In His Shadow (Tangled Ivy Book 1) Page 24

  “Let her go, Heinrich,” Devon said. “We can make a deal.”

  But Heinrich ignored him, disappearing through the door and trailed by his men.

  “Heinrich!” Devon yelled, but the only answer was the clanging of the steel door as it swung closed.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I watched, wondering which choice Devon would make. I’d assumed he’d come help me, but given the extreme unlikelihood that he’d be able to get me out in that short of a time, maybe he’d just go after Heinrich. After all, that seemed like a no-brainer: one life—my life—weighed against the millions Heinrich had the capability of destroying. Which was really tragic—for me.

  Devon stood in the room, immobile, facing the door that had swung closed behind the men. I didn’t breathe, afraid that the last thing I’d see would be Devon walking out the door and leaving me to die.

  “Devon?” I asked, tentative. How did one beg for help from a man who professed to feel nothing for anyone?

  Devon spun around and ran toward the door to the cage. I let out a pent-up breath. “Clive, come help me,” he called out, but Clive didn’t move from where he was frozen at the glass, staring at Anna. “Clive!”

  This time Devon got a response and Clive jerked around. Scrambling to his feet, he rushed to help Devon. I couldn’t see what they were doing but could hear the beeping of the lock as Clive pressed buttons on the keypad. I listened desperately for the clicking of the lock, but nothing happened.

  “I don’t have the code for this,” Clive said.

  “Try anything,” Devon demanded.

  “I am! Nothing’s working!”

  A clock was ticking inside my head as ten seconds went by, then twenty.

  “Stand back, Ivy,” Devon said.

  Obediently, I took several steps from the door. I jumped when I heard the loud report of a gun. I didn’t know where Devon had gotten it and didn’t care. Shooting the glass out of the cage seemed like a fine alternative to me, but the expected shattering didn’t come.

  “Damn it,” Devon fumed. “It’s bulletproof.”

  The clock in my head said I only had about thirty seconds left.

  I watched helplessly as he turned and ran for the wall. An ax was mounted in the concrete and Devon grabbed it. He ran back for the door and I watched him swing the blade. It clanged loudly against the hand lever, but held firm.

  Twenty seconds.

  He swung again, and again, but nothing gave. I suddenly realized . . . this was it.

  “Devon,” I said, heading for the glass wall next to the door. “Devon!” My shout made him stop and he finally looked at me. His chest heaved from exertion and the panicked look in his eyes made mine fill with tears. “It’s no use,” I said quietly.

  He stared at me. “I’ll get you out,” he said, the words sounding like a plea for forgiveness.

  “It’s all right,” I said, shaking my head. It wasn’t, not really, I mean, I hadn’t wanted to die today, but I’d come along willingly.

  I placed my hand flat against the glass. Tears spilled down my cheeks but I didn’t look away from Devon. I wished in that moment that I had the means to kill myself. I didn’t want his last image of me to be what Clive had of Anna.

  Ten seconds.

  Devon dropped the ax to the ground and stood opposite me. Raising his hand, he pressed his palm against mine, mirroring me.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a choked rasp. “I’m so very sorry.”

  “Don’t leave me until . . . after,” I whispered, unable to say the words I’m dead.

  He shook his head, his eyes unnaturally bright, and the blue of his eyes no longer reminded me of ice, but of the sea, warm and gentle as it lapped the shore.

  Zero.

  A sudden hiss made me start and I glanced upward to see a billowing cloud of white descending from the vent slats in the ceiling. Fear struck like a bolt of lightning and my knees gave out, making me crumple to the floor.

  “Ivy!”

  Devon’s shout tore through me, the stricken expression on his face almost immediately obscured by the cloud as it filled the cage. I couldn’t see anything and the cloud was thick, pressing against my lungs and eyes until I choked—deep, hacking coughs that went on and on and on.

