Siren Song

13

I didn’t get a good look at the boat as we went on board, what with trying to keep the scent of my own blood from making me leap on Creede and suck on that amazing-smelling neck. I’d taken a previous fishing trip with Bubba and knew that Mona’s Rival was a really nice boat. Bubba was telling King Dahlmar all about her.

“She’s a 1986 Chris-Craft Catalina, but I put in a custom hardtop and upgraded the motor and dinghy. My wife decorated the mess and the stateroom.”

I was lying on my stomach, facedown on the pillows in said stateroom, trying not to scream or break something as Creede used a sterilized knife and tweezers to pull fragments of baby food jar and shake-can shrapnel from my calf. That’s what the pain had been. A shotgun blast had shattered the jars and exploded the cans, which had sliced right through my jeans and embedded in my leg.

He had to reopen the wounds over and over again to dig out the bits because my skin kept healing over. I was watching television and trying to pretend that he didn’t have his hands all over my bare legs. Because it felt really, incredibly good. Until it hurt, that is. But then it went back to feeling good.

No, he probably didn’t have to keep putting his hand on the back of my thigh for balance, but . . . some of the glass had gone that deep, and it didn’t want to come out with the tools in the rinky- dink first-aid kit on the boat.

“Okay, hold still. This is the curved one I’ve been avoiding.” I braced myself and stared at the cartoons on the screen—a DVD of SpongeBob SquarePants. Bubba’s a huge fan, for some reason. The sound was off, but at least there was motion and bright colors to distract me. Still, when Creede dug out that last shard I screamed and it was all I could do not to break something.

There was an abrupt moment of silence topside, where Bubba, Ivan, and Dahlmar were enjoying a perfect night under glittering stars as the boat skimmed toward the Isle of Serenity.

Creede said, “Look, lighten up a little. You’re alive. We lost them for the moment. We’re on a boat over moving water, so they can’t track you. And on the ocean you have the advantage.”

“They’re cops, Creede, and they’re hunting me. ’Splain to me how this can possibly end well.” I didn’t mention that I wasn’t sure what advantages the ocean gave me.

He didn’t like the sound of that at all. I didn’t blame him. “You’re sure they’re cops?”

I nodded. “They were at my court hearing. They were supposed to be witnesses for the prosecution. They were seriously pissed when I got off, swore they’d get me.”

He swore a little under his breath and I felt a tug as he pulled another shard from my skin. A soft clink as he dropped it onto the growing pile and he was back to digging. “Missed one. I’ll try for the big one again now.”

I grunted a little from the pain as he cut open my skin once more. “I’m guessing it was bad enough when they thought I’d be locked up in a ritzy mental health spa like Birchwoods instead of being put down or locked up by the state.”

He finished the thought for me. “But you didn’t even get that.”

“Right. So the best they can probably hope for is to get me deported, or ‘catch me in the act’ and be forced to kill me in ‘self defense.’ ”

“Good cops don’t pull vigilante bullshit.” He sounded disgusted. His next cut was deep enough that I let out a hiss. I couldn’t blame him. Cops are supposed to be the good guys, protecting the innocent and upholding the law. Vigilantes make their own law and they’re considerably less fussy in the application.

“So they’re not such good cops.” Of course they probably thought they were. To serve and protect. Protect the humans. I was getting a little bit bitter about that. After all, I hadn’t chosen to get turned, hadn’t wanted this life. I’d accepted the risk of injury as part of the trade. Bodyguarding is a rough business. People get hurt, disabled, sometimes even killed. But they do not generally get turned into one of the monsters. I suppose I should be grateful. But for a freak of genetics and the intervention of Kevin and Emma I’d be dead. Looked at that way, I’d been unbelievably fortunate. But I didn’t feel lucky in the least.

We were silent for a minute or two. When Creede spoke again, his voice was flat and unhappy. “They got a good look at my car. All they’ll have to do is run the plates to know it’s me.”

“Sorry.” I really was sorry. The men stalking me were assholes with power. They could, and probably would, make his life hard. They wouldn’t be able to arrest him—this little escapade was completely off-the-books. That wouldn’t keep them from harassing him, pushing and prodding, trying to find something they could use against him. Of course that would be against the rules. But I’d noticed that they’d already shown a certain . . . cavalier attitude about that sort of thing.

“Shit,” he growled. He dug a little more forcefully after a curved shard and I yelled again before I could stop myself.

“Sorry. Sorry.” His voice was apologetic as he was using a cloth soaked in rubbing alcohol to disinfect the most recent cut. He was going through a lot of alcohol because he had to keep resterilizing his tools and reopening the cuts. He started to rub my thigh in a very comforting way. I didn’t stop him, which surprised me. Yeah, I didn’t know if I could get an infection, but having food- or crud-encrusted stuff embedded in your body can’t be good for you. So, if I had to put up with a little more pain to be on the safe side, that was fine. But the parts of my body that were tightening from his magic and his touch didn’t seem to care that I had just been dumped.

Apparently, he hadn’t even realized he was rubbing my leg, because when he did finally notice the slow, smooth back-and-forth motion of his hand from the back of my knee nearly up to my panty line he pulled back his hand as if he’d been caressing a hot stove.

For the next few minutes, I felt nothing but pain as the curved shard of baby food jar inched its way out of my leg. I did my best not to kick or scream, though I pounded a fist against the wall once or twice. When the glass shard was finally out, he spoke. He sounded tired, which might be the reason he was letting down his guard. “I know it’s not your fault, but I really don’t need any more trouble than I’ve already got at the moment.”

Was he still talking about the cops? I didn’t ask. “Yeah, you and me both.”

He gave a wry laugh. “We’re quite the pair.” With brisk efficiency, he gathered the mess into a neat bundle and walked toward the door. “I’ll take these up top. Bubba has a grill we can use to burn off the blood before we put it in the trash.”

“Thanks.” Leave it to a mage to take care of the magical details. My blood could be used against me magically in all sorts of nasty ways I didn’t even want to think about. Oh, it usually isn’t. Blood goes bad pretty quickly. But under the circumstances I was inclined to be cautious.

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Don’t bother,” Creede suggested. “We’re going to be on the water for hours and you need to get some rest.”

“So do you and the others.”

“Yeah, well there’s a bench in the mess that looks fairly comfy and a couple of decent chairs. We’ll make do. You take the bed.”

“Because I’m a girl?” I asked with a smirk.

He snorted and somehow that restored us to the way we usually behaved toward each other. At least it made the tension in me ease. “Hell no. Because you’re injured.”

I wouldn’t be injured long. But I was exhausted. And somebody was going to get the bed. I closed my eyes and slept.

“Yo, Graves. We’re almost there.”

Bubba’s voice boomed down the staircase. I blinked a few times, trying to wake up, remember where I was, and get oriented. Bright sunlight filled the stateroom and I was glad for the air-conditioning that kept the room comfortably cool and doubly glad for the sheet I’d pulled over myself. Otherwise I’d have been crisped. One good thing about boats, they’re small enough that you can find things fairly quickly. Things like the bathroom . . . I mean, the head. I threw back the sheet and stumbled over to avail myself of the facilities and wash up.

My legs looked fine. Not a scratch, and the only scars were the old ones from back when I was full human. I’d