Infected: Shift Read online

  “Jesus, fuck, Dyl, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “No, you did, and it’s okay. At least it’s out now.” He ran his hand beneath his nose and sniffed. “I have to go now before things get worse.”

  “Please, no, Dylan, I—”

  “Don’t, just don’t. If you care about me at all, let me go.”

  “But—” But what? What was he going to say? He stood aside and let Dylan pass, feeling like utter shit. He was angry, both at himself and at Dylan, but the drugs made it seem oddly abstract. “I love you, goddamn it!” he roared. Not literally; he was too drugged and too tired to manage it. There was no response besides the opening and closing of the door downstairs. Damn it. “Would I put up with this shit if I didn’t?”

  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. If he’d set out to deliberately destroy this relationship, he couldn’t have done a better job.

  Angrily, he slammed the closet door shut, but that wasn’t satisfying. So he went downstairs and headed for his office, where he landed three or four punches on the heavy bag before snapping the chain and sending it thudding into the wall and collapsing onto the floor. Now he had something to fix. Great. That would keep him occupied for about ten or twenty minutes. “Fuck!” he shouted, feeling his heart beat in his ears. He was an idiot; he was a world-class moron.

  Why did both Dylan and Murphy think he wanted to die? Why did they think he was suicidal? He wasn’t! His last overdose wasn’t his fault—some asshole had tried to kill him with animal tranquilizers. Didn’t they remember that? That wasn’t his fucking fault.

  And that lion shit—Dylan had no fucking clue what he was talking about. The lion was… well, it wasn’t a thing, really, it was an impulse, an urge, an irresistible urge. He fought it, and it wasn’t as easy as he seemed to imply—he couldn’t make it roll over and play dead. How stupid was he? For a man who had taken years of college, he could seem totally clueless.

  He was exhausted, his adrenaline was almost gone, and the drugs were really weighing him down. His stomach was growling, twisting itself in knots, so he had a piece of toast and wondered where Dylan had gone. To D’Andra’s? Probably. She was perfect, mainly because, as far as Roan could tell, she had never liked him. Maybe she was a rather militant lesbian, but she seemed oddly proprietary of Dylan. Possibly because they were both artists, although D’Andra’s art wasn’t painting but sculpture and performance pieces. Dylan at least had talent—he was more than half convinced D’Andra was being awful on purpose as a sort of “fuck you” to the art world. And really he respected her for that.

  He lay down on the couch and turned on the TV, making himself stare at it, but for some reason nothing was getting through. He saw images but couldn’t connect them; they might as well have been flashing lights. Sound and fury, signifying nothing. He remembered he had phone calls to return, and as if on cue his cell hummed, but as soon as he saw it was Murphy calling, he turned it off. She’d probably just heard about the panther thing, or finally had a piece of evidence that pointed toward Michael’s death being murder, and he was just not in the mood right now. He couldn’t deal with it.

  Roan had no idea when he fell asleep. The drugs were so heavy in his system, weighing him down like his blood was liquid iron, that there seemed to be no segue between consciousness and sleep. It was actually kind of nice, at least until he found himself sitting on the back porch, on a deck that didn’t actually exist in real life, watching the sun filter through the interlaced web of the trees. Sitting beside him was Paris, of course, drinking a beer and waiting for things to happen.

  “I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?” he asked, although he knew he was just talking to himself.

  “It is a minor talent of yours,” Par admitted, giving him a smartass grin.

  Well, that was certainly true. Roan had a beer bottle in his hand, but it seemed to be empty. What a bastard. “Maybe this is for the best. I was no good for Dylan anyways. He could do better.”

  “Of course he could. But he wanted you, you stupid fuck.” Paris cuffed him on the back of the head, a small slap that could have been more forceful but was just firm enough to get its point across.

  “Hey!”

  “And he’s right, you know. He and Murphy don’t agree on a lot, so the fact that they agree on you being a reckless and stupid asshole seems to indicate that you are being a reckless and stupid bastard.”

  Roan gave him a dirty look. “Aren’t you supposed to be my soul mate?”

  Par gave him a look that he knew all too well, one that made him feel a twinge in his gut even in this dream world. It was the look of a kindly old mentor about to kick your ass and honestly sorry he has to do it. “You’re so depressed you’ve come out the other side of it, Ro. You know you could die at any second, so you push it. All your life, that’s what you’ve done. Someone says you can’t do something, you go out and do it, and go spin doughnuts on their lawn, giving them the middle finger and insulting their mothers. That’s the beauty and the terrible pain of you: you’re a contrary bastard.”

  “Yeah, well….” He didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he could argue with here.

  “You say you don’t want to end up a sideshow attraction, a freak show, but you go out of your way to use these abilities where they will get a lot of attention. Subtlety has never been your strong suit.”

  “It’s who I am. It’s what I am. Ask me to not be gay while you’re at it, or a redhead. I’m a freak. World might as well get used to it.”

  “I agree. But are you ready for what will happen? The media attention, the medical attention?”

  Par actually seemed to be expecting an answer. “Well, no….”

