already out the door. Moments later he heard the door to the living room being opened, then closing again. Great, it had taken him about two minutes to piss his only ally off. And he’d wanted to talk to him about how his mission as decoy had gone. Even though they had eaten together the night before, he hadn’t had a chance to talk to him in private since Nina had been around. He figured it wasn’t cool milking another trainee for information in front of a trainer.
“Uh, screw it,” he murmured to himself.
He dumped the coffee into the sink, glad he didn’t have to drink it now. Then he went about to open every drawer and cabinet he could find. No inch remained unexplored. No antacids. All he noticed was that for the fact this was such a large house and a large and modern kitchen, it was only sparsely equipped. Considering that at least ten people were currently staying there, he doubted that there were enough knives and forks available for everybody to eat at the same time.
He shrugged. Not his problem.
As the burning in his stomach intensified, he knew he had to take matters into his own hands and go to the nearest drugstore to buy what he needed. One of the rules instantly flashed in his mind: don’t leave the house on your own.
Since he’d just pissed off Wesley, he would rather bite his tongue than ask him to accompany him. It didn’t matter. Nobody was awake yet. They wouldn’t even know that he’d left the house. And if he snuck out through one of the side doors, Wesley wouldn’t hear him either.
Blake looked down at himself. Crap, he needed to get dressed first and fetch his wallet. But before he could even reach the kitchen door, it burst open and Oliver charged in, dressed in his pajamas, his body advancing toward the locked pantry in a blur of movement.
Blake gasped in surprise, his heart stopping simultaneously. If he’d still been holding the coffee mug, he would have dropped it now.
Having heard his gasp, Oliver whirled around and faced him. Blake wished instantly he hadn’t, because the creature that looked at him was more animal than man: eyes glaring red, a wild look about him, his body tense.
Tilting his head, Oliver’s eyes assessed him. His nostrils flared, and it reminded him of a bull or a horse. When he sniffed and approached with the graceful movements of a predator, Blade shrunk back from him, quickly looking behind him, wondering where to escape to.
“Oliver, what’s wrong?” he stammered.
But his trainer didn’t respond. Instead he peeled his lips back and exposed his white teeth, Oliver’s gaze not pinned on his face anymore, but sliding down to somewhere on his neck.
“Shit!” Blake yelled.
Oliver’s teeth weren’t evenly shaped. Two of his canines were longer and pointy. As if he’d put on Halloween props. His teeth looked like fangs.
Setting one foot in front of the other, Oliver appeared as if he was fighting to stay back. But he kept advancing.
“Run,” he pressed out between clenched teeth.
Despite the warning, Blake didn’t move: he was frozen in shock, paralyzed. His limbs didn’t follow his command, his legs were heavy like lead and didn’t move.
Something akin to regret flashed in Oliver’s eyes, before they turned a darker red.
“I can’t . . . tried to resist . . . ”
Whatever else he wanted to say, died on his lips when he pounced. Blake felt Oliver’s hands dig into his shoulders and pull him against his body. He struggled against his grip without success, when he should have easily pushed him off. Oliver was less bulky than himself, less muscular, yet he didn’t even break a sweat, keeping him immobile.
Then he felt Oliver’s fangs dig into his neck.
Shit, he was going to die!