Mona Lisa Eclipsing

TEN

GOD, WHAT AM I doing, leaving with someone even more dangerous than Roberto, the asshole drug lord?

My eyes couldn’t help glancing down at Dante’s hands. At where those long and lethal claws had sprouted out from his fingertips. He’d used them like knives. Fought with them calmly, as if he’d done it many times before. It was hard to tell how old he was under all that hair, beard and mustache covering his face.

“How old are you?” I finally asked.

“Twenty.”

Twenty to my twenty-one. Jesus Christ, I’d thought him ten years older. He was one year younger than I was but only in physical years. His eyes were those of a much older soul. That of a hardened soldier’s.

I eyed him warily as he slumped back against the seat. “You’re injured,” I said, feeling silly stating the obvious, but in the midst of all the fighting he’d acted with such competence and menacing purpose I had completely forgotten the fact that he had been shot twice.

“Yeah, the bullets are still in me,” he said, eyes closed. “You have to get them out.”

“I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“No, too long. You’ll have to take them out.”

“With what? My fingernails? Unfortunately, they don’t grow out long like yours do.”

He grinned, actually grinned. A slight, brief upward tug at the corners of his mouth. “You can dig them out with the knife.” The knife he had held to Roberto’s neck.

I didn’t know whether to believe him or consider it a joke. It didn’t sound like the latter despite that brief grin. I drove blindly, wondering if my companion was a madman.

I made random choices whenever the road forked or intersected, but some deity must have been watching over us because after several minutes of blind driving, we somehow found our way back onto the highway. Ten miles later, smelling the ocean, I exited onto a smaller road, following the briny scent.

“What are you doing?” Dante asked, opening his eyes.

“Getting rid of the guns.” Nodding to the blue ocean looming up before us, I parked and popped open the trunk.

Dante silently watched as I grabbed the guns and tossed them one after the other into the crystal blue seawater.

“Keep one for yourself,” Dante instructed.

“I’m not too familiar with guns,” I said, watching as he pulled out his own automatic pistol and competently popped the clip to check the ammo.

“My father trained you. You can shoot a gun.”

“I can? Well, that’s certainly news to me.” Gingerly, I took the gun he handed to me.

“How much memory did you lose?” he asked.

“Six months. The last thing I remember is being a nurse working in Manhattan.”

“You were a nurse? I didn’t know that.” The gun was shoved back into his waistband.

I stopped fiddling with my gun and glanced at him. “So you weren’t in Manhattan? You didn’t help me move out of my apartment.”

“No, I met you in Texas near the border of your Louisiana territory.”

“Louisiana? What, I own property there?”

“Yes. Quite substantial property.”

“I do?” This was getting more and more bizarre. “Where did I get the money to buy property? First you tell me I know how to shoot a gun. Now you tell me that I’m apparently quite wealthy, too. Are you sure you haven’t mistaken me for someone else?”

Or maybe the answer was even simpler than that. Maybe he was crazy. Out of his mind.

“You’re a Queen. A Monère Queen.”

I was getting an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Monère?” I tested the word carefully. “Is that one of those small countries somewhere in Europe?”

“Nope.” He looked at me as if I were the unhinged one. “It’s not a country. It’s a race of people descended from the moon.”

With blurring speed, I snatched his automatic weapon away from him. Pointing the gun at him, the gun he had assured me I knew how to handle, I backed carefully away. “I’m sorry but I don’t know you, and the only memory I have of you is chained up in this wild, crazed state.”

“You think I’m crazy.”

“In a word—yes.”

“You saved me from that. From going crazy.”

“How?”

“By sharing the moon’s light with me.”

His words halted my retreat as I recalled that other memory fragment I’d had. Of moonlight filling me up with indescribable energy, and, more recently, of my skin glowing, illuminated, along with Roberto’s.

“How much do you remember of me like that, in that wild state?” he asked.

“Just that you were shackled . . .”

“. . . with fleece-lined cuffs around the wrists and ankles.”

“Yes,” I whispered. Licking my lips, I asked, “How did I share the moon’s light with you?”

“By having sex with me,” he said plainly, pale eyes locked with mine. “Your skin filled with light and you shared it with me.”

The gun dropped limply to my side.

A part of my brain still screamed denial of everything he told me. Another part of my brain told me he was telling the god-awful, appalling truth. “So we’re . . .”

“Lovers.”

It was hard looking at a complete stranger who’d just announced that he had been intimate with me.

“My skin didn’t glow before when I had sex,” I said, grabbing onto something concrete, something that I knew for certain.

“Did you feel pleasure?”

