Mile High with a Vampire by Lynsay Sands

Eight

“Are you tired, or would you like to watch a movie or something?”

Quinn turned at that question from Mary Bonher Notte and watched as the blonde walked to a cooler plugged into the wall next to the first of the two double beds in the room. She wasn’t surprised to see the neatly stacked bags of blood inside once it was open. Quinn also wasn’t surprised when she felt the shifting taking place in her mouth as her fangs descended. She’d been experiencing cramps for the last hour and a half since she and Jet had boarded the helicopter to leave the fly-in fishing lodge.

“Movie or sleep?” Mary asked again, straightening with four bags of blood caught between her hands.

“Movie,” Quinn decided as she watched Mary nudge the cooler lid closed with her knee. “Unless you’re tired and just want to go to sleep?”

“No. I’m good,” Mary assured her as she set three of the bags on the desk beside Quinn and then handed her the fourth. “You go ahead and get these down while I go to the bathroom, and then we’ll see what’s on the idiot box.”

“Thank you.” Quinn accepted the bag Mary was holding out, and then simply held it as she watched the blonde recross the room to slip into the bathroom by the entry door.

The moment the door closed, Quinn slapped the bag to her fangs and closed her eyes briefly as they started to draw in the blood her body needed. She stood like that until the first bag emptied. It wasn’t until she’d replaced it with a second that Quinn bothered to look around at the motel room she was to share with Mary for however long they were in Cochrane.

Her gaze slid over the two double beds, the couch, and desk behind her that ran along the wall under a row of curtains hiding whatever view the wall of windows offered, and finally to the long built-in kitchenette opposite the beds. There were upper and lower cupboards, a fridge, sink, Keurig machine, and a selection of Keurig coffees as well as bowls holding packets of both sugar and creamer. The whole room was decorated in earth tones, from the rust-colored bedspreads to the dark brown leather couch.

Switching out the now empty second bag for another, Quinn sat down on the couch, her thoughts immediately going to Jet. He was in the room next door and she wondered what he was doing and how he felt about what had happened in the kitchen at the lodge.

They hadn’t had a chance to talk after their little romp on the kitchen counter. Quinn had woken up on his chest on the kitchen floor sometime later at the sound of someone shouting their names. Alarmed as the voice drew closer, she’d leapt off of Jet, snatched up his jacket from where it lay on the floor, and just managed to pull it on and zip it up before Anders had appeared in the kitchen door.

“There you are,” he’d said with exasperation. “Dante has searched every bedroom in this place for the two of you.” His gaze had dropped then to Jet just stirring on the floor and the man had shaken his head before raising his gaze back to Quinn and lecturing, “Lesson number one for new life mates: always seek out soft surfaces before risking life mate sex. Especially if one of you is a mortal. Jet could have cracked his head open when you both fainted and you wouldn’t want that.”

Quinn was pretty sure she’d blushed like a schoolgirl at those words. She’d also immediately glanced to Jet to see what had given them away, but he was fully clothed.

She hadn’t figured it out until Anders said, “Grab your bra off the floor, help your life mate up, and let’s go. The helicopter is here.”

Quinn could feel her blush deepening now at the memory, and reached into the pocket of Jet’s jacket to tug out the scrap of white lace she’d shoved there after snatching it up off the floor. She hadn’t had to help Jet up, though; by the time she’d grabbed the bra and moved to him, he’d been on his feet. He hadn’t said a word, just bent to kiss her cheek, then took her arm and followed Anders outside to where the helicopter was waiting.

Talking on the helicopter had been impossible. Quinn had never been on one before, so had been rather amazed to find it so damned loud inside the thing. Even the noise-canceling headphones she’d been given to wear hadn’t helped much, though she suspected that was because of her immortal hearing. Jet hadn’t seemed bothered by the noise, but she’d been grateful to escape it when the helicopter had landed in Cochrane.

Cochrane was apparently a relatively small town of five thousand plus people and was one hundred and sixty miles from the fly-in fishing lodge.

