Dead After Dark (Companion #6.5)(72)

His room. It was the only place left. Had he been sitting there in the dark? She, who had wanted nothing more than to be alone for the last year, without thinking or feeling, was now atwitter to know what he was doing and what he felt. She changed into a wrapper and laid her gown out to dry. Then she stalked purposefully to his room.

“Drew Carlowe,” she called, rapping softly.

A hoarse voice said, “Go away.”

Was he that angry with her? “I . . . I want to talk to you.” He didn’t know how much it cost her to say that.

“You c-can’t come in.” He sounded strange—not like himself at all. “I’m . . . b-busy.”

She tried the door. It was locked. “Are you . . . well?” She didn’t have the faintest idea what sick people sounded like. She had grown up among vampires and they were never sick.

“I . . . I might have a t-touch of the influenza.” He was trying to sound casual. But she could hear the lie in that. Pursing her lips, she twisted the knob until the lock creaked and broke. She pushed her way in.

He was huddled in the dark in a chair in front of the empty fireplace with a blanket round his shoulders. He sounded strange because he was shivering uncontrollably.

“Go away. You m-might catch it.”

Not possible of course. Her Companion killed all disease. She was immortal, for God’s sake, to all intents and purposes. She hurried over to him, frowning. “I won’t catch it. You must have a doctor.” One got a doctor for a human who was sick.

“No n-need,” he managed.

She ignored him and put a palm on his forehead. He was incredibly hot. “How long have you been like this?” Had she weakened him with a night of sex?

“It got bad t-this afternoon. I’ll be all right.”

“Let’s get you into bed.” She pulled him up.

“I’m all right.” But he had to turn away, as a dry, hacking cough took him. She could have carried him bodily, but she didn’t want to frighten him with her strength.

“Don’t be childish.” She practically dragged him to the bed and pushed him up into it.

He was already in his stocking feet. She began to undress him.

“I’m perfectly c-capable,” he protested. But he made no move to help her. That frightened her more than anything else. His flesh, wherever she touched it, was burning hot. When she had him naked and tucked under the sheets, she drew up the comforter to quiet his shaking. It didn’t help.

“I’m going to get a doctor.”

He gave a breathless chuckle. “No one will c-come up here at night.”

He was right. Her stupid ghost impersonation had insured that.

“I don’t need a doctor. Besides, I expect he’s b-busy. I think Barton h-had it yesterday at the tavern. A good p-place to spread it.” He dissolved into the cough again.

She came up and stood over him, frowning. “Can you die from this?”

“Only the frail die. I’ll just be a little unc-comfortable for a few days. You’d b-better keep your distance, though.”

“I told you. I can’t get it from you. So,” she said briskly, “I’m the perfect sickroom attendant.” She drew up a chair. Actually, she felt rather helpless. What could she do but watch him shake with fever?

That’s what she did over the next hours. He didn’t complain but the racking cough and the shaking seemed to exhaust him. Finally he subsided into a restless sleep. She lit a single candle and pulled over a book he must have been reading. It was a story about a man named Faustus. She could barely concentrate on the words. Was this what it was like to be human, prey to every sickness, every wound? Her only consolation was that it was only uncomfortable. He wasn’t in any real danger.

He broke out in a sweat halfway through the night. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? She peeled off the comforter and found the bedclothes soaked. So she went down to the kitchen and brought up several pitchers of water and cloths.

When she returned he appeared to be awake. His eyes were slitted, but they were open. Still, he was nearly insensible. She pulled back the sheet and poured her water in the room’s washbasin. The thunderstorm appeared to have broken the unseasonable hot spell. She opened the windows to the night air, which now held the hint of autumn September should bring. Then she wetted a cloth and wiped him down.

“Better?” she asked when she was done.

He roused himself. “Thank you,” he murmured. “You are kind.”

She touched his forehead to push back his soaked hair and he flinched. “What’s wrong?” This man had undergone torture. What could make him flinch?

He tried to smile. “Headache.” He squinted against the dim candlelight. “I feel like I’ve been put on the rack. Hell, my hair hurts.”

“What does this mean?” she asked, alarmed.

“It means I have influenza.” His eyes closed. “It will pass soon.”

It didn’t. She added blankets when he was shaking, and left him naked to the air as he broke into a sweat. She tried to cool him by wiping him down with a damp cloth periodically, but always he was hot to the touch. Morning came and she closed the draperies against the sun. But the fever wouldn’t let him go. He had periods of insensibility. You couldn’t call it sleep. He refused all food though she made him drink water. He must replace the sweat he was losing. He roused himself to use the chamber pot, though infrequently.