couldn’t believe it. I started toward her, stumbling a little. Walking, for some odd reason, proved to be troublesome. Halfway to Frau I changed my course and aimed for Ghastek’s vamp instead.
The vamp lay on its stomach, its face toward me. I put the head down in front of it and tapped it with my finger.
“I guess that settles it. How old is it, Ghastek? Three hundred years? More?”
The vamp struggled to say something.
I shook my head. “Don’t bother. I’ll find out. Thanks for your help. You can tell Nataraja he can take his security and shove it.”
The vamp moved its hand, clamping onto my foot. Gently I took the hand off my bloodstained shoe, stepped over it, and headed to the horse.
Derek stared at the bloodsucker with malice.
“Let him be. We need to get out, before the People’s cleanup crew gets here.”
I patted Frau and jammed the head into the saddlebag. The mare snorted, offended by the awful smell. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
I took down a large army-issue waterproof bag. “Gasoline,” I told Derek as if he couldn’t smell it.
I splashed it over the spill, threw the bag aside, and reached for my matches. My fingers shook. I struck one match, another, on the fourth the gasoline flared. Ghastek’s vamp screeched as his evidence and my blood went up in smoke.
I walked Frau into the night and my loyal wolf followed me, limping.
WHEN WE REACHED THE DEAD-RAT WIELDING kids, Derek collapsed. He fell forward, snout first into the asphalt. The kids stared, startled, but didn’t bolt.
A soft shudder went through the werewolf, releasing a mist, and leaving the naked human body curled on the ground. The kids looked on.
The gash on his thigh was deeper than I had thought. The creature’s claws had severed the thick muscle shield of the quadriceps and cut deep into the calf. I peered into the wound and saw the shredded femoral artery. The injured flesh quivered. Torn blood vessels crawled toward each other amidst the muscle starting to knit together. The Lyc-V had shut his consciousness down to save energy for repairs.
Pain lanced my waist, tearing up into my chest. Gritting my teeth, I turned Derek on his stomach, worked one arm under his hips and threaded the other across his chest under his arms. He was heavier than he looked, weighing in at one fifty, maybe one fifty-five. No matter.
“Hey, lady!” said the kid with feathers in his hair.
The children stood huddled together. We must have made quite a spectacle, Derek, nude and no longer furry, and I, drenched in blood, with my sword still smoking in its sheath.
“You need some help?” the kid said.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice hoarse.
He came forward, picked up Derek’s feet, and looked back at his pack. “Mike.”
Mike spat to the side and tried to look mean.
The kid with the feathers glared at him. “Mike!”
Mike spat again, for show—there wasn’t much spit left—came over, and awkwardly clutched Derek’s shoulders.
“Hold him under the armpits,” I said.
He glanced at me, fear dancing in his eyes, set his jaw, and shifted his grip.
“On three,” I muttered. “Three.”
We heaved. The world swayed in the whirlwind of pain and then Derek was draped across Frau’s back. He would be fine. Lyc-V would repair him and tomorrow morning he’d be like new. I, on the other hand . . . A wet bloodstain was spreading from under my jacket at an alarming rate. If the blood started dripping, I’d be in a world of trouble. At least I still hurt.
“Thanks,” I muttered to the children.
“My name’s Red,” the kid with feathers said.
I stuck my hand into the pocket of my pants. My fingers found a card. I handed it to him, careful to wipe the bloody smudge marring it on my sleeve. Not my blood. Derek’s.
“If you ever need help,” I said.
He took it solemnly and nodded.
THE STAIRS WERE DARK AS HELL.
I climbed, the steady pressure of Derek’s body distributed over my back. If I bent over just right, the pain was bearable, and so I dragged Derek and the bag up the stairs one step at a time, trying to keep my angle steady and being careful where I put my feet. I wasn’t certain if a werewolf could survive a broken neck. I knew I couldn’t.
I paused on the landing to catch a breath and glanced up at my apartment’s door.
A man sat on the stairs, his head leaning against the wall.
Gently I lowered Derek to the floor and went for my sword. The man’s chest rose and fell in a smooth, even rhythm. I padded up the stairs, breathing through clenched teeth, until I could see his face. Crest. He didn’t wake.
I tapped his head with the flat of Slayer’s blade. When I awoke, I did so instantly and silently, my hand looking for my sword before my eyelids snapped open. Crest awoke like a man unused to danger, with luxurious slowness. He blinked and stifled a yawn, squinting at me.
I gave him a moment to recognize me.
“Kate?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to pick you up for dinner. We had a date.”
Shit. I had completely forgotten about the date.
“I got held up until ten,” he went on. “I called you but you didn’t answer. It was too late by then, but I figured I’d drop by with a peace offering.” He held up a paper bag full of white cartons, decorated with a stylized Chinese symbol in red ink. “You weren’t here. I thought I’d wait a couple of minutes, sat down here on the stairs . . .” His brain finally registered my bloodied clothes, the sword, and the smudges of dried blood marring my face. His eyes widened.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll live.”
I unlocked the door to the apartment, opening the ward.
“There is a naked man on the landing,” I said hoping to forestall any upcoming questions. “I’m going to carry him into this apartment.”
Crest threw the Chinese food into the apartment hallway and went down the stairs to get Derek without saying a word. Together we brought him inside and put him on the hallway carpet. I shut the door in the world’s face and let out a breath.
I kicked off my shoes and turned the lantern switch. My shoes were bloody again. Oh well, nothing a lot of bleach wouldn’t fix.
The tiny flames of feylanterns surged up, bathing the apartment in a comforting soft glow. Crest knelt to examine Derek’s leg.
“He needs emergency care,” he said. His voice had the brisk, professional, slightly distant tone good physicians adopted under stress.
“No, he doesn’t.”
He glanced at me. “Kate, the cut’s deep and dirty and the artery’s probably severed. He’ll bleed to death.”
Dizziness came, and I swayed a little. I wanted to sit down, but couches and chairs were harder to bleach than shoes. “He isn’t bleeding.”
Crest opened his mouth and looked back at the wound. “Shit.”