Mary had told them that. The friendly blonde had been the one waiting to collect them from the airport and bring them to this motel. Mary Bonher Notte was married to Dante Notte, the twin brother of Abigail’s husband, Tomasso. That family connection was part of the reason that she and Dante were up here in Northern Ontario, involved in the search and rescue operation. The couple had been visiting Marguerite when Mortimer had called with news of the missing plane.

Quinn had no idea why Marguerite had been contacted, unless the woman had been keeping tabs on her. But on hearing the news from Marguerite, Dante had immediately called his brother. He’d known that with Abigail’s connection to Jet, she’d want to know. He’d spoken to both Tomasso and Abigail, and assured them he’d help with the search and rescue operation and would contact them as soon as Jet was found.

After explaining that, Mary had handed the phone to Jet and told him to call Abs. Dante had already called to let her know he was found and fine, she’d said, but she was sure Abigail wouldn’t fully relax until she heard his voice.

While Jet was making his call, Mary then explained the other reason for the couple’s presence here. Apparently, after calling his brother, Dante had followed that up by calling his cousin Santo, and spoken to him and Quinn’s sister, Pet, telling them what was happening. He’d then made the same promises to them as he had his brother: that he and Mary would head north at once and join the search party, and that they’d call when she was found.

Once Jet had finished reassuring Abs that he was fine and promised her he’d phone her again when he was home, he’d ended the call and passed the cell to Quinn so she could call her sister. Despite having already heard from Dante that she was fine, Pet had been relieved to hear her voice and had had Parker join the call on another line. But they’d only talked briefly before Mary had pulled into the motel. Quinn had told them both she loved them, asked them to give Santo her love, and promised to phone again once she was settled in Toronto and then ended the call to follow Mary out of the car.

Quinn didn’t know which of them had been more surprised, she or Jet, when Mary had explained that they’d rented several of the motel rooms in a row and then handed Jet a key, saying, “This one is yours. You’ll probably have it to yourself unless Dante gets back before you two leave. There’s coffee, pop, food, and clean clothes in there. Go on in, take a shower, and relax. You probably have several hours before the plane gets here to take you to Toronto.” As she’d turned to head toward the next room, she’d added, “Quinn and I will be just next door if you want company.”

Quinn had hesitated briefly, but then managed a weak smile for Jet before following the other woman into this room. She hadn’t known what else to do. It wasn’t like she had a right to expect to stay with Jet. They weren’t a couple or anything. Well, aside from that whole life mate business. But she’d admitted to Jet that she didn’t think she was ready for a life mate, and one make-out session under a tree in the woods, and then something a little more than just making out in the kitchen of the lodge, did not make them a couple. Did it?

“Oh, dang. You probably want a shower or bath.”

Quinn looked around at those words to see that Mary was out of the bathroom and eyeing her with a frown. Eyebrows rising at her expression, Quinn tugged the now empty fourth bag from her fangs and glanced down at herself. Jet’s jacket was still in good shape, but her black dress slacks were a mess. They were wrinkled, torn in spots, and covered with dirt and even a couple of drops of blood. She supposed the blood was from when she’d hurt her stomach on the tree, and then noticed that her leather dress shoes were ruined and that her hands were just as dirty as her slacks. How long had she been running around looking like a kid who’d been making mud pies? she wondered.

“I ran out and bought both you and Jet clean clothes the minute I got here. It’s just a T-shirt, jeans, cotton panties, and a bra, but I figured they’d do until you had your own clothes back,” Mary said. Smiling wryly then, she added, “I wasn’t even sure if you’d need fresh clothes. They hadn’t located the plane yet when we arrived and we didn’t know what to expect. We had no idea what was happening—if the plane had just been forced to land early at another airport, or on a highway, or—” She ended on a shrug, but Quinn suspected what she wasn’t saying was that they hadn’t been sure if the plane hadn’t gone up in a ball of flames on crashing and she wouldn’t need clothes at all because she’d have been ashes.