  “Are you ready to die half transformed?”

  “No, but that’s not gonna happen.”

  “Oh really? Why not?”

  He shrugged, and suddenly realized he wanted badly to wake up. “I’ve adapted. It can’t kill me. It won’t.”

  “Really? Then go all the way. If you won’t get any more aneurysms, go for a full change. What’s holding you back?”

  “Stop it.”

  “You’re not a coward, Ro. Hell, you go out and pick fights, that’s how not a coward you are. So why don’t—”

  “Just shut up, all right?” he snapped angrily. He would have felt terrible if this was really Paris, but it wasn’t. He knew he was talking to himself, that the mean bastard taunting him could never be Par, but it could be him. Yes, he was contrary, but he could also be fucking vindictive.

  “You want Dylan back? You tell him the truth, and you get help.”

  “There’s no help for me.”

  “You’ve never tried, so you don’t know. Try before you give up. Or are you actually a coward, Ro? Is that your dirty little secret?”

  The ringing of the phone woke him up, shattered his reverie, and he was honestly grateful. His subconscious was a bitch.

  He didn’t answer the phone, he just let it go to machine, and it was Murphy, like he suspected (it was either her or Dee—there was no way Dylan would be calling him so soon). He listened to her talk and felt water on his face. Was he crying? Yes, he was, but he hadn’t been aware of it. The drugs still had a velvet stranglehold on him, but he wasn’t sure he could totally blame them.

  Apparently the Brand case was being shut. They’d found nothing that indicated foul play, and since he’d killed himself with his service revolver and left a note on his computer, it looked pretty legit. She still didn’t trust it—she said it looked like there might have been another person in the house—but there was no way to make a timeline for that. He wondered idly if she’d found the bottle of booze he took out of the back cupboard. It was unlikely Michael had cleaned up. She wasn’t happy—was she ever?—but it was done, unless he wanted to tell her something. He didn’t, so the case was closed.

  Maybe Grey was telling the truth—maybe he had gone back to bed and never paid Brand a visit. Would he ever know for sure? Truth be told, he was fine not knowing. Mich
ael had been dead in every way save physically. Poor bastard. That was where Hamlet syndrome killed you—you couldn’t live with things as they were, but you couldn’t make yourself change them either. Indecision as mental illness and self-destruction.

  Roan must have fallen back to sleep, or just slipped into some drug-infused fugue state, as the next time he found himself staring at the curtains that were closed over the glass patio door, there was weak sunlight behind them, making them faintly glow. He still felt tired and empty, but now that the drugs had mostly worn off, his joints ached ever so slightly, like he was getting over the flu. His stomach rumbled to let him know toast had been nowhere near enough last night.

  He went upstairs and took a long bath, letting the warm water relax his muscles and take out the residual aches. His face was itchy, and he noticed he’d gotten a two days’ growth of beard overnight. He was too tired to shave, so he didn’t. He almost didn’t bother to get dressed, except he was cold, so he put on sweatpants before going downstairs. He threw a frozen dinner in the microwave and nuked it, not looking at what it was and not caring. After it was done, he still wasn’t sure what it was, and again, didn’t care. Eating it didn’t provide further illumination.

  So he was supposed to tell Dylan the truth? The truth about what? He knew he was a freak; they had covered that part. So what was there to say?

  There was a knock on the door, and he wasn’t going to answer the door, but Dee shouted, “I know you’re in there!”

  So, fuck, word was getting around.

  He got up and let Dee in, not surprised he was in his paramedic gear. “Dylan called me and told me he might need me to pick up some stuff for him. So he’s left you? What did you do?”

  He glared at him but stalked back to the sofa, not even in the mood to argue with him. “Didn’t you hear what went on last night?”

  “The cat outside Panic? Yeah, I heard. That’s it? Gotta be more than that.”

  “He seems to think I hate myself and I want to die. Or I want the lion to take over full time, or some shit like that.”

  “And you’re saying that’s not true?”

  He gave Dee a scathing look that he knew would do no good, as it never did any good with Dee. “No, it’s not. Just get his stuff and go. What stuff does he want?”

  Dee came and stood in front of him in the living room, hands on his hips. “No, you’re fucking not.”

  “Not what?”

  “You are not giving up.”

  “I can if I want.” What was he doing? He didn’t even know. It was all reflex.

  Dee glared down at him, imperious and angry. “He’s right, isn’t he? You want to die. Dylan leaving is the final excuse you need.”

  “Fuck you.” He couldn’t even work up enough energy to make it sound angry. It was anemic and could have been anything. It didn’t even sound like an insult.

  Dee gave him a curious look, one only an ex could possibly give you, and sat down on the sofa beside him. He put his hand on Roan’s leg in a comforting, friendly manner and asked in his most consoling EMT voice, “What’s wrong?”

  A good question. He didn’t know. But he found himself admitting, “I’m so tired,” and for reasons unknown to him, he burst into tears. Stupid fucking asshole—why was he crying?

  Dee pulled him into a hug and let him cry into his shoulder, and in that moment, Roan really did want to die.