“No.”

“Then your partners were human.”

“Yes,” I said hesitantly. “I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the idea that I’m not human.”

“But you are. You’re a Mixed Blood—one-fourth human, three-quarters Monère. The first Mixed Blood Queen in Monère history.”

There he went throwing that queen stuff at me, but I stayed on track, sticking to one thing at a time. “My skin glowed just from kissing Roberto, even though we didn’t have sex.”

Dante’s hands, I couldn’t help noticing, curled into fists. “We glow only with pleasure, and only at the touch of another with Monère blood.”

“I didn’t know Roberto was a bad guy when he kissed me,” I offered lamely, driven, for some reason, to explain that to him.

“Do you believe me now?”

“Yeah I guess . . . though I still have a lot of questions.”

“They’ll have to wait. Can you get the knife from the car? It’s on the front dash.”

“Why?”

“To dig the bullets out of my back.”

“I thought you were kidding.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I’m a nurse, not a doctor,” I felt compelled to point out.

“I know. Don’t shoot me,” he warned, going to the passenger seat. I watched carefully as he retrieved the knife. Gesturing me over, he handed the blade to me, hilt first, then, unbuttoning and removing his shirt, he presented me with his bare back, hands braced against the side of the car.

I cast an appalled glance at him, which he didn’t see. “I don’t have anything to sterilize the knife with.”

“I’m a Full Blood Monère. We don’t get infections. If you don’t cut it out now, the wound will heal over and make it even harder to get the bullets out.”

It had been less than an hour since he had been shot, but the wounds were already starting to knit together at the edges.

“Mona Lisa, you have to do it now. We don’t have much time.”

“Why? You think Roberto will still come after us after the way you threatened him?”

“He’s a wealthy and powerful, arrogant drug lord who grew up faster and stronger than anybody else. This is probably the first time he’s ever been humbled, so, yes, I think he’ll come after us. You should have let me kill him.”

“You know, you’re pretty bloodthirsty for a twenty-year-old.” More than a little ticked off at him and the situation, I stomped around the car and rummaged inside. Nothing but a box of tissues, but at least we had that.

“Okay, brace yourself.” I felt him tense as I laid my hand over the first bullet hole and let my senses sink down into the wound. When I had ascertained the depth of injury, I moved to the second hole. “The bullets are in pretty deep,” I muttered. “Here goes.”

I prodded gently with the sharp tip of the knife and cursed when the wider part of the blade started cutting into his flesh as I inserted it deeper. “Goddammit, the knife is too wide.”

“Don’t stop,” he said through clenched jaw as the knife clinked up against the bullet.

“It’s hurting you and you’re bleeding. A lot!” Enough to completely soak the wad of tissues I had pressed to his back.

“It doesn’t hurt as much as the silver stuck inside me—burns and acts like poison. Weakens me. Just get the damn things out. I’ll heal up.”

I was unable to get any leverage and finally had to remove the knife and make a new incision along the outer edge of the wound, cutting deep down into muscle before I came to the end of the bullet. Deep enough that I started worrying about puncturing his lung. Deliberately cutting into him was one of the most horrible things I’d ever had to do. Then came the awkward maneuvering with the blade.

He endured the torture in silence while my hands shook. Tears ran in a silent stream down my face. Stupid tears, I thought, wiping my face against my shoulder. He was the one hurting, not me. “It’s out,” I said hoarsely after what seemed like eternity.

“Get the other one out.”

“You’re fucking kidding me!”

He turned impatiently. Stilled at the sight of my tears. “Don’t cry,” he said, looking unexpectedly bewildered. “It feels much better with the silver out.”

“Oh yeah? You didn’t see the mess I made of your back,” I said, damning the tears. A sob jerked out of me and then I was crying, really crying, no longer silent.

How oddly natural it felt for him to draw me against him, press my tear-drenched face against his bare chest.

“This is so screwed up,” I muttered against his hard shoulder. “You should be the one crying, after what I just put you through.”

“I know this must be confusing . . . overwhelming to you. You’ve been so brave.” He stroked my hair with a tenderness that made the tears flow even more. “I just need that last bullet out, and then I can start healing and be strong for you.”

“God! You don’t ask for much, do you?” I snorted and pushed away from him. Scrubbing my face dry, I took a deep, cleansing breath. “Please tell me there’s something else we can try to get that last bullet out of you.”

He hesitated.

“There is, isn’t there?” I said, pouncing. “Tell me.”

“You have an affinity for metal,” he finally said.

“I do?”

“You can draw metal objects to you with these.” Taking my hands, he stroked the moles embedded in my palms.