Standing, Quinn gathered the empty blood bags and deposited them in the garbage as she said, “A shower and clean clothes would be great. Thank you for thinking of them.”

“My pleasure. I was happy to be able to do something useful while waiting for news,” Mary admitted, moving to the desk under the curtained windows and scooping up a department store bag that she then handed to her. “There’s a hairbrush, soap, shampoo, and cream rinse in there too, and a razor and blades.”

“Thanks.” Quinn smiled warmly as she took the bag, really appreciating her thoughtfulness. “I’ll be quick.”

“No, you take your time if you want. You might enjoy a soak after everything you’ve been through.”

Nodding, Quinn turned and headed into the bathroom with the bag, but had no intention of a long soak. She rarely had time in her life for soaking in a tub. At least she didn’t used to, she thought unhappily. Dr. Quinn Peters had always been too busy to waste time on a soak. She’d done nothing but shower for a good twenty years thanks to her schedule, first as an intern and then as a surgeon, and while she’d had more time these last four years, she hadn’t changed her habits. A shower would do. At least that’s what she thought until she’d got a look at her hairy legs. Quinn immediately squawked with alarm and dropped the stopper in the tub, then pushed in the button to switch the water from the showerhead to the tap to run a bath.

“Quinn? Is everything all right?” Mary called through the door. “You made a funny sound.”

“I’m okay,” Quinn called out, then grabbed one of the large towels hanging over the towel bar, wrapped it around herself, and opened the door to explain. “I just got a glimpse of my legs and realized a bath might be better so I can shave.”

“Ah.” Mary nodded wisely. “It’s so much easier to shave sitting down than standing. I once had a friend who slipped in the shower while shaving and sliced out a chunk of her ankle. A real mess,” she pronounced, wrinkling her nose. “I’ve shaved in the bath ever since.”

“Hmm. Well, I don’t normally bathe, but I haven’t shaved my legs in four years, so sitting down for it seems like a good idea,” Quinn said grimly, glancing down at her hairy legs. “God, a person could be forgiven for mistaking me for Sasquatch.”

Mary’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t know whether to ask why you haven’t shaved for so long, or why you’re bothering to now.”

“Oh . . . er . . .” Quinn flushed with embarrassment, but didn’t know what to say, so just shook her head and started to close the door.

“Shout if you need anything,” Mary said, turning away.

“Thanks,” Quinn murmured as the door closed. She then leaned her forehead against it briefly, before moving to check on the tub.

Even with four years’ worth of body hair to remove, Quinn was quick at her bath, but then she spent several more minutes rinsing out the tub before getting dressed and running the hairbrush through her wet tresses. There was no makeup in the bag, but Quinn didn’t mind. She hadn’t worn makeup since waking up after the turn, so once she’d finished brushing her hair, she dropped the brush in the bag with the other items and then glanced down at herself in the jeans and T-shirt.

Quinn hadn’t worn jeans in a very long time. She didn’t even own a pair anymore and hadn’t since med school. Her daily outfit was made up of dress pants and blouses and had been since graduating. Patients expected a certain professionalism from their doctors, even when they spotted them outside of the office. At least that was what Patrick had always said. Now she peered down at the jeans and tried to decide if she liked them or not. They seemed heavier to her in comparison to dress slacks, and they were definitely snugger, hugging her body almost lovingly. But then so did the white T-shirt, she acknowledged, wondering if her bra was visible through the white cotton. She didn’t bother looking in the mirror to see. It didn’t matter anyway. The bra was white like the T-shirt and she didn’t have anything else to put on, so she grabbed the bag, stuffed her dirty dress slacks and panties into it, grabbed Jet’s jacket, and headed out to join Mary for that movie she’d mentioned.

“Are you all right?”

Quinn pulled herself from her thoughts and glanced around at Mary at that question. Sitting up a little straighter where she sat on the double bed closer to the window, she nodded quickly. “I’m fine.”

