Page 58 of Speak of the Devil

No biggie. It was still in the same position it had always occupied, and that was the important thing.

Limping, he went over to the doorbell and leaned hard on it. A simpleding-dongsounded somewhere inside the house, and a moment later, the door opened, and a shocked Delia stared out at him.

“Oh, my God! What happened?”

“Demons,” he said briefly.

She opened the door wider. “Hurry.”

Because he had no desire to remain standing in the entrance any longer than necessary, he slipped inside, and she closed the door behind him.

“Kitchen,” she said briefly. “I’ve got a first aid kit in the pantry.”

He should have known she’d be the kind of woman who kept her cool in a crisis.

As best he could, he shuffled into the kitchen and leaned up against the island. Everything in here looked as though it had been replaced over the past couple of years, with white cabinets and black quartz countertops and wood floors in a neutral brown. He had a feeling a few walls had been knocked out as well, which was exactly why he hadn’t tried to teleport directly in here.

Plus, that would have been kind of rude.

Delia pulled a couple of kitchen towels out of a drawer and handed them over. “For your neck. Those wounds seem to be the worst.”

“Only because you can see them,” he said with a weak grin.

Nonetheless, he took the towels — both of them were a cheerful red, probably chosen to contrast with the overall black-and-white color scheme of the kitchen — and pressed them against his throat while she hurried to the pantry and came back with a decent-sized first aid kit, which she set down on the island.

And although her eyes were full of questions, she got out gauze and antiseptic and a roll of first aid tape and a variety of bandages, and proceeded to get him cleaned up and all his wounds covered. To his relief, most of them appeared superficial, not much worse than he would have gotten if a neighbor’s dog had attacked him.

Except the ones in his throat, but those should heal soon enough. He was mostly mortal, and yet he still recovered from injuries much faster than any regular human being could.

“Can you walk?” Delia asked after she was done. “You’ll be more comfortable sitting down in the living room.”

“I don’t want to bleed all over your furniture.”

“You won’t,” she said crisply. “You’re all patched up now.”

True enough, but….

“There’s blood on my clothes.”

Her mouth pursed. For the first time, he realized she’d changed out of her slim skirt and teal jacket, and now wore a pair of Uggs, black leggings, and an oversized black sweatshirt with a glittery “Las Vegas” logo on it. He’d never seen her this casual before, and he liked it.

Even though every inch of his body hurt like a son of a bitch.

“Let me get you something to change into,” she said. “Can you make it to the powder room?”

“Sure,” he replied, even though he didn’t know for sure where it was located. Yes, he’d seen photos of the house from the time when it had been up for sale, but the listing hadn’t included a floor plan.

But the powder room turned out to be just on the other side of the great room, so he leaned up against the vanity and waited while Delia disappeared down a hallway he assumed led to the bedrooms. A moment later, she reappeared holding some dark gray sweats, with the shirt bearing the UNLV logo.

“There were jeans, too, but I thought these would be more comfortable.”

Yes, easing his battered body into some sweats seemed infinitely preferable to trying to squeeze into a pair of jeans that might or might not be his size.

“Thanks,” he said, and managed to smile. “Just give me a minute, and I’ll meet you in the living room.”

Worried green eyes met his. “Okay.”

She closed the door, and he commenced the laborious process of peeling himself out of his bloodstained clothing and into the sweats she’d provided. Both pieces were a size large anda little loose on him — and would have been much too big for Delia.

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