I blinked down at my hands. “How?”

His lips twisted wryly. “I don’t know. That’s why I hesitated to bring it up, but I’ve seen you do it. Watched you pull two swords out of their sheaths from a distance of over ten meters away and fly them into your hands.”

It seemed fantastical, what he was saying, almost unbelievable were it not for the fact that I had seen other fantastical, unbelievable things happen tonight.

Okay. I took another deep, steadying breath. He could make claws sprout out of his hands, and I could apparently draw metal things into mine. “All right,” I said, deciding there was nothing to lose by the effort. “Let’s give it a try.”

With odd reluctance, he turned around, presenting his back once more. As I laid my palm over the second bullet wound, the muscles in his back and arms bunched and tightened. “Think of pulling it out,” he said in a voice that sounded terse and strained. “Call it into your hand.”

“Relax,” I muttered. “You seem even more nervous about this than I am.” Focusing on that part of myself, I felt my palm begin to thrum, felt it stroke his surface skin and start to reach deeper into his injured flesh. I stopped it there, holding the power, keeping it leashed close to its origin.

Not in, I told myself. Don’t go in to it. Make it come out to you.

I concentrated and fought against the pulling need of the power to seep down and in, mapping out the injury as it had before. Visualizing the hole made through his flesh, I fixed the image of the silver bullet in my mind, and the mole in my palm heated, grew physically hot against his skin.

Without warning, Dante yanked away and swung around to face me, his pale eyes glittering, his face damp with perspiration, chest moving in deep breaths.

“Did I hurt you?” I asked, worried.

“No,” he said, but he looked totally spooked. “I felt your palm grow hot.” Snatching up the knife, he slapped it into my hand. “Here, use this. It’ll be faster.”

“And much more painful. Not to mention gory and bloody. I think I almost had it. Let me try again—”

“No!”

The loudness of his voice startled me.

“No,” he repeated in a more restrained tone. “Please, just do it this way. Cut it out. Do it fast.”

Too late. The sound of a car turning off the highway. “There’s a car coming.”

“Get in the car,” Dante said, grabbing his shirt. “Drive!”

The car peeled out, spewing dirt and gravel behind us. “Is it Roberto?”

“You tell me. My senses are crap with that silver slug still inside me.”

I quieted my pounding heart and listened. Words spoken in Spanish. A voice that sounded like Roberto’s. A heartbeat that was slower than the others, like mine.

“Yeah, it’s Roberto with some of his men.”

“Shit, they’re closing in on us,” Dante said, glancing behind. “Speed up.”

“I’m already going past the speed limit.”

“Doesn’t matter. Floor it.”

Twisting awkwardly, he positioned the knife behind him, blindly probing his back with the other hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked as I zipped around slower-moving cars. Settling onto an open stretch of road, I pushed the gas down until it hit the floor. Until we were going over a hundred miles per hour.

“I’m getting the bullet out of my back. Keep it nice and steady for a minute.”

A minute, at this speed, was a very long time. With a quick, horrified glance, I saw him stab the knife deep into his back. When he pulled the blade out, fresh blood gushed out.

“What did you just do?”

He scooted over and presented his bleeding back to me. “Stick your finger in and fish out the bullet.”

“You’re crazy, absolutely crazy! You could have killed yourself!”

“I can’t die, Mona Lisa. I’m Monère. We only die in certain ways: if you cut off the head or rip out the heart, poison us with silver, or expose us to the sun for several hours. But you and Roberto are part human—you’re probably easier to kill.”

“Good to know,” I said tightly. “I still say you’re crazy!”

“Dig the bullet out before they catch up to us.”

“It’s unbelievable what you’re asking me to do! Completely unbelievable.”

“Do it—please. Trust me.”

With a curse, I eased up on the gas pedal.

“You’re slowing down.”

“Yes, I know,” I snapped back. “If you want me to grope around in your back for a bullet, I’m not doing it while going a hundred and ten miles per hour. I’m not Wonder Woman, you know.”

Amazingly, he turned his head and grinned. “You’re better than her,” he said, humor lightening the grim lines for a moment. “But don’t tell Linda Carter I said that.”

I laughed and shook my head. “I can’t believe you just made me laugh. We’re being chased by bad guys with guns, and you make a joke.”

“Do it quickly,” Dante urged, growing sober. “If I didn’t cut deep enough, just push through with your fingers—you’re strong enough. Doesn’t matter if you tear up my flesh. Just get the damn slug out of me.”

Without thinking about it, because if I did, I would scream, I stuck two fingers into his wound and pushed my way slowly down. Blood squished out, sliming my fingers and hand.