  The hissing finally stopped and I was flat on my stomach, my cheek pressed against the cold concrete. The coughing fit was over, leaving me wrung out. The smooth floor was icy against my bare legs and I didn’t move. My eyes were streaming when I forced them open, realizing the fog was starting to clear. I almost lifted my hand to brush away the wetness, then fear that it was blood made me stop.

  “Ivy! Ivy! Speak to me!”

  Devon’s voice was frantic, but I didn’t want to turn toward him. I didn’t want him to see me like this. I wanted him to remember me the way he’d last seen me. Beautiful. Heinrich hadn’t said how long the virus took to break down the internal organs, but I was hoping it wouldn’t take too long or be as painful as that sounded.

  “Ivy, please,” Devon begged.

  That almost broke me. I managed to sit up, then echoed Anna’s position. I pulled my knees to my chest and laid my head on my arms, letting my falling hair obscure my face. I still faced away from him toward the back wall. I didn’t feel any pain, not yet, and I wondered when it would start. Anna hadn’t made a sound and I wondered if she even could anymore.

  “I found the decontamination program,” I heard Clive call to Devon.

  “Then activate it, for chrissakes!”

  The sound of a fan whirring filled the cage, making the last of the fog lift away. A light mist fell from above, coating my hair, clothes, and skin. It didn’t matter now. It was too late.

  A loud buzz followed by the click of the lock, and the door flew open. An instant later, Devon had fallen to his knees beside me.

  “Look at me,” he insisted, grabbing my upper arms, but I kept my head down, suddenly overcome by lethargy. I didn’t even have the energy to speak.

  His hand was beneath my chin, forcing my face up, and I managed to moan in protest. I didn’t want him to see me. He pushed my hair back and I forced my eyes open, afraid of the horror I’d see on his face once he got a good look at me. But he showed not a flicker of reaction.

  “You’re going to be all right,” Devon said. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

  A tortured groan made Devon jerk his head around and I realized Clive had followed him into the cage. He held Anna in his arms, his hand lovingly wiping the blood from her face.

  “My Anna,” he said in a broken whisper. “This is my fault. They did this because of me. Please forgive me.”

  But Anna was dead. Even I could tell that. Clive clutched her to him and sobbed into her hair, begging her lifeless body to forgive him. My eyes streamed more, the ache inside my chest like a vise around my lungs as I watched.

  “Come on,” Devon called to Clive. “Help me get Ivy out of here.” But Clive didn’t move, didn’t even hear Devon’s words. He just rocked back and forth, crying inconsolably as he murmured to her.

  Devon stared for a moment, as though assessing what to do with Clive, then he was lifting me in his arms and carrying me out of the cage. He didn’t call again for Clive.

  My body hung limp like a rag doll, my head lolling weakly against his shoulder. My eyes slipped shut and I lost some time.

  When I opened them again, Devon was arranging me in the front seat of his car. He reclined the passenger seat and yanked the seat belt over my torso.

  “Stay with me, darling,” he murmured, his hand brushing my cheek. Then he shut the door and rounded the car to slide into the driver’s seat.

  The engine roared as we tore down the street. If I’d been more aware, Devon’s driving would have scared me. I’d never driven so fast. His weaving between cars on the road made me dizzy. I closed my eyes.


  And I lost some more time.

  When I became aware again, Devon was carrying me down a hallway. He stopped, kicking a door until it opened.

  “Help me,” he demanded.

  “Holy shit,” I heard Beau say. “What happened to her?”

  “Just get my door open. Here’s the keys.”

  The jangle of metal was loud to me and I stared upward. Devon glanced down.

  “We’re almost there,” he said, lifting me higher and pressing his cheek to my head as I lay against his shoulder. “Just a bit more.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” I murmured, forcing my lips to move. It felt like my tongue was made of lead.

  “Shh, don’t try to talk,” he said.

  “Got it,” Beau said, then Devon was carrying me into the apartment and back to the bedroom. He placed me carefully on the bed as though afraid of breaking me.

  “Thank you,” he said to Beau, who’d followed us.

