Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

“You’re right on time,” Ethan said. “Your patient awaits.”

“Patient?” I asked.

“Treatment, Sentinel. Your wound should be addressed.”

I didn’t like the way that sounded, especially since my arm was already itchy with healing. “I’m fine.”

Delia walked toward me, a tray in her hands. “Hello, Merit. How are you?”

“Hello, Delia. I’m fine.”

“Got shot again, did you?”

“I did. Although I didn’t pass out this time.” The last time, I’d hit my head and been knocked unconscious.

“That’s something at least.” She put the tray on Ethan’s desk, then walked to the sink in the small bar in the bookshelves, washed her hands to the elbow. I appreciated the effort, even if it seemed unlikely a vampire would die of sepsis.

With cool and careful fingers, she lifted my arm, surveyed the bandage before glancing back at Ethan, taking in the ripped shirt. “Homemade bandage?”

“Make-do,” he agreed. “We were chasing a suspect.”

“Again,” Luc said, “only you, too.”

Delia looked at me. “Pulling away the bandage might hurt, so let’s get it over with.” Without waiting for me to object, she released my arm. “Would you mind stripping her?”

Lindsey winked at me. “Of course not.”

I pushed away her hands. “Hey, I don’t need stripping. It’s my arm that’s damaged.”

“The shirt is filthy,” Delia said. “It looks like you scraped off a few layers of a dirty street.”

That wasn’t far from the truth.

“Take it off, or I’ll cut it off.”

“Hard-ass.”

She snorted. “You deal with a few dozen humans in an emergency room in an evening and see how much of a hard-ass you become. Gentlemen, if you would, please turn away so that our impressively modest Sentinel can get momentarily naked.”

“Awwww,” Luc said pitifully, but he and Malik turned their backs. Ethan didn’t bother. He watched us, concern in his expression, as Lindsey helped me pull the shirt over my head, then over each arm in turn. She tossed it onto the floor.

“Bandage?” she asked, and at Delia’s nod, pulled away the fabric Ethan had used to keep the handkerchief in place, tossed it aside with the T-shirt.

“You can burn that when you’re ready,” Delia said with a smile, stepping forward to palpate my arm, inspect the remaining bandage from each angle. “Or keep it as a souvenir of your fourth bullet for the House.”

“Being shot four times isn’t such a big deal,” I muttered.

“Certainly not for people who’ve been shot five times,” she said with a grin. She picked up a pair of blunt-ended scissors from the tray she’d brought in. “You ready for this? I’ll be as careful as I can.”

I blew out a breath, nodded. And as I stood in Ethan’s office in jeans and a bra, I reached out for Lindsey’s hand. She took mine, squeezed it.

“On three,” Delia said. “One . . . two . . .”

As I tensed, waiting for three, she ripped the fabric away.

I nearly hit my knees from the rush of bright, naked pain. “Damn! I thought you were going on three!”

“Two gets you done faster,” she said, and began inspecting my arm. “Good. It’s a through-and-through, so we won’t have to drag fragments out of you.”