Shots sounded, thudding into the rear window. Bulletproof glass apparently. My hand on the wheel jerked in surprise, causing the car to swerve. I had to put both hands back on the steering wheel to regain control as I sped up.

Lowering his window, Dante leaned out and fired back. After several seconds of return fire, our car suddenly dropped a few inches on the passenger’s side, pulling the steering violently to the right. I knew in an instant our back rear tire had been shot out. Our smooth ride turned bumpy as we rode the metal rim of the hub.

“Good news and bad news,” Dante said, sticking his head back inside. “I shot out his front tires, but he blew out our rear wheel.”

“I can tell,” I grunted, fighting to keep our car straight without overcompensating so much that I accidentally ripped out the steering wheel. Despite the lost tire, the car was still drivable, though at a much slower speed. But with two of their tires out, our pursuers weren’t going any faster.

“Pull over,” Dante said.

“What?”

“Pull over and get out!”

I started to ask why but then glimpsed the reason in the rearview mirror. Roberto and his men had abandoned their car and were coming after us on foot. And Roberto was running with superfast speed, faster than our car was going, apparently no longer hindered by the silver bullet I’d jammed in his back, though Dante did his best to remedy that by shooting at him. But he missed. Didn’t even come close to hitting Roberto, moving as fast as he was, and with Dante slowed down to sluggish human reflexes and speed.

I jerked the car to a halt and sprang out, gun in hand. Roberto’s men were firing at Dante—not me, just Dante. Some of the hail of bullets struck our car, others Dante managed to deflect with his wrist bracelets—a pretty miraculous feat considering how much the silver slowed him. He slid back into the protection of the car, but Roberto had come close enough that he now had a clear shot at him. They drew on each other, but it was an unfair match. Roberto was much faster.

I fired before I gave myself a chance to think and watched blood blossom on Roberto’s right shoulder. He cried out, dropping his weapon.

I turned and emptied my gun, laying out a round of fire that hit the asphalt in front of the four bodyguards, making them scramble back to their car for cover. Before Dante had time to lift his gun and fire at Roberto, I yanked him out through the driver’s seat door and took off, carrying him. A quick sprint and we reached the cover of trees. I heard Roberto yelling orders at his men. No gunshots followed us, but I didn’t bother slowing down, just kept moving deeper into the forest.

“You missed his heart,” Dante said after ten minutes of running through the woods.

“Surprisingly, I hit exactly what I was aiming for—his shoulder. I guess you’re right: I do know how to shoot a gun.”

He closed his eyes, shook his head. “You can put me down now. Are they following us?”

I listened and heard only the quiet life-sounds of the jungle, no sound of pursuit. “Not at the moment.”

“Roberto will want to get that silver bullet out of his shoulder before coming after us again. He’ll go to a hospital,” I said, setting Dante on his feet, dropping down to the ground to rest for a few moments. “Several hours at least.”

He eased down to sit beside me. “You’re amazing, you know.”

“No, you are. You must be hurting terribly—you were shot twice, stabbed once by me, a second time by yourself!—and yet you can still smile.” More softly, “You should do that more, you know. Smile.”

“As you wish, milady.” He took my hand, kissed it unexpectedly. “One more thing I must ask of you.”

“Your back,” I groaned. “God, you have a one-track mind.”

“Hard not to. The silver burns my flesh unpleasantly.”

I sighed. “Do you have the knife?”

“Sorry, left it on the floor. I was fortunate to hang on to the gun, not that it will do us much good,” he said as he popped the magazine out and counted. “Only three bullets left. One of them was aimed quite nicely at Roberto’s heart before you jerked me out of the car.”

“Would it have killed him?”

“Maybe. He’s a three-quarters Mixed Blood like you.”

“You’re too bloodthirsty, Dante.”

“And, surprisingly . . . you are not.”

“Why is that surprising? Was I different before?”

He gave me another one of those small, fleeting smiles and turned, presenting his bloody back to me.

“All right, all right! You want the damn bullet out, I’ll get it out.” I pushed and squeezed my fingers down to the end of the cut he had made. “You were off by an inch,” I muttered, feeling viciously angry, at him, at myself.

“Hard to aim when you can’t see a bloody thing,” he returned through a tightly clenched jaw.

“Goddammit, I hate this. I really, really hate this.” No help for it. As he said, I was strong enough to tear through his flesh with my fingers, and almost puked as I did so.

I finally came to the bullet, curved my fingers around it, and pushed the troublesome thing back out the hole. Then I proceeded to throw up.