Mary nodded slowly, but then said. “You don’t really appear to be interested in this movie. Should I find something else?”

“No, no,” Quinn said quickly, and grimaced before admitting, “I was just thinking. This is fine.” She focused on the screen where Indiana Jones was talking.

“Okay,” Mary said slowly, and then asked, “Is there something troubling you? Did you want to talk about it?”

“No. I’m good,” Quinn said at once, turning to offer her a smile.

Mary nodded, but said, “If you change your mind, just let me know and we can have a natter.”

Quinn nodded, turned toward the TV briefly, and then swung her head back around to Mary and asked, “What do you know about life mates?”

Mary hit the mute button on the television and shifted on the bed to face her sitting cross-legged. She raised her eyebrows and asked, “What do you mean? Are you asking who I know are life mates, or—”

“No,” Quinn interrupted, and explained, “I mean, what are they exactly?”

Mary seemed startled by the question and Quinn supposed she, like Jet, would have expected an immortal who had been turned more than four years ago to already know this, but Mary didn’t ask about that. Instead, she said, “Well, life mates are what the name suggests. They are life partners for immortals.” Mary paused briefly, a dissatisfied expression on her face, and then shook her head. “That doesn’t really do it justice, I suppose. They are much more than life partners.”

“How?” Quinn asked.

“Well, immortals, as you know, can control and hear the thoughts of mortals and even immortals who are younger than them.”

“You mean read them,” Quinn suggested. “They read our thoughts.”

Mary’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve been an immortal for more than four years, Quinn. Surely, you’ve noticed that you don’t always have to read thoughts from people to hear them. At least with mortals.”

“Really?” she asked with surprise.

Mary stared at her for a minute, and then frowned. “You haven’t learned to read and control mortals yet.”

When Quinn shrugged uncomfortably, and glanced down at her crossed legs to avoid her gaze. Mary sighed, and then said, “Okay. I’ve only been an immortal a year longer than you, but I’ve found while they call it reading thoughts, that isn’t always what is happening.”

Quinn’s eyebrows rose at this news. She hadn’t realized Mary hadn’t been born immortal, but asked, “What is happening, then?”

“Well,” Mary said, “sometimes, even when I’m not trying to read a person’s mind, their thoughts come at me. They’re usually disjointed, just fragments, but they still come without my trying to read them.”

“Really?” Quinn asked with surprise.

“Yes. It seems to be thoughts with strong emotion behind them: anger, hatred, fear . . .” She shrugged. “I would guess it’s their emotions spilling over. They are having trouble containing the emotion connected to the thought and so the thought spills out too.” She tilted her head. “You haven’t experienced that around mortals?”

Quinn shifted uncomfortably and admitted, “I haven’t been around mortals since I was turned.”

Mary’s eyes widened. “Not even to practice and train in feeding and . . . ?” Her voice trailed off when Quinn shook her head stiffly.

“I see,” Mary murmured. She was silent for a minute, and then sat up a little straighter and said, “Well, that can happen: thoughts coming at you free-flow without your attempting to read them,” she explained, and then added, “It can be a bit distressing at first. Especially if you’re in a public space where there is a large crowd of mortals. You’ll have these thoughts and feelings coming at you from all directions—a word here, a fragment of a thought there accompanied by anger or pain or grief. It’s like standing in a room with several radios on, each with a different station playing and not one of them properly tuned in. It’s just squawking all around you,” she explained. “It could drive you crazy if you didn’t block it, but constantly having to block other people’s thoughts and feelings can get exhausting pretty quickly.”

“Something else to look forward to,” Quinn muttered unhappily.

“Yes. Well, it can only be worse for older immortals. I’m sure they pick up more,” Mary pointed out. “And then on top of that is the need to keep your own thoughts to yourself and try to block others from reading them, or yourself from broadcasting them to others.”

“We can stop others from reading us?” Quinn asked with interest. She did find it annoying not to have a lick of privacy when everyone around her could read her thoughts.

