Goodfellow obeyed with alacrity. The wheels of the van squealed as we bumped over the curb's edge, and the smell of burning rubber followed us down the street. I'd already shoved my knife back in its sheath and used my hand to grab on to the driver's seat. Leaning my head back, I closed my eyes. "Well, that was fun."
"Anyone for a late supper?" came Promise's voice. "My treat. I came out nearly five hundred ahead in the game."
"Two hundred and fifty of that is mine," Goodfellow reminded over the struggling engine. "And I'm not treating anyone."
"Of course not. Your next perm should cost at least that much. I wouldn't dream of depriving your fashion budget."
The squabbling went on and I let it wash over me like a fractious lullaby. Job number two and it hadn't turned out any better than the first. Mission accomplished, if you call fucked-up and blown out of the water an accomplishment. Bad luck or bad karma, things just weren't working out for us lately. A touch on my shoulder had me opening my eyes. "You're dripping," Niko said quietly.
In the dark it was difficult to see the color of the puddle that was forming on the floor beside me. But there wasn't much chance of it being purple, now, was there? "The true tragedy is I'm ruining Loman's shirt," I said with a halfhearted grin. My arm was propped carefully on my knees and the blood was briskly wending its way to the tips of my fingers, then trickling to the floor. It didn't make a difference. I could be gushing a river; a hospital wasn't a choice for me. Or Goodfellow or Promise for that matter. Of the four of us, only Niko had that option. If my arm were broken, maybe I could've risked it. But with a very obvious dog bite, there would be rabies shots and blood tests. I had no idea what a blood test would say about me, but I doubted it would be anything normal.
We had had a local healer, the one who had once knit together the Niko-inflicted hole in my stomach and then later had stopped my heart to drive out Darkling, but Rafferty had left several months ago. I couldn't much blame him. He was on a hunt for something, anything, that would cure his twin of a particularly nasty and wolfish illness. Luck to the poor bastard, but with him gone, this healing was going to be a do-it-yourself job. Joy.
Chapter 7
"Tylenol or something stronger?"
The voice was muffled by the pillow over my head. That same pillow was soaked with sweat and the victim of one or two vicious bite marks. Hey, I had a bite of my own and I didn't mind sharing the wealth. Blindly, I raised my good hand into the air and held up four fingers.
"Something stronger it is." In less than a minute Niko was pulling the pillow away and depositing two bright pink pills into my hand. Illegal prescription drugs we had, numbing lidocaine for the stitches… nope. We'd run out a few months back and with Rafferty missing in action, we hadn't been able to replace the anesthetic solution. It wasn't exactly in high demand on the street. Sitting up, I chased the pills down with the bottle of water Niko brought me. If my hand shook a little, he didn't comment. I imagined that after cleaning the multiple slashes, checking the bone to see if it was broken, then putting in over fifty stitches, he'd had better days himself. Inflicting true pain—and a helluva lot of it, thanks for asking—on his only family was not in his nature. After another swallow I said tiredly, "I hope Caleb's boss appreciates the loss of life and limb." Their lives, my limb.
"I hope he does as well, considering someone in his organization sold him out." He placed the pillow at the top of the bed with precise, economical motions that revealed exactly how pissed he was. "Sold us out."
"Not very professional for crooks… are they? Naughty, naughty." The bottle slid from my fingers to bounce off the carpet. The pills hadn't gotten to me that fast. It was more a combination of weariness and the last jangle of adrenaline running its course.
"Naughty indeed." Niko's face was expressionless, but the thread of steel in his voice was anything but. He pulled the blankets back, then bent down to pick up the bottle before my fumbling fingers reached it. "Go to bed, Cal. You've lost blood; your arm was nearly broken. You've perhaps even ingested a hair ball or two. You need the rest."
When it came to that particular command, you didn't have to tell me twice. Usually not even once. Guarding my arm, I lay down. Yanking the blanket up, I said, "Humor, Cyrano, doesn't cure all ills. Don't believe the fortune cookies."
The light was switched off and he added blandly, "By the way, Promise apologizes for not babysitting you better."
Oh, I liked that. If I could stick to a wall like human flypaper, maybe I would've come out better off myself. "Asshole," I muttered, rolling over onto my side.
"Good night to you too," Niko said dryly, and then there was the click of the door being pulled shut. When the drowsiness came I welcomed it. My arm had been gnawed on by a garbage disposal on legs, and not only that, Goodfellow was charging me for his ruined shirt. Right now sleep was my last refuge and I plunged into it wholeheartedly. It didn't last. Damned if the good things ever do. It was all right.
What woke me up was a good thing too. As good as they came.
It was a soft touch on the back of my hand that woke me. Even mired in a haze of heavy sleep, painkillers, and morning grumpiness, I instantly recognized her presence. Sliding my hand slowly but not as casually as I would've liked from beneath hers, I opened my eyes. "George, you shouldn't be here."
She overlooked my rudeness. George spent a lot of time doing that. With a muted smile, she said, "I brought you ice cream. Cherry chocolate, your favorite."
I was pretty sure ice cream was for tonsillectomies, not wolf bites, but I accepted the small pint container and spoon nonetheless. It probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, but, hell, it was cherry chocolate. Feeling the iciness of the cardboard beneath my hand, I tried not to notice George was a vision in cherry chocolate herself. The flowing dress that draped her slim form was a swirling pattern of deep browns and warm reds, the copper of her bracelets trie same color as her hair. The same damn color exactly. Sitting up, I pried the lid off the ice cream, winced at the movement, and wedged the container between my sheet-covered legs to scoop out a small spoonful. "So, why the ice cream? The mystical friggin' universe tell you I was chomped last night?"
"Actually it was Promise, and her cellphone, but who's to say her call wasn't the work of the infinite universe? It does work in mysterious ways." Her legs were tucked beneath her and I noticed that her brown feet were bare. The toenails were painted the same deep red as the dress. Funny how such a minor detail could make me glad that I had the next best thing to an ice pack cradled near my crotch.
"Yeah, mysterious," I snorted. "A gossipy vampire and cellular technology. The universe at work, that's not, George. Sorry."
"You'd be surprised." She tilted her head and said with mock innocence, "I wonder what Promise would think of being called gossipy."
"Threats, Georgie Porgie? Is that any way for a beloved prophet to behave?" My arm throbbed, the ice cream was cold and silky against my tongue, and the scent of George was in the air, nutmeg and warm sugar. It was a lot of sensations to take in all at once. I concentrated on just the one… the ice cream. It was comfortable, painless, and safe. And safe was good for me, good for us both, although I was feeling more and more like a wounded gazelle being cut out of the herd. Worse yet, I didn't want to run.
"Beloved of whom?" she asked with a wistful curve to her wide mouth. A spiral ringlet hung to her collarbone, fallen from the casual upswept mass of her hair. Just one strand, one curl perfect in its wildness and exuberance.