  17

  You Could Have It So Much Better

  Roan tried to stop crying because it was fucking humiliating enough without bringing the whole “ex” thing, but on the bright side, he couldn’t actually humiliate himself further in front of Dee. Been there, done that, posted it on his blog.

  As it was, he couldn’t actually stop crying, so Dee eventually asked if he wanted a sedative. Roan heartily agreed, and after Dee came back from his car and gave him the shot, he asked, “Why have you never offered me a sedative before?”

  “’Cause I knew if I did, you’d expect one all the time,” Dee told him, wiping the injection site down with an alcohol-soaked cotton swab. He then looked at Roan’s forearm and frowned at it. “Is this where you were bit?”

  Whatever Dee gave him, it was working already. His heart started racing in his chest, the preamble to its slowing down, to all his systems gliding into a lower gear. Roan actually had to look at his arm to remember. “Uh, yeah.”

  Dee lifted his arm and looked at it up close, as if trying to see each individual pore. “The report said your arm was bleeding, but you refused treatment at the scene.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why aren’t there puncture wounds?”

  “Magic?”

  Dee gave him a light backhand slap across the chest. “Don’t smartass me. This is, what you call it, forcing a change? You forced a change and healed it.”

  “No.” Actually, now that he thought about it, he never did that. So when did it happen? “I got mad, after Dylan left.”

  “And?”

  “I probably did a partial change without realizing it at the time. That can happen when I get pissed off.”

  He gave him a skeptical look. “So you’re the Hulk now?”

  “No! I’ve never owned a pair of purple pants in my life.”

  Dee’s glare was ceaseless. “I’m gonna beat the shit out of you. I swear to God I’m gonna knock you out and beat the shit out of you. I’m gonna put you in a body cast.”

  “Where’s your sense of humor?” Roan belatedly realized he’d stopped crying. He wasn’t sure it was the drugs more than the distraction.

  “You’ve driven away the sweetest hot guy currently on the planet, and you are making smartass jokes. Jokes that aren’t even that funny. You should be figuring out how to get him back.”

  “I shouldn’t.” At Dee’s disbelieving look, he explained. “You’re right, he is sweet, and hot, and he deserves so much better than me. I’ve brought nothing but pain into his life. He deserves to have some fun, meet another nice hot guy and have hot Buddhist sex, not be weighed down with a diseased old freak like me.”

  “I agree. But he seems to like you, proving he’s crazy and has a thing for hot old guys who are nothing but trouble.”

  “You think I’m a hot old guy? Hey, is that an insult or a compliment?”

  “A little of both.”

  “Ah. Well, fuck you. Kinda.”

  Dee put his hand on his forehead—which was a mild relief, as he thought for a moment he was going to slap him—and asked, “You all right? You’re flushed.”

  He shrugged. “Happens with drugs sometimes. It’s my Irish blood.”

  “I thought you were Scottish.”

  “Mostly Scottish, but some Irish, and probably some alley cat as well.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “That it does.”

  “So, are you going to clean yourself up and go throw yourself on Dylan’s mercy?”

  He actually thought cutting Dylan loose was the kinder thing. Did he miss him? Hell yes, he did. He wished he was here right now. But that was selfish of him, wasn’t it? But what was a relationship besides a compact of mutual selfishness? Or was he so incredibly wrong it wasn’t even funny? “He’s at D’Andra’s?”

  “Of course he is. She’s a scary person who will rip your head off if you bother her Dylan.”

  “So you’re scared of her too?”

  “Yes, but I can drug her, so it’s limited.”

  “Your answer is always drugs, isn’t it?”

  Dee glared at such an obvious invitation, and opened his mouth to say something mean, but Roan was saved by his beeper going off. Dee checked it and cursed. “Gonna kick your ass later,” he promised, standing up. “This isn’t over.”

  “Is it ever?”

  Dee didn’t answer that, just gave him a knowing, dark sort of look on his way out the door. It said “You’re an asshole” without actually saying the words. They were never really necessary.

  Roan lay on the couch for a while, trying to det
ermine his next move, wondering why it was always so easy to just crawl in a hole and never come out. He would really love to never do anything, just sit here and rot. It was honestly what he deserved.

  He had things to do. He had laundry and probably shopping, and a buttload of apologies to make. What could he possibly say to Dylan to make it better? “Sorry I want to die.” That didn’t sound like it would make it better.

  He decided to call Doctor Rosenberg’s office. He thought he’d leave a message, but she picked up the phone. Didn’t that always figure? He took a deep breath, bracing himself, glad for the heavy-duty medication, and told her what he knew about himself: that he could change whenever he wanted, that he could alter his own muscle density, that he could half change, make his eyes turn and his teeth come out, his jaw distend, that sometimes when he was angry or upset it could occur of its own accord, that his vocal chords could change shape and become inhuman, that triggering a change could heal minor injuries, that when his adrenaline got pumping his reflexes could go off the charts. She just listened, occasionally making a soothing noise to let him know she was still there. When he stopped, she finally said, “I know.”