  “What can I do to help?” Beau asked.

  “Stay with her for a moment,” Devon replied, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. He walked out of the room and I heard him talking but couldn’t make out the words.

  Beau looked down at me, his face creased in concern. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

  “How do I look?” I asked, unable to bear not knowing any longer.

  “You look like hell,” was his frank reply.

  I closed my eyes again, feeling my sticky eyelashes mat together. I still felt no pain and I said a prayer of thanks for small blessings.

  When I opened my eyes, Beau was gone and Devon sat next to me on the bed. He held my hand and I felt a hard pinch in my arm. Turning, I saw a stranger there and a needle in my arm.

  I made a noise and tried to pull my arm away, but Devon held it firm.

  “Let him,” he told me. “It will help.”

  It didn’t matter if I believed him or not, there was nothing I could do. When the guy finished with the injection, he took four vials of my blood. I watched the red fluid fill the small tubes and wondered. Why was Devon doing this? Did they think they’d be able to stop Heinrich by learning more about the virus? I supposed I couldn’t really argue with that, even if I had the energy to do so.

  And time passed.

  Consciousness came slowly and, with it, pain. My entire body ached as though I’d done a three-hour workout, but even with that, I recognized that I could move again.

  I turned my head, realizing that I’d been moved. Devon now sat behind me on the bed, my body cradled between his legs as I lay back against his chest. A thin blanket covered me and a quick glance down showed me the dress had been removed and I was naked.

  At my movement, Devon woke.

  “Ivy?” he asked, his arms lifting to wrap around me. “Can you hear me?”

  “Of course I can hear you,” I said, my voice so harsh and dry, it made me cough.

  “Here,” he said, grabbing a glass of water from the table by the bed. He held it to my lips and I took a cautious sip. It felt wonderful on my parched tongue and throat. When I was through, Devon set it back on the table and I sighed, lying back against him again.

  “What happened?” I asked. My memory was fuzzy, the last clear thing was watching Clive embracing Anna’s dead body.

  “You’ve been very ill,” Devon said. “How do you feel?”

  “Okay,” I said, silently taking inventory of my body. “A little sore and achy.”

  Devon carefully shifted me to the side and crawled out from behind me. I glanced at him and gasped. He had several days’ growth of beard.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “How long have I been unconscious?”

  “Today is Friday,” he clarified. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed with dark shadows beneath them.

  I’d been out for nearly three days. It suddenly occurred to me, was I on my deathbed?

  “Am I . . . am I going to die?” I stammered. How much longer did I have? But Devon was already shaking his head.

  “No, sweet Ivy,” he said. “You’re going to be just fine.” His smile was weak but triumphant as his hand settled on my forehead, lightly brushing back my hair.

  “But . . . how?” I was confused. The virus should have killed me.

  Devon turned away and walked into the bathroom, talking as he went. “It must need multiple exposures to kill,” he said. I heard the water running, then he returned a few moments later with a steaming washcloth. “You’re not dying. Not today.” He sat next to me and gently pressed the warm cloth to my cheek, tenderly cleansing my eyes. When he finished, the cloth was stained pink.

  “Have you been taking care of me?” I asked.

  “Not exactly Florence Nightingale,” he replied with a wry smile, “but I did my best.”

  My heart turned over in my chest. Devon may have said many times that he didn’t love and didn’t care, but his actions spoke much louder than his words.

  He brought me something to eat, some soup that he’d heated up in the microwave, then helped me to the bathroom. Brushing my teeth felt awesome and the hot spray from the shower even more so. I stood under the cascade of water and let it wash over me. There’s little that feels better than washing your hair after being sick and unable to for several days.

  When I finally emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a bath sheet, I felt much better. The heat had helped with the residual ache in my limbs. A close inspection in the mirror showed me that my eyes were a bit bloodshot, but otherwise just fine.

