“I will reassess after I rest. Soon.”
I rolled my eyes. I’d reassess upside his head if he didn’t get the hell home and recharge properly. “Of course, darling,” I said with a sweet smile. I knew damn well he’d read those thoughts. “I’ll go in and check on our guests now.” I gave him a parting kiss, then stood and headed inside.
Eilahn had situated Thatcher on the bed in the guest room where Zack had been staying. She’d stripped and bagged his gear and bloody clothing and wrapped him in a sheet. Paul sat on a stool beside the bed, clutching Thatcher’s hand. I stopped in the open doorway, leaned against the jamb.
“Lord Mzatal will take care of him,” I said gently. “It’s going to be okay.”
“I don’t get it,” Paul said, voice carrying his fatigue and worry. He looked over at me. “How is this possible? Who is he? Who are you?”
“I’m Kara Gillian,” I told him. This part, at least, was easy. “I used to be a homicide detective with the Beaulac Police Department.” Now came the not so easy part. Then again, this kid had already seen some miracles, so maybe it would go over all right. “I’m also an arcane practitioner,” I continued. “I have the ability to open a portal between this world and another and summon its denizens through it. Lord Mzatal is a qaztahl, one of eleven lords of that world.” I stopped to let that sink in.
He stared at me. “Another world?”
I nodded. “It sounds pretty crazy, I know. But, then again, you’ve seen that arcane power truly exists.” I lifted my chin toward his friend on the bed.
Paul gulped, looked down at his hand in Thatcher’s. “Yeah. Miracle. He was almost . . .” His face paled as he choked on the word. Dead.
“He’s going to be okay,” I repeated. I wanted to emphasize the hell out of that. I tilted my head and regarded him. “How long have you worked for StarFire and Mr. Farouche?”
“Um,” he darted his eyes around the room nervously, as if wishing someone else could answer the question for him. “About a year,” he finally said.
“Cool.” I gave him a friendly smile. This was nothing more than two people chatting, shooting the shit, getting to know each other. Nice and casual. “You like working for them?”
A variety of emotions crawled across his face, running the gamut from wonder to fear. “It’s, um, good work for me.”
Nice way to not answer the question. “How’d you get the job with them?”
His face paled, and he hunched his shoulders. “Recruited,” he said though it was almost more question than statement.
I took a step into the room, met his eyes. “Forcefully?”
Panic whispered through his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, cleared his throat and tried again. “Force?” His voice shook on the word, but then he took a breath and eased as though a nightmare slipped away. Lingering echoes of the Farouche influence, perhaps.
“How did they get you, Paul?” I asked quietly as I moved farther into the room. “Did they coerce you by threatening someone else, someone close to you? Or did they simply grab you in the night and put you to work?”
He looked away, shoulders slumping and misery written into his face. “No threats,” he said in a low voice. “They came and took me. No warning.”
The poor guy looked so beaten down, bewildered and torn. “Paul, we can help you.”
“I just need Bryce to get better.”
“He’s still in bad shape, Paul,” I said. “He needs the kind of healing the lord can only do in his own world.” I touched his shoulder. “Would you be willing to go with your friend to that other world for a day or two? He needs it, and it would also give you more time to decide how you want to live the rest of your life.”
He stared at me in baffled shock, clearly trying to figure out if what he thought he heard me say was really what I’d said. “You mean not on Earth?”
“Right,” I said. “Not Earth. The other world. You’d be safe there, under the lord’s protection.”
His eyes went distant. “That’s the only place we’d be safe from Big Mack,” he murmured.
“You need to be safe, Paul. Give yourself this time.”
He focused on me again, confusion and hope and fear in his face. “I need Bryce to get better,” he repeated, voice steadying as he seemed to come to a decision. “He’s my best friend. He . . . saved me.” His chin lifted as he straightened. “Okay. Yes.”
Relieved, I gave him a smile. “It’ll be about two hours,” I told him. “Lord Mzatal is resting right now.” I suddenly realized Paul was still wearing the same blood-soaked clothing. “Damn. You need a change of clothes and a bandage on that arm. Hang tight. I’ll be right back.” I left the room without waiting for a response, headed to my bedroom, and grabbed an old PD t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants that I had a feeling would fit him perfectly, as slim as he was. On the way back I detoured to the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit, a towel, and a wet washcloth.
“Here you go,” I said as I returned. I set the shirt and sweats on top of the dresser. “Go ahead and take that mess off,” I gestured to his bloody shirt, “and I’ll get your arm fixed up.”
Paul looked oddly discomfited. “Um, maybe you can do it if I just pull the sleeve up?” He reached over and began to awkwardly roll up his sleeve above the shallow wound.