“Both.”
Sheldon sat in the chair John had carried in earlier from the breakfast nook. “He’s been injured like this, but . . .”
“He didn’t lose consciousness?”
“No.”
“What’s different this time?”
Sheldon sighed and dragged a hand down over his face. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”
“No,” she agreed. “Richart should. But he can’t. So I need you to do it for him.”
“We think he may have been drugged.”
“Who’s we?”
“That one would take too long to explain.”
John’s frown deepened. “Vampires can be drugged?”
“He isn’t—” Sheldon broke off, muttered something under his breath. “Until tonight, no drugs affected him. At all. Period. If he drank five gallons of vodka and swallowed four bottles of sleeping pills, nothing would happen. He wouldn’t get drunk. He wouldn’t get loopy. He wouldn’t get sleepy. And he sure as hell wouldn’t die. He would feel exactly the same afterward as he did before. He would just need a little blood to replace what he lost while his body repaired the damage. But tonight . . .” He shook his head. “He was hit with several darts carrying an unknown substance. The others hit with the same drug—”
“There are others?” Jenna asked, not knowing why that surprised her.
“Yes. They were transfused hours ago, right after it happened, and should have awoken immediately, but . . .”
“What?” she asked.
“They haven’t stirred. This drug is something we’ve never encountered before. We don’t know if it was a tranquilizer, a poison, or what. We don’t know why it affects them when nothing else does. And . . . we don’t know how to help them.”
Jenna swallowed hard. “Are you saying you don’t know if Richart is going to wake up?”
“He will,” Sheldon said, voice filled with determination. “He has to.” He replaced the second empty blood bag with another full one.
“Are you really his nephew?” she asked. Richart had withheld a lot of information from her. Had he lied outright, too?
“No, though I may as well be. He treats me like family because I’m a descendent of his first Second. Damien was my great-great-I-don’t-know-how-many-greats grandfather and was like a brother to him.”
Holy crap. “How old is Richart?”
He grimaced. “Old enough and mellow enough I hope to forgive me for not knowing how to keep my damned mouth shut. I’ll let him tell you his age.”
No wonder Richart hadn’t cared about the age difference. He must have inwardly laughed his ass off when she had asked him if it bothered him that she was older than him.
Sheldon peeled back the bandage he had peered under earlier. The wound it covered shrank as they watched, dwindling to nothing as the bruise around it faded.
John moved closer. “That’s amazing.”
Nodding, Sheldon systematically removed all of the other bandages.
Had Jenna not seen the wounds with her own eyes, she would have never known Richart had been injured.
Sheldon retook his seat and caught Jenna’s eye. “I hope you’ll cut him some slack over keeping this part of his life from you.”
John snorted.
Jenna . . . didn’t know what to think. She felt numbed by the shock of it all. “He knew how much I value honesty and chose to keep this from me.”
“It isn’t an easy secret to share.” When she remained silent, he said, “He didn’t cheat on you. He doesn’t have a wife tucked away somewhere. He’s just . . .”
“What?”
“Different. In a way that, when revealed, usually sparks violent reactions in others.”
“So—what—he thought if he told me I’d come after him with a torch-bearing mob and try to stake him?”
“You wouldn’t be the first to do so.”
That was unsetting. “People who found out what he is have tried to kill him?”
“Richart and others of his kind, yes.” He nodded at his uncle. “Who do you think developed the drug he was hit with tonight?”
Jenna stared down at Richart, her hip pressed to his.
His chest rose and fell more often. Not as often as a human’s, but more than it had before.
“Look,” Sheldon said, drawing her gaze, “I know all this must have been a hell of a shock to you. I know you must be pissed, finding out that Richart isn’t quite who you thought he was. But he’s an honorable man, Jenna. If he weren’t, I wouldn’t have practically begged him to let me serve as his Second.”
“You used that term before,” John said. “What’s a Second? Is that like his Renfield?”
Jenna’s head began to pound. Dracula had always had a human assistant, a Renfield as fans of the fictional figure had come to call him.
But Richart wasn’t like Dracula. He wasn’t.
“Yeah. I guess you could say that.”
Crap.
“And now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to make a call. A lot of people are worried about Richart. I should let them know he’s safe and tell them his condition.” He rose. “I didn’t ask this earlier . . .” He hesitated, as if he really didn’t want to ask whatever it was.
Could things actually get worse?
“Did Richart speak before he passed out?” he finally queried.
“Yes. A little bit. Most of it was in French—”
“Did he mention someone named Ami?”
“Yes. He said he left her behind.”
Sheldon gripped the back of the chair with a fist. A muscle in his jaw jumped.
Jenna remembered the torment in Richart’s eyes, in his voice. They’ll kill her. They’ll tear her apart. “He tried to go back for her, but couldn’t.”
Sheldon lowered his head, raised a hand to rub his eyes.
“He said they’d kill her,” she continued softly.
Head still down, Sheldon nodded. “Yeah.” Turning away, he headed out of the room. “Excuse me.”
Jenna saw her own concern reflected in her son’s face. She glanced at the clock. “When are you supposed to meet with your study group?”
“I don’t think I should go. I think I should stay here.”
“No.” He’d worked his ass off all semester, balancing work and school. And the exam he’d take tomorrow counted for sixty percent of his final grade. The partial scholarship that covered half his tuition was contingent upon his maintaining a high GPA. “Go. Study. I’ll be fine.”