“Yes. It takes practice, and it doesn’t always work if the immortal near you is really old, but we can put up sort of a mental wall like a privacy fence between our thoughts and the world at large,” Mary assured her. “Of course, having to do that for hours is exhausting too.”

“Of course,” Quinn said dryly. What about being an immortal wasn’t hard? she thought grimly. Drinking blood was disgusting, losing everything you ever knew and loved was unbearably hard, and—

“That’s why life mates are so important,” Mary said now, distracting Quinn from her inner griping. “Life mates can’t read or hear each other’s thoughts and can’t control each other. It gives an immortal someone they can be with without having to keep their guard up, and that’s important,” she assured her solemnly. “A lot of older immortals tend to withdraw from society to avoid all of that, and that can lead to their going rogue. But with a life mate, they don’t have to be alone. They have someone they can be with and be relaxed and at peace with, and that person, their life mate, is more important to them than life itself.”

“I see,” she murmured, and kind of did. At least she understood what Mary was saying, but it didn’t really have any relevance to her. She couldn’t read minds, and hadn’t noticed picking up on anyone’s thoughts or feelings. Of course, every immortal she’d met since being turned was ages older than her, except for Pet and Parker, and she had avoided being around mortals since the turn. She didn’t go shopping or . . . well, anywhere. She’d mostly stuck around Marguerite’s home in Toronto, and then Santo and Pet’s. When she’d moved out of their place to the small cottage she’d rented in Italy, she’d stayed there, avoiding people—both mortal and immortal alike—as much as she could. Really, until getting on the plane in Italy for Toronto, she hadn’t seen anyone but Pet, Santo, and Parker for three and a half years. She’d become a shut-in, she realized unhappily.

Sighing, she asked, “How do you know if you’ve met your life mate?”

Surprise again flickered on Mary’s face, but she cleared her throat and answered the question. “There are several signs with an older immortal. Apparently, after a century or two of life, most immortals tend to weary of the more sensual pursuits.”

“You can’t mean sex?” Quinn asked, sure she couldn’t. While her interest in it had dropped off with Patrick by the end of their marriage, Quinn couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of it with Jet. God, just thinking about it made goose bumps rise all over her body.

“Yes, sex is one of the things they tire of. Food is another,” Mary told her. “I asked Dante’s older sister, Bellela, about it once and she said, ‘Imagine one thousand soulless one-night stands in a row that were just passable or all right, or imagine eating steak for the thousandth time as well. Everything becomes boring eventually, even living.’”

Quinn grunted at that. She used to like salad and such at one time, but after ten years of salads and seeds and little else, it all just tasted like dreck to her, so she supposed everything could get boring eventually. But—“What has that to do with life mates?”

“Well, while a single immortal can weary and start abstaining from such pleasures, on meeting a life mate an immortal’s desires are reawakened, including their desire for, and enjoyment of, food and sex,” she explained. “It’s one of the symptoms of having met a life mate.”

“Oh,” Quinn sighed. While she’d grown bored with salad, she hadn’t stopped enjoying muffins and yummy things like that. She just hadn’t allowed herself to eat them. This symptom did not help her at all.

“Another symptom is that all immortals, even really old ones who no one can usually read, are suddenly easily read by everyone. Although, again, I would say that the reading part isn’t really necessary. Their emotions are so new and raw and powerful that I think they are projecting big-time. That is another symptom.”

Quinn just shook her head. Since she had no idea about how to block her thoughts from being read, and was such a new turn on top of that, basically every immortal she encountered could read her. So, again, this wasn’t helpful for her.

“And then there’s the shared pleasure.”

Quinn glanced at her sharply. “Shared pleasure?”

“Hmm.” Mary nodded. “You share each other’s pleasure during sexual pursuits. Touching him brings pleasure to yourself as well and vice versa, but you also share the pleasure you’re both experiencing. It merges and builds in mounting waves that grow bigger with each pass until it feels like you’re drowning in it. That’s why new life mates faint the first year or three after finding each other. Their minds have to adjust to such heightened passion and excitement.”

