How do you describe stuff that made no sense? I did my best. “Shot with funny hollow bullets, and then a big-monster-mouth thing with caramel drippings made him bleed. I mean Monster-mouth had an appendage with talons or claws, which sliced his side. He’s bleeding, though not as much as he was. Oh and the bullets were poisoned.” Out loud that sounded even more bizzarro.
“Blood and poisoned, huh? Yeah, that was definitely a Grigores. You could try the cabinet. Otherwise try soda.”
Her calmness was maddening. “How is a cola going to fix him?”
“No, Ohio. Soda is a local healer. Her number will be in the phone pad. She doesn’t usually do house calls, but if you tell her it’s Wald, she’ll make an exception. Don’t tell Wald though…”
I was already pressing the wall screen and had figured out how to scroll through the book. Soda Poppy was listed. I hit her number, and it hung up on Britannia mid-sentence. “Don’t…”
It was too late now to find out what not to do. The call connected.
“Soda?”
“You are not Waldemar. Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Wald’s. He’s injured and needs healing. It’s desperate. Britannia can’t get here and said to call you.”
The silence at the other end made me wonder if she’d hung up. “Hello?”
“I’m here, processing your spewing drivel. What’s wrong with him?”
“Skewered, blood, poison. How the hell do I know? He’s not moving at the moment but still breathing.”
“Poison? How long ago?” Her tone was sharp like a toothy bite.
I did mental math. “An hour ago, maybe a bit more.”
“Do you have birchweed?”
“Birch what? No, I have nothing,” I yelled at her. “I have never been here before.”
“Wald’s place?”
“I guess so. Yeah, Two Alder.”
There was a pause. “Okay, well, there’s likely nightshade in the cabinet or maybe birchweed. Can you ask him?”
“Hell no I can’t. He’s passed out.” I had been watching him through the cutout from the kitchen to the living area. I had a good view of the entry. His eyes snapped open.
“Hang on, maybe I can.” I walked away from the wall phone and ran the rest of the way. I dropped to my knees and cradled his head, combing fingers through his silky hair. He couldn’t die on me.
“Wald, can you hear me? Soda says I need to find nightshade or birchweed?”
“SODA?” Wald’s eyes narrowed, and he growled, half sitting up with far more strength than I would have guessed he had. I leaned back, supporting his weight. “Oops, I wasn’t supposed to mention Soda. Where is the nightshade?”
“Bathroom, left of sink,” he said, looking down at the mess of his chest.
“Bathroom?”
“Off the black bedroom.” He raised a hand weakly, his eyelids fluttered closed, and he went limp in my arms. My throat went dry. I set him down, the clock ticking in my head. Bedrooms. Of course he had a black bedroom. I sprinted across the living room, realizing I should probablyhave tried to get him to the couch while he was conscious, but that door had just closed. I was all about second chances.
The first hall had two wall panels. I slapped them, and the doors slid back. Both bedrooms were in shades of off-white. I reversed and tore across to the other side of the living room. A short hall ended in a wide black mirror.
Looking at myself for the first time since the post-dying, almost-dying kidnapping. I grimaced, hiked up the bodice of the trashed catsuit, and pounded on the black mirror surface with flat palms. Nothing happened.
Nine hells.
I raced back to Wald. He was out cold. I trailed my fingers down the sides of his face. “Wald? The bedroom?”