  It looked like Devon had showered and shaved, too. He’d changed the sheets and now lay on his stomach on the bed, shirtless with wet hair. I sat down and opened my mouth to say something when the sound of a soft snore met my ears. Leaning over, I realized he was sound asleep. I smiled and drew a blanket up over him. He didn’t stir. Closing the door behind me, I left him to get some rest. As for me, I decided I was tired of lying in bed.

  My luggage was in the living room—Devon must have brought it in at some point while I was sick—and I dug through it for clothes. Yoga pants and a soft fleece shirt felt like heaven.

  A buzzing noise distracted me and I followed the sound to Devon’s cell phone on the counter. Someone had texted him. I glanced at the screen and saw the beginnings of the message.

  Tests confirmed. You were right.

  Hmm. Devon was right about what? What tests?

  My fingers itched to pick up the phone and be nosey, but I refrained. Sitting on the couch, I flipped on the television and found a rerun of Friends to watch. I must have dozed off because I woke to the sound of a door flying open and hitting the wall with a crash.

  “Ivy!” Devon’s anxious call was loud in the apartment.

  “I’m here,” I said, climbing off the couch and hurrying back to the bedroom. He met me in the doorway, his expression relieved as he pulled me into his arms.

  “I fell asleep,” he said, his chin resting on the top of my head.

  “I know. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  The skin of his chest was warm beneath my cheek and his body felt strong and solid against mine. I reveled in the moment. Devon cared about me, whether he said the words or not, and it was the silver-and-gold lining to the cloud that hovered over me.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, his hand brushing through my damp hair.

  “Good,” I replied, tipping my head back to look up at him. “I’m good. Thanks to you.”

  Devon’s face was serious as he gazed at me, his hand moving from my hair to my cheek. “I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured, “and I’ve lost too many.”

  I wanted to pursue that statement, ask him exactly who he’d lost and how, but he bent down and kissed me.

  It was a warm, tender kiss, gentle and reverent, the soft brush of his tongue against mine a question rather than a de
mand. I opened my mouth beneath his and he pulled me closer, his hand sliding to the back of my neck underneath my hair as he deepened the kiss. Languid and sweet, it seemed Devon was trying to say with his body what he couldn’t say out loud.

  He pulled me back to the bed. “You should rest,” he said, easing me down until I was lying flat.

  “But I’m not tired,” I protested, though I didn’t fight him. It felt nice, him fussing over me.

  “Perhaps not, but it will make me feel better.”

  He lay beside me and I turned on my side to face him. The sun was shining brightly in the room, making his hair gleam like burnished gold with elusive copper highlights.

  I reached for him and he caught my hand in his, slotting our fingers together. His gaze was tinged with something I couldn’t name as he stared at me.

  “What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious. “What’s wrong?”

  Devon hesitated before answering. “I’m just memorizing how you look right now with the sun behind you, how you’re staring at me as if I were a hero.”

  “You are,” I said with a relieved smile. “My hero.”

  But Devon didn’t smile back. If anything, my words seemed to bother him, his brow creasing in a frown as he studied me.

  “Will you tell me about what you said earlier?” I asked. “About those you’ve lost?”

  Devon’s eyes flicked away from mine and down to our joined hands. “You don’t want to hear about that,” he said lightly. “It’s a sad, tragic tale.”

  “You know my sad, tragic tale,” I countered.

  His gaze met mine and the grief I saw in his eyes made my heart lurch.

  “My life,” he began, then hesitated before continuing. “It’s not exactly conducive to forming attachments. It’s dangerous, for me and those whom I care for. I learned that lesson long ago.”

  I waited, hoping he’d go on. Eventually, he did.

  “There was a woman,” he said, his eyes dropping back down to our joined hands. “Her name was Kira. She was . . . beautiful and clever, loving and kind, far kinder than I deserved. But she wasn’t an agent, just an ancillary victim to events beyond her control. Beyond my control. She did love me, I think. She said she did. It was . . . a revelation. No one had said such a thing to me before, at least, no one that I remembered.”