Quinn bit her lip. She wasn’t sure about the sharing pleasure part. She had touched Jet, but both times she’d only done it after he was already caressing her, so had just thought what she was experiencing was from what he was doing. They had fainted, though, after finding their release.

“And shared dreams are another.”

Quinn sat up straight at that announcement. “Shared dreams are a symptom of life mates?”

“Yes. Only life mates can share dreams,” Mary said, eyeing her with interest. “You and Jet have shared your dreams?”

“I—” Quinn hesitated briefly, and then admitted, “I think so. I mean, I know we did, but then it kind of spilled over into reality and I don’t—” Sighing, Quinn simply described the dream to her, including the sexual parts and the ending. She did so in about as clinical a manner as possible, and ended with a plaintive, “But I don’t know when the dream ended and reality started. Or even how it happened for certain, though Jet seems to think I must have turned to him during the dream and because we were so close we just started acting it out in real life as we were dreaming.”

“I suspect he’s right,” Mary said with a nod. “I’ve never heard of it happening before, but from what I understand, usually when life mates have shared dreams they aren’t in the same bed or grassy knoll. But if he was spooning you when he fell asleep and you were face-to-face when you realized you were biting him, it would seem to me that you must have rolled toward him while dreaming and the two of you started acting out what you were doing in the dream.”

Quinn nodded solemnly, and then released her breath on a dispirited puff and asked, “So he is my life mate?”

“Yes. That seems obvious,” Mary assured her, and then smiled crookedly. When Quinn just slumped unhappily, she pointed out gently, “Most immortals would be grateful to have met their life mate. Especially so soon. Many have to wait centuries or even millennia before finding their life mate.”

“Yes, well, most of them probably aren’t as screwed up as me, and don’t have a boatload of crap to sort out before they should even be considering taking on a life mate,” Quinn said bitterly.

Mary actually grinned at that, but wiped the expression from her face when Quinn scowled at her. “Sorry,” she murmured. “But I’m afraid you’re wrong about that.”

Quinn blinked at those words and then asked uncertainly, “About what?”

“Quinn, I haven’t met a single solitary person in my life, mortal or immortal, who hasn’t been just as screwed up as you feel you are,” she assured her. “They may be screwed up differently, or they may already have sorted out their boatload of crap, but nobody gets through life without trauma and tragedy touching them and bending them one way or another. Everyone just hides their bent parts from others because they want to seem normal when the truth is there is no normal. Abnormal is really the normal.”

Quinn shook her head. “I worked with a lot of people at the hospital who were perfectly normal without traumas and—”

“Do you really think so?” Mary asked with amusement. “And what do you think they thought of you?”

“What?” Quinn asked with confusion.

“Don’t you think they saw you the same way? The beautiful and brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon with the equally brilliant son, and handsome oncologist husband. The happy nuclear family, supportive and loving, and you always presenting a put-together professional front. I’m sure they had no idea that your marriage was crumbling and your son was ignored by his father, or that you were struggling to hold it all together.”

“You’ve read my mind,” Quinn said stiffly with resentment.

“No,” she assured her quietly. “You’re projecting . . . and have been since I picked you up from the airport.”

“I am?” Quinn asked with alarm.

“Oh, yes. Very loudly and very strongly,” Mary assured her. “I’m not just being bombarded with a word here or there, or a fragment of thought or feelings. Your mind is shouting whole chapters out to the world and your emotions are all over the place.”

“Oh God,” Quinn moaned, wondering who all had heard her shouting mind. The Russians? Lucian? Anders? Dante?

“Any immortal who has encountered you has probably heard it,” Mary assured her.

“Even Pet and Parker?” she asked with alarm. “They were turned the same time as me.”

“Perhaps they were, but I suspect they haven’t been neglecting their training and practice as you obviously have,” she said quietly. “So yes, I’m sure they have been bombarded by your thoughts and feelings whether they wanted to or not.”

