There wasn't much she could say to that, so she childishly stuck her tongue out instead. He smiled and continued washing her leg. The wounds, once cleaned, turned out to be fairly deep and a good inch long.
They were still bleeding profusely.
She frowned. "Maybe you should take me to the hospital."
"Maybe." He dug into his pockets and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped parcel.
"What's that?"
"An old witch's herbal cure-all for wounds," he said, carefully unwrapping the parcel. Inside was what looked to be little more than dried-up garden clippings.
"You're not putting that on my leg," she said.
He grabbed her leg before she could move it, his grip gentle yet unyielding. The heat of his touch burned past the coldness of her skin and seemed to sear her entire her body. "This stuff works better than any doctor's needlework, believe me."
"I'd rather believe pigs can fly."
Her voice was tart, and his gaze narrowed. "I will take you to the hospital if you prefer, but just remember exactly what you've seen tonight. If the manarei could assume the shape of a cop, what's to stop it from assuming the form of a doctor? Or even a nurse?"
She shivered and rubbed her arms. "How can something like that exist? Or a vampire? How is anything like that possible?"
"There are more strange things that walk the Earth than you or I could ever imagine," he said, warm voice edged with coldness. "What's your choice?"
Her continuing distrust was annoying him, she realized. And yet wasn't it natural, given the situation?
Surely he could see that. "If my leg gets infected or I bleed to death, I'm going to come back from the dead and make your life hell."
He raised his eyebrows slightly. "Well, I can think of worse things to happen. And at least you'd be a ghost that's easy on the eye."
Heat crept across her cheeks. "Thanks. I think."
He smiled. "Don't move while I'm putting this stuff on. I haven't got much, and I need some for my wounds, as well."
She nodded. He began packing the four claw wounds with the scratchy mix. Oddly enough, it didn't hurt. Her skin seemed to go numb the minute the mix touched it, and while the blood didn't stop, it at least eased to a trickle. He grabbed a roll of white gauze and quickly bandaged her leg.
"Give me your hand," he said, when he'd finished She did. He repeated the whole process on her hand then rose and carried the bloody water over to the sink.
"If all goes well, your wounds should basically be healed come morning," he said, rinsing the bowl and filling it again.
If they were fixed by the morning, it would be nothing short of a miracle. Or magic, she thought with a chill. "You want me to wash your wounds?"
He shook his head. "I'll do it. You get out of those wet clothes and into bed."
She raised an eyebrow and didn't move. He thrust a hand through his shaggy hair and looked more than a little annoyed. "Oh, for Christ's sake, stop acting so immature. If sex is what I wanted, I sure as hell wouldn't be here with you. I don't find you that attractive."
Though she should have been totally relieved, his words inexplicably hurt. She looked away. A man with his looks could have the pick of the crop. Why would he waste his time on someone like her?
And why was she even worrying about it?
She frowned. "I'm not changing with you standing there watching me." And yet the thought of doing just that inexplicably excited her. She crossed her arms and wondered if she was going out of her mind.
"Then I'll be in the bathroom." He picked up the antiseptic, bandages and the dried herbs, then hesitated.
"You will stay in this room, won't you?"
"I promise not to leave," she murmured.
"Don't promise me anything if you don't damn well mean it," he said and walked from the room.
She shook her head. Doyle Fitzgerald was certainly proving to be a man of extremes—he could kill without a second's thought, and yet he seemed to believe in the integrity of something as fragile as a promise. And she had a feeling she hadn't even begun to scratch the surface of the enigma he presented.
She rose and quickly stripped. She hung her sodden clothes over the back of the kitchen chairs to dry, then slipped on her sleeping shirt and climbed between the cotton sheets, pulling the blankets up around her nose. Not that she really thought Doyle would harm her in any way.
Warmth began to creep through her system. She yawned hugely and closed her eyes, listening to the howl of the wind outside. The wind of change, she thought. Goose bumps raced across her flesh. What changes did the wind whisper about tonight? The urge to get up and go outside to listen was so strong she flipped the blankets aside. But the chilled air hit her skin and knocked the fanciful thought from her mind. It wouldn't have done any good, anyway. Helen was the one who could read the nuances of the breeze, not her.
She yawned again and snuggled deeper into the blankets. But as she drifted into sleep, the wind whispered through her thoughts, speaking of changes that would affect her heart and her soul.
Speaking of power that was hers to claim—if she dared.
She was asleep by the time Doyle walked out of the bathroom. Given her prickly distrust, he had expected her to be nose deep in the blankets, fingers afire with electricity, waiting to attack should he decide to pounce.
To find her curled up in bed and softly snoring was definitely a surprise.
Maybe he'd misjudged her. Or maybe the night's events had simply worn her down to the point of sheer exhaustion. It was actually a miracle she was still alive. Very few people lived through the attack of one manarei , let alone two. She was either very lucky—or there was more to her abilities than what he'd seen so far.
He draped his wet socks and freshly washed shirt next to her clothing, then pulled on his coat to keep warm. Digging the phone out of his pocket, he hit the memory button and called Russell.
"Hey, wild man. How's it going?" Russ said, sounding more alive than any dead man had a right to.
Doyle grinned. "Sounds like you've had a breakthrough."
"A minor one. Seems Kirby Brown and Helen Smith were dumped on hospital doorsteps as babes on the exact same day. No trace of their parents was ever found, and both were later placed for adoption.
Interestingly enough, they both ended up in the very same center for troubled teenagers as did our first victim."
Kirby, at least, had never been adopted. He'd caught that much from her thoughts. She'd been shuffled around various foster homes, never staying at one for more than a few months. He wondered why.
"Maybe that center is our connection."
"Camille's certain it is."
"What is she up to at the moment?"
"She's headed off to the morgue to get a look at Smith's remains. She's still adamant that Helen should not have died."
Doyle picked up one end of the sofa, moving it around until it was positioned in such a way that he had a clear view of the door, the window, and Kirby. "Has she tried reading the scale again?"
"Not yet."
He sat down and propped his bare feet on the small coffee table. "That means Rachel Grant could still be the next victim. You any closer to tracking her down?"
"I've got three possible addresses. And before you ask, no, I haven't checked them out yet. I might be able to run like the wind, but I can still only do one thing at a time, and Camille wants me to check the government center first."
"Then give me the addresses. I'll check them out once Kirby gets some rest."
"That wise?" Russell's voice held a hint of doubt. "I mean, you might lead the killer directly to Rachel Grant. Maybe that's exactly what he wants."
"I doubt it. The killer seems to have had no trouble finding these women so far. I don't think he's sitting back waiting for us to lead him to Rachel Grant."