Werehunter (anthology)

Diana struggled to her feet, and waited for some arcane transformation.

Nothing.

She staggered to the corpse, face flat and expres­sionless—a sign she was suppressing pain and shock with utterly implacable iron will. Andre began to move forward as if to stop her, then backed off again at the look in her eyes.

She bent slightly, just enough to touch the shoulder of the body with her good hand—and released the Power.

Andre pulled her back to safety as the corpse exploded into flame, burning as if it had been soaked in oil. She watched the flames for one moment, wooden-faced; then abruptly collapsed.

Andre caught her easily before she could hurt herself further, lifting her in his arms as if she weighed no more than a kitten. “Mon pauvre petite,” he murmured, heading back towards the car at a swift but silent run, “It is the hospital for you, I think—”

“Saint—Francis—” she gasped, every step jarring her hand and bringing tears of pain to her eyes, “One of us—is on the night-staff—Dr. Crane—”

“Bien,” he replied. “Now be silent—”

“But—how are you—”

“In your car, foolish one. I have the keys you left in it.”

“But—”

“I can drive.”

“But—”

“And I have a license. Will you be silent?”

“How?” she said, disobeying him.

“Night school,” he replied succinctly, reaching the car, putting her briefly on her feet to unlock the passenger-side door, then lifting her into it. “You are not the only one who knows of urban camouflage.”

This time she did not reply—mostly because she had fainted from pain.

The emergency room was empty—for which Andre was very grateful. His invocation of Dr. Crane brought a thin, bearded young man around to the tiny examining cubicle in record time.

“Good godalmighty! What did you tangle with, a bus?” he exclaimed, when stripping the sweatsuit jacket and pants revealed that there was little of Diana that was not battered and black-and-blue.

Andre wrinkled his nose at the acrid antiseptic odors around them, and replied shortly. “No. Your ‘Ripper.’ ”

The startled gaze the doctor fastened on him revealed that Andre had scored. “Who—won?” he asked at last.

“We did. I do not think he will prey upon anyone again.”

The doctor’s eyes closed briefly; Andre read prayerful thankfulness on his face as he sighed with relief. Then he returned to business. “You must be Andre, right? Anything I can supply?”

Andre laughed at the hesitation in his voice. “Fear not, your blood supply is quite safe, and I am unharmed. It is Diana who needs you.”

The relief on the doctor’s face made Andre laugh again.

Dr. Crane ignored him. “Right,” he said, turning to the work he knew best.

She was lightheaded and groggy with the Demerol Dr. Crane had given her as Andre deftly stripped her and tucked her into her bed; she’d dozed all the way home in the car.

“I just wish I knew what that thing was—” she said inconsequentially, as he arranged her arm in its light Fiberglas cast a little more comfortably. “—I won’t be happy until I know—”