Quinn scowled at the suggestion. She hadn’t neglected her training; she’d simply refused it outright. She hadn’t asked to be turned into a damned vampire, and she didn’t want to be one, so she’d refused to learn anything that had to do with immortals.

“That’s a very dangerous attitude to take,” Mary said solemnly. “Not just for you, but for any mortals you encounter and even for immortals, which includes your son and sister now. Being able to read mortals helps us know if they are a threat. If they mean us harm, but also if they’ve seen or heard something that might give away our existence. And being able to control them helps us prevent their doing or saying anything to harm us or give away our existence until their memories can be changed or wiped. These are abilities that protect all immortals from exposure and eradication, and very necessary.” She shook her head. “I’m amazed that you’ve been allowed to mingle with mortals when you haven’t had the proper training.”

Quinn waved that away impatiently. “I told you, I don’t mingle with mortals. I hadn’t mingled with anyone but Pet, Parker, and Santo in three and a half years until the plane crashed,” she told her, but was more concerned with the possibility that Parker might have been able to read and hear her thoughts. She’d never considered that and didn’t like having to now, though it would explain why he’d avoided her as much as possible the last couple of years or better. Frowning over that, she said, “You don’t really think Parker could hear or read my thoughts, do you? I mean, immortals aren’t supposed to be able to read older immortals and I’m almost thirty years older than him.”

“The older immortal bit isn’t referencing biological age, Quinn, but how long a person has been immortal. A twenty-year-old born immortal would have no problem reading a newly turned fifty-, sixty-, or even eighty-year-old immortal. It’s skill level, not really how old they are,” Mary explained. “And you and Parker are the same age when it comes to when you were turned . . . only he has no doubt been training and practicing while you haven’t. So yes, I’m sure Parker can read and hear your thoughts,” Mary told her, and then added, “But I’m more concerned about you, Quinn. You’re a walking bundle of pain and rage. You’re furious and hurt by what you see as your husband’s betrayal. And you’re soaking in guilt over not being able to save your son from him. You’re howling so loud inside that it would be impossible not to hear it, and I suspect you have been for the last four years.”

She paused briefly to shake her head and then said, “I don’t know how you bear it. Why haven’t you arranged to talk to someone? You don’t have to feel this way. You shouldn’t have to feel this way.”

Quinn felt tears sting her eyes and lowered her head to hide them, but her mind was repeating Mary’s words in her head. A bundle of pain and rage? Damned right she was. Patrick had taken everything from her. Her home, her career, her friends, even her humanity, and then the bastard went and got himself killed, leaving her to deal with the fallout.

“Your humanity?”

Quinn lifted her head at Mary’s words. “What?”

“Your husband stole your humanity?” Mary asked quietly.

Quinn’s mouth tightened. It was damned annoying not even having your thoughts to yourself.

“Is that how you see yourself now? Inhuman? A monster?” Mary asked softly.

An image of Nika flashed through her mind—neck twisted, body emaciated, fingers almost locked in birdlike claws. Quinn could even hear her voice like grated glass in her ears. “Cooome, Jee-ot.”

“Nika was sick,” Mary said quietly.

“She was in the throes of blood lust,” Quinn countered. “She was scary as hell and would have ripped Jet to shreds. She even looked like a monster, a cross between a zombie and—”

“Funny, because the image that flashed through your mind when you thought of her looked more like a picture I once saw of those poor victims of concentration camps like Auschwitz. Or maybe even like one or two cancer patients I’ve counseled who were at death’s doorstep, emaciated and colorless,” Mary said solemnly.

Quinn looked away, her mouth tightening, because Mary was right. Working in the hospital, she’d seen more than one cancer patient who had looked not unlike Nika. But—

Turning back, she said solemnly, “Cancer patients don’t have fangs. We do, and we feed off the blood of mortals.”

“We need to take in bagged blood to survive, just like hemophiliacs occasionally need, or people with thrombocytopenia, anemia, kidney disease, liver disease, sickle cell disease, and countless other illnesses.” She raised her eyebrows. “Are they monsters too?”

