Dark Flame (Immortals 4)
Just a matter of time until—
“Oh God!” I whisper, eyes wide, throat dry, watching as he falters, stumbles, and nearly loses his balance.
His eyes darting between me and the gash on his arm, both of us watching as the blood seeps through his clothes and pools onto the street in a growing puddle of red. “Are you crazy?” he shrieks. “What the hell have you done?”
“I—” My mouth hangs open in shock, unable to form any words, unable to tear my gaze away from the gaping gash that I made.
Why isn’t it healing? Why’s it still bleeding? Oh, crap!
“I’m—I’m so sorry—I can explain—I—” I reach toward him, but he moves away, clumsily, unsteadily, wanting nothing more to do with me.
“Listen,” he says, sling pressed to the wound, trying to ebb the flow, but it only makes a much bigger mess. “I don’t know what your deal is, or what’s going on with you, Ever, but we’re done here. You need to walk away—now!”
I shake my head. “Let me take you to the hospital. There’s an emergency room just down the street—and I’ll—”
I close my eyes, manifesting a plush towel to hold against the wound until we can get some professional help. Noticing how pale and unsteady he’s gone, knowing we’ve no time to waste.
Ignoring his protests, I slide my arm around him and lead him toward the car I just manifested. That strange insistent pulse quieted for now, but still forcing me to glance over my shoulder just in time to see Roman watching from behind the window, his eyes shining, face creased with laughter, as he flips the sign over from OPEN to CLOSED.
six
“How is he?”
I toss my magazine on the small table beside me and stand. Careful to address the nurse instead of Jude, since one quick glance is all it takes to see that both of his arms are now heavily bandaged, his aura’s turned red with rage, and if the angry, cruel look in his narrowed eyes is any indication, he clearly wants nothing more to do with me.
The nurse stops, her gaze traversing the sixty-eight inches between my head and my toes. Scrutinizing me so closely I can’t help but cringe—can’t help but wonder just what exactly Jude might’ve told her.
“He’s going to make it,” she says, voice sharp, businesslike, not the least bit friendly. “Cut went all the way to the bone, even made a groove in it, but it was clean. And if he takes his antibiotics, it’ll stay that way. He’ll be in a fair amount of pain, even with the meds I gave him, but if he takes it easy, gets plenty of rest, it should be healed in a matter of weeks.”
Her gaze moves to the door and I follow it. Just in time to see two uniformed members of Laguna Beach’s finest heading right toward me, their eyes darting between Jude and me, and stopping when the nurse nods affirmatively.
I freeze, swallowing past the lump in my throat as I pull my shoulders in, shrinking under the glare of Jude’s dark, hostile gaze. Knowing I deserve every last bit of his anger, deserve to be handcuffed and hauled away—but still—I didn’t think he’d actually do it. I didn’t think it would come to this.
“So, anything you want to tell us?” They stand before me, legs spread wide, hands on hips, eyes hidden between mirrored lenses, taking me in.
I glance between the nurse, Jude, and the cops, knowing this is it. This is what it’s come to. And despite all the trouble I’m in, all I can think is: Who will I pick for my one phone call?
I mean, it’s not like I can ask Sabine to wave her lawyer’s wand and get me out of this one—I’ll never live it down, and it’s not like I can explain it to Damen either. Clearly this is one dilemma I have to deal with alone. . . .
And I’m just about to clear my throat, just about to say something, anything, when Jude jumps in and says, “I already told her”—he nods toward the nurse—“it was a home repair gone wrong. Didn’t know my limits. Guess I’ll definitely have to hire a handyman now.” He forces a smile, forces his gaze to meet mine. And even though I want to smile right back, nod in agreement, and play along, I’m so shocked by his words, at his defending me, it’s all I can do just to stand there and gape.
The cops sigh, obviously unhappy about being called out for nothing, but making one last attempt when they look at Jude and say, “You sure about that? You sure there isn’t more to it? Kind of crazy to take on a home repair when you’re down to one hand . . .” Their heads swivel between us, obviously suspicious but willing to let it go if he is.
“I don’t know what to tell you.” Jude shrugs. “It may be crazy, but it was purely self-inflicted.”
They frown—at him, at me, at the nurse—and then they mumble something about if he decides to change his story and slip a card into his pocket. And the moment they’re gone the nurse clutches her slim well-aerobicized hips, scowls at me, and says, “I gave him something for the pain.” Her gaze busy on mine, clearly not buying a word of Jude’s story, clearly pegging me as an insanely jealous, completely crazed, psycho girlfriend who nicked him in a fit of rage. “It should kick in soon, so I don’t want him driving—not that he can in that condition—” She nods toward his arms. “And make sure he gets this prescription filled.” She holds up a small slip of paper, about to hand it to me, before she thinks better and yanks it right back. “We want to ward off any chance of infection, but the best thing he can do now is to go home and rest. He’ll probably fall right to sleep, so I expect you to leave him alone and let him do just that.” She frowns, her gaze like a challenge.
“I will,” I say, but I’m so freaked by her scrutiny, by the police, by Jude’s defending me, the words come out like a squeak.
Her mouth quirks to the side, obviously reluctant to leave Jude in my care or to hand the prescription over, but she has little choice.
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nbsp; I follow Jude outside, over to my manifested Miata, an exact replica of the one I usually drive. Feeling awkward, nervous, barely able to look him in the eye.
“Just pull out here and make a right,” he says, voice low, groggy, giving no indication of what he’s truly thinking or just how he might feel about me. And though his aura appears to be softening, there’s still a good bit of red clinging to its edges, a fact that pretty much speaks for itself. “You can drop me at Main Beach. I’ll take it from there.”
“I’m not dropping you at Main Beach,” I say, taking the opportunity to study him as I brake at a light. And even though it’s dark out, there’s no missing the hollows under his eyes, the sheen of sweat on his brow, two unmistakable signs that he’s suffering a great deal of pain—thanks to me. “Seriously, that’s just—ridiculous.” I shake my head. “Just tell me where you live and I promise to get you home safely.”