Page 8 of Fanged Secrets
“Riiiight,” Jordan crooned in my head. “So what does she do all day?”
I tiptoed past a sleeping street cat, a bedraggled tabby curled up in an empty beer crate. If I had more time I might have pet him, but I couldn’t risk my cover over a few head pats.
“I don’t know,” I hissed in my head. “She just hangs around the apartment. Her diet consists of mostly burnt toast and spaghetti. And she snores while she sleeps, I can hear it from my bedroom.”
“She sleeps on the couch?”
I resisted the urge to kick a crumpled can from my path. “I only have one bed.”
“Ah yes, because sharing a bed with one's spouse would be truly scandalous.”
“This is not. A real. Marriage. Now go bother your girlfriend and leave me alone.” With those charming parting words I shoved Jordan out of my head, relieved when she chuckled quietly and withdrew.
I slinked further down the alleyway, listening intently to the three men’s footsteps as they turned a corner ahead of me. I had just reached the corner when an unsettling feeling washed over me and I paused. A prickle of unease rippled up my spine and the hair on my neck stood at attention. I was no longer alone in that alleyway.
The silence was suddenly deafening, broken only by the distant echo of the gangmen’s footsteps and the alto bass hum of the city. I scanned my surroundings, drawing shadows that converged around me like needful disciples.
I stiffened when a mewling cry cut through the silence. The tabby cat from earlier streaked past my legs, disappearing through a broken window.
A flicker of motion caught my eye. I barely had time to register it before a searing pain erupted in my leg. I twisted, just in time to see a flash of claws and the gleam of reptilian eyes. My unseen attacker slammed into me, crushing me against the wall with the force of a wrecking ball. Something in my shoulder crumpled with a concerningly loud crunch and I sucked in air through my teeth to keep from crying out.
I could not be discovered. Don’s men were just around the corner and if they spotted me the tentative peace between us would shatter in an instant. Wrestling away from my bulky assailant, I forced myself to move, pushing through the pain as I scaled the nearest building. My route became a blur of movement and flashing street lights as I leaped over rooftops, putting as much distance as possible between myself and whatever the hell had just attacked me.
Whoever it was they didn’t pursue, but the damage was already done. Already my shoulder was healing itself, albeit slowly, but the wound in my thigh throbbed with a burning intensity that made me gasp and stumble, nearly toppling off a rooftop when I landed a particularly daring jump. My mind raced. I had to get home. The wound wasn’t healing. There were very few claws that could cause that kind of damage. River may have been right after all.
By the time I made it back to the apartment my vision was clouded, my movements agonizingly sluggish. I tried three times to grasp the door knob before my fingers finally responded the way I wanted them to. I stumbled through the doorway, dropping to one knee before hauling myself up again and leaning against the wall.
I fought against the encroaching darkness that dotted my vision, trying to recall what little I knew of the dragon-born. Dragon shifters were rare and reclusive. But their claws carried a poison that could hinder a vampire’s healing. Much like the bacteria in a Komodo dragon’s bite, if the wound itself didn’t kill you, the infection would. The gash in my thigh was a throbbing testament to the power those claws held.
The answer to my painful predicament was stowed away somewhere in the bathroom. Ever since the Leyore coven got to work mending bonds with the witches of Manhattan, I’d cultivated a friendship with Ursula, a young city witch who granted me a steady supply of healing potions for situations like this one. I just had to make it to the bathroom.
I took two feeble steps, groaning at the sharp pain that shot up my thigh. I could feel the poison creeping through my veins, and drew in a ragged breath. The room spun out of focus, and when I blinked to clear my vision, Amara was standing in front of me.
“Oh. It’s you.” I slurred out the words. I had been going for cool and indifferent, but considering the way I swayed on my feet it couldn’t have been that convincing.
Amara looked stricken, paler than usual as she sized me up. When her eyes rested on the gash in my leg, the wound that was now bleeding profusely, she blanched.
“Don’t worry about it.” I hobbled past her. Her attention, her concern, was the last thing I wanted. I would sooner crawl into a dark corner and die.
Amara followed me, rapidly moving her hands through gestures I assumed must be sign language. Considering I was moving at a snail's pace, there wasn’t much I could do to avoid her.
I made it halfway through the living room before breaking into a cold sweat and decided I deserved a short break. I paused, leaning against the arm of the loveseat, inwardly lamenting the trail of blood I’d left on the Persian carpet. I loved that carpet. I wondered if I was delirious.
The poison was spreading faster than expected, sapping my strength by the second. The bathroom felt very far away. Unlike Amara, who hovered at my shoulder like a gnat.
I swatted her hand away when she tried to grip my forearm, rounding on her with unmasked hostility. “I can handle this and worse! Soback off.”
Considering how she’d reacted to my anger on the rooftop, I assumed it would be enough to send her away.
Instead, she kicked me in the shin.
“Ow! God – you bitch!” I collapsed back into the loveseat, gripping my thigh with one hand and my shin with the other. “Fine. Fine! You want to help me? Go get the first aid kit.”
Amara had already turned her back to me and didn’t catch a single word, but she seemed to have the same idea because she scurried off to the bathroom and returned with the first aid kit, dumping the overstuffed duffel bag at my feet.
I rifled through the contents, hauling out potion bottles and tinctures all labeled in the little witch’s swirling handwriting – probably not what Amara was expecting to find in a first aid kit. She frowned in obvious disapproval when I uncorked a vial of neon green liquid and put it to my lips.
I ignored her, guzzling down the cold liquid and leaning back into the cushions with a deep sigh. The effects were almost immediate. The pain in my leg subsided and my head grew heavy and lolled on my shoulders. Witches brew, I’d come to learn, was stronger than any alcohol. I had about five minutes to patch myself up before I was completely inebriated.
