“Whatever that is, it tastes great,” he rasped.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and he wasn’t exaggerating either. The throbbing in his head instantly went away, and the nausea had been replaced by a cool, tingling sensation that washed down his arm and through his head. It was like bathing in a peppermint patty.
“What was that? Some kind of organic remedy? I’ve never tasted anything like that.”
“I guess you could say that,” she said humorlessly.
Olivia let go, rose from the bed, and went to a white dresser on the opposite side of the room. He watched as she tossed a bloodstained washcloth in a basin and cleaned up her makeshift nurse’s station. She was wearing a black catsuit that looked like it was painted on and hugged every womanly curve. Ass-kicked or not, he had the ridiculous urge to jump her bones, but given his current state, that wasn’t likely.
“Not to sound like an ingrate, but why did you bring me here and not call an ambulance?” His brow furrowed as he looked around the bedroom. “How did you get me here by yourself anyway?”
She ignored his question. “What were you doing in the alley?” Olivia asked in a voice edged with frustration. She turned, folded her arms over her chest, and studied him but kept her distance. “Why on earth were you there?”
“Tom and I came to ask you—” He stopped mid-sentence as more memories came charging back and looked frantically around the room. “Where’s Tom?”
Olivia didn’t answer, but sadness flickered over her face. “I couldn’t help him,” she whispered. “It was too late. I’m sorry.”
“What?” he seethed as he pushed himself to a sitting position. “You just left him there?” His throat tightened as he choked on anger and sorrow, glaring with accusing eyes. “You left him in that alley to die?”
“He was already dead by the time I got there.” She squared her shoulders and leveled a cold gaze at him. “I’m sorry. I was, however, able to get there in time to help you.”
Doug swore loudly, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and slammed his head into the brass headboard. His partner. His friend and the closest thing he had to a family was gone—and it was entirely his fault. Tom hadn’t wanted to go back there last night, but Doug insisted, and now Tom was dead.
“He’s dead because of me,” he ground out.
“You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.” Her gentle voice soothed him, but it couldn’t stop the tidal wave of grief and guilt. “It’s not your fault, Doug.”
“Where is he?” Doug asked tightly.
“We have his remains. I thought you’d want to have a say in how he’s taken care of.” The bed dipped as Olivia sat next to him and rested her delicate hand on his forearm. “I know it’s difficult, but can you tell me what else you remember?”
“Nothing that won’t sound crazy,” he said as he rubbed his hands vigorously over his face. He dropped them in his lap, and Olivia linked her graceful fingers with his in a surprisingly intimate gesture. He brushed his thumb across the ivory skin of her hand and marveled at the smoothness; she was fire and ice all rolled into one. “We came back to talk to you. I heard something in the alley. Tom and I went to see what it was, and that’s when they jumped us. And then…” he trailed off, unable to finish his thought.
He looked away and around the room. What was he supposed to tell her when he didn’t trust his own memories? He fleetingly noticed that there were no windows in the room, and he didn’t know how he knew, but he could tell they were underground.
“What else?” she asked quietly as she rubbed her thumb over his palm. Smooth strokes seemed to ripple through his whole body, like a pebble in a pond; that simple touch affected his body from head to toe.
“I’m not really sure,” he said absently. “Tom fired at least two shots, but something or someone tackled him.”
He bit back the grief and focused on his anger. Anger he could manage, but not grief, not the stabbing pain of loss. When his mother died he promised himself that he wouldn’t get close to anyone else again, so he wouldn’t feel that heart-wrenching emptiness. Grief, loss, and a broken heart were harder to face than anger and vengeance. Those emotions could feed the fire in his belly—the one that wanted to kill whoever did this to Tom.
“I got tossed against a dumpster, and after that it’s all jumbled.” Doug instinctively touched the spot on his neck where the guy had bitten him but found nothing. “And really fucking weird.”
“Something wrong?”
Olivia watched him intently, and his eyes met hers as his fingers brushed the unmarred flesh on his neck. It should have been a hacked-up mess, bandaged or stitched, but it was smooth and free of injury. It was as though he had never been attacked at all.
He tightened his grip on her hand.
“Doug?”
“He bit me, Olivia,” he said just above a whisper. He looked her straight in the eye, worried that she would tell him he was crazy or hallucinating, but to his surprise she remained calm and resolute. “He had fangs, and the guy fucking bit me. I thought he was coked up or drugged out of his eyeballs, but I’ve seen a lot of addicts in my day, and none had that kind of strength. He picked me up like I weighed nothing. At first, I thought the fangs were fake and part of a costume.”
“What else?” Her voice, edged with tenderness, dipped low as her eyes searched his. “What else did you see?”
“You.” Doug adjusted his position in the bed and looked at her intently. “I saw you shoot him.”
“Yes.”
Her voice was barely audible and her expression unreadable. Was it regret? Fear? Apathy? He didn’t know, but since she didn’t roll her eyes or call him crazy, he held his breath and waited for her to continue.
“It’s okay.” A smile cracked her face, and she squeezed his hand. “You’re not crazy.”
“You said something about this being his last meal, and you shot him.”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t get the one that killed your partner. Which means we’ve still got a rogue out there, and it could cause quite a bit more damage if we don’t put it down. I’m just glad it didn’t turn your partner. When rogues create other rogues, the turn never goes well, and the situation gets exponentially worse.”
“Rogues? What do you mean create rogues?” Doug cocked his head, and that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach came rumbling back. He squeezed her hand tighter, and his jaw clenched. “How about we cut the crap, and you cut to the chase.”
“I thought you were a good detective?” She arched one amber eyebrow as the corner of her mouth lifted. “Detective.”
She slipped her hand out of his as she rose from the bed and paced back and forth across the room. He watched her carefully and tried not to think about the facts. They all added up to a big pile of crazy, like a sack full of cats kind of crazy.
“Let’s look at the evidence, shall we?” She ticked the evidence off one finger at a time. “A man with herculean strength, who was far smaller than you, tossed you around like a doll. He had a set of fangs, bit you, and drank your blood. When I shot him, he exploded and turned into a cloud of ash. I live in an apartment with no windows beneath my nightclub, which is, by the way, called The Coven.” She slowly moved toward the side of the bed as she spoke, but didn’t take her eyes off his. “You’re not dreaming now, Detective Paxton. So why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”