I followed his gaze to find a nondescript four-door sedan pulling up. The passenger window rolled down to reveal Tristan looking straight ahead, unmoving. Len ducked his head, catching my eye from the driver’s seat.
“Get in the back,” he said. “The further away we are from this place, the happier I’ll be.”
To say Len looked unhappy right now was putting it mildly. We got in the back of the car, and my heart stuttered with fresh worry as a grunt of pain escaped past Rans’ control. Len glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
“You sure about the hospital?” he asked. “You look like shit. Couldn’t you mind-fuck one of the doctors into fixing you up, or something?”
“No hospital,” Rans insisted. “Please just drive.”
I wrapped a hand in the sleeve of Rans’ coat, as if I could somehow keep anything else bad from happening to him if I physically held onto him. Len shut his mouth and hit the accelerator, heading toward Interstate 64 where we could doubtless have our pick of the cheap hotels clustered around the exits.
On some level, it surprised me that Len hadn’t freaked out yet about the fact that Tristan was still under Rans’ hypnotic control. I was willing to bet that Len had taken time to check his boyfriend’s vitals during the small delay while they were getting the car. He must have determined that Tristan was physically okay—otherwise, I suspected we’d be hurtling toward the nearest hospital whether Rans protested or not. Regardless, though, I’d expected Len to demand that Rans release control of Tristan’s mind before now.
Almost as if he’d heard my thoughts, Len shot me a glance in the mirror. “I’m taking a lot of this on faith, Z. But I expect some goddamned answers when we get where we’re going.”
“I know,” I said, squeezing Rans’ sleeve harder. “I’m sorry, Len. The last thing I wanted was for you or anyone else to get sucked into this mess.”
Len made a low noise of acknowledgement and turned his attention back to the road. Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to the front office of a questionable looking motel with a faded sign proclaiming the place to be the Arrowhead Motor Lodge. Though it was hard to be certain with several of the letters missing, apparently the Arrowhead boasted both ‘FREE TV’ and ‘IN-ROOM REFRIGERATORS.’
There was no mention of whether the televisions actually worked, or how long it might have been since the refrigerators in question were last cleaned. I scrubbed a hand over my face, remembering an instant too late that I was wearing makeup thick enough that it had practically required a trowel to apply.
Wonderful. Now I could probably add ‘raccoon eyes’ to the fashion statement I was making.
“I’m... arguably... still fully dressed,” I said. “Do you want me to book the room? Does anyone have cash?”
Somehow, this didn’t seem like the kind of place that would require a credit card, and these days I was becoming cautious about leaving an electronic trail when it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
“Zorah, you’ve got blood all down your arm,” Len pointed out.
“I’ll take care of the room,” Rans said, though there was weariness behind his voice.
He hauled himself out of the car with something less than his usual grace, and trudged into the office. I half-expected him to mind-whammy the guy at the front desk just to save time and effort, but I saw money change hands as I peered nervously through the glass double doors. A few minutes later, Rans emerged with a key and stalked toward a room about halfway along the length of the building.
Len followed him and parked the car. I was out of the back seat before the engine went silent, grabbing the key from Rans and stabbing it into the lock. The room was... about what you’d expect for a place like this, with questionable stains on the carpet and the smell of stale cigarette smoke hanging in the air. I hustled Rans inside, aware that Len was guiding Tristan in behind us.
“Sit on the bed, Tris,” Len ordered, pushing Tristan’s pliant body down and turning on the bedside lamp. “Let me see your stomach again.”
“His stomach is perfectly fine,” Rans said. “How many times do I have to repeat that?”
Len’s gray eyes snapped with anger. “His stomach had a goddamned bullet in it, and I’ll fucking well check it again for myself.”
Rans waved a weary hand in a ‘whatever’ gesture. Len disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a damp washrag, which he used to get the rest of the blood off Tristan’s torso.
“You should sit down, too,” I told Rans. He grunted acknowledgement, but only conceded to rest a hip against the heavy dresser holding the TV.
“This is just... impossible,” Len muttered, staring at the unblemished skin of Tristan’s belly. Tristan just blinked up at him. Len cupped a hand over his cheek. “Okay, Tris. You’re all right, yeah? You’re fine. Stay here for me, okay? Just hang out here for a few minutes while I check the others.”
“I’m okay, Len,” I said quickly. “But Rans isn’t. You were an EMT, you said?”
Len’s face went carefully blank. “Yeah. Used to be. But EMT does not equal doctor, Zorah. I still say we should take him to a hospital.”
“Hello. Vampire here,” Rans said impatiently. “Already dead. No pulse, no respiration beyond what I use to speak; not much the doctors can do for me at this point. Now come into the bathroom where it will be easier to clean up the blood afterward, and cut this fucking silver out of me. After seeing her mum get shot when she was a tiny lass, Zorah understandably doesn’t do well with gore.”
“I’ll look at the wounds,” Len retorted. “That’s all I’m committing to.”
“See, Len. Here’s the thing,” Rans growled. “I’d much prefer not to have to go in from the front and do it myself, but these bullets are coming out—one way