“They don’t have fangs,” Quinn said stubbornly.

“Okay, so you’re a monster,” Mary said with a shrug. “What about Pet and Parker?”

“What about them?” Quinn asked warily.

“Are they monsters too?”

“No!” Quinn gasped with horror.

“Why not? They’re immortal. So, if your being immortal means you’re a monster, so are they,” Mary reasoned.

Quinn frowned at her logic and shook her head. “But—”

“But?”

“Parker isn’t a monster. He’s a victim,” she said miserably.

“And you aren’t?”

“I’m the idiot who married Patrick.” Sighing, she closed her eyes briefly and then added, “I married him, and then rather than divorce him when I should have, I just let things go because it was easier than having to deal with it . . . and Parker paid the price.”

“I see,” Mary said quietly. “So, is that what the last four years have been about? Punishing yourself for what happened to Parker?”

Quinn blinked her eyes open with surprise. “I haven’t been punishing myself.”

“Haven’t you?” she asked softly. “You certainly haven’t done anything to make yourself happy, or to help you move past this. You haven’t even considered what you want to do professionally, or where you want to live permanently. You rented a house in Italy close to your sister and then shut yourself into it, stewing in your misery. You haven’t done a thing for yourself. You haven’t even shaved your legs in four years, Quinn,” she pointed out, and then admitted, “I originally thought perhaps it was depression, but now I suspect you’ve been punishing yourself . . . or perhaps it’s a combination of the two.”

Quinn closed her eyes again, considering that. Had she been depressed? She’d felt so angry she hadn’t considered that she might be depressed. She hadn’t even realized that anger was a part of depression. She’d thought it was just sadness, hopelessness, and exhaustion. Although to be honest, she’d suffered all three of those the last four years too.

As for punishing herself . . . as much as her first instinct had been to deny it, she may have been doing that. If so, it was probably no less than she deserved. She’d failed Parker miserably. Sighing, she opened her eyes, sat up, and straightened her shoulders. “That’s why I came back. To talk to Greg Hewitt and try to fix myself.”

“There’s nothing to fix, Quinn. You aren’t broken. You just need to accept your new reality and embrace it. And you need to stop taking the blame for Patrick’s actions. He turned Parker, and there was nothing you could have done about it. Patrick had already attacked and turned you when it happened. You were in the throes of the turn, completely unconscious and incapable of protecting your son.”

“But it was my job,” Quinn moaned, and then scrubbed her hands over her face, muttering, “I should have never married Patrick.”

“Then there would be no Parker,” Mary pointed out.

Quinn didn’t even want to consider that outcome. She loved Parker dearly. So, she supposed she was glad she’d married Patrick, after all, but—“Then I should have divorced him when it first became apparent that he wasn’t going to be a proper father to him.”

“Coulda, shoulda, woulda,” Mary said with exasperation, and then shook her head. “What if you had? What if it had just been you and Parker living there when the rogue who attacked your husband moved in next door? Maybe it would have been you who encountered the man and got turned. Or maybe he would have just drained you dry and killed you. Or maybe he would have just killed Parker,” Mary pointed out, and then added, “Either way, you definitely would have lost Pet once Santo arrived to investigate the matter. She’s his life mate, and as such couldn’t have resisted him.” Mary shrugged. “One way or another Pet would have been turned, and once she was, if you hadn’t been turned, she’d have had to leave you behind.”

Quinn was scowling over that, when Mary added, “Or maybe Parker and Pet both would have ended up turned and you’d have been mortal still and would have been fed some story that they died in a car accident.” She arched her eyebrows. “Frankly, looking at the different permutations, it seems to me that this was the happiest of outcomes. The three of you were turned and still have each other.”

When Quinn just frowned, Mary added, “And as a mother who had to remove herself from the lives of her children and grandchildren after being turned, I cannot express how much I envy you that.”

Quinn was just absorbing the shock from those words when a knock sounded at the door.