Bitten 2 (41 page)

“Something I hope not to have to repeat any time soon,” she replied, peeling a lock of hair from where it was stuck to her temple by a sheen of sweat. Even her hair appeared to have lost some of its luster, the gleaming fiery curls looking brittle and dull. I’d have dismissed it as a trick of the garish fluorescent lighting if I hadn’t stood by and watched the transformation myself.

“But what
was
that?”

“Verra old magic I suspect,” Alastair said, moving forward to clasp Alyssa’s shoulder. “I canne thank ye enough, lassie, for saving my bairn.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“ACH, STOP BLUBBERING like an old woman, ye daft auld bugger,” Dermot muttered, though his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

“Dermot!” I launched myself to my feet and rushed to his side. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he replied, and then smiling wide enough to reveal a bloody gap where one of his incisors had been knocked out, added, “But I will be.”

“Dinne worry yourself. Dermot’s tougher than a pair of his old mam’s boots,” Alastair said, coming forward to stand on the other side of the exam table. Seeing them side by side now I could see the small differences in their appearance: while they bore the same craggy face and stocky build, Alastair’s hair held generous threads of silver and there was a weight behind his gaze that wasn’t present in the younger man.

“It’s alright, lass,” Dermot said in a croak, one thick fingered hand reaching out to grasp mine. “The Doc will have me right as rain in no time.”

As if propelled into motion by his words, Alyssa rose from the chair, shrugging off her exhaustion. Bustling about in a ceaseless flurry of activity she wheeled over an IV pole and hooked him up to a bag of fluids.

“So what happened?”

“Got nibbled on by a damned big wolf.”

It looked like whatever had attacked him had done a lot more than just nibble on him, but I didn’t think mentioning that fact would help matters.

“A were?” I asked as the bottom dropped out of my stomach.

“Aye, big ugly creature it was. All covered in scars. Still packed a helluva wallop though,” Dermot said, probing the gaping hole in his smile with the tip of his tongue and a grimace.

“I’d say you got a bit more than just a wallop,” I said, eyeing the roadmap of bruises and cuts covering him from forehead to navel. Although I’d removed my gloves, I could still feel the warm slickness of his blood between my fingers, and had to clench them at my sides to keep from wiping them on my thighs.

Dermot didn’t voice a response, just made a noncommittal sound. Even now, barely alive, he didn’t want to admit that someone had gotten the better of him. A thousand questions hung on the tip of my tongue, mixing with my need to know who was attacking supes to form a leaden weight on my shoulders. Dermot didn’t look like he was in the mood to answer questions, but his stubbornness would have to wait if I had any hope of finding out what was going on.

“Do you remember anything about the attacker besides the scars? Something that might give us a clue to who he is?”

“I dinne get a good look at him,” Dermot muttered, and I could see it cost him greatly to admit his weakness. “He came at me fast as the wind. After that I was too busy trying to stay alive to notice much else.”

I was sure that if I pushed him just a bit more he might remember something else, despite my reluctance to make him suffer any more pain. He’d been to hell and back in the span of just a few hours, and he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Thankfully, Alyssa saved me from having to be the bad guy.

“Okay, that’s enough talk for now. You need some rest,” she said, shooing Alastair and me away from the stubborn patient.

Retreating to the other side of the room, I made a beeline for the sink to wash the imagined traces of the blood from my hands. I was scouring my nails with a scrub brush when Alastair approached.

“Ye should call your reporter friend, lassie. The public needs to know of the dangers,” Alastair said. His words, though logical, held a note of something else that I couldn’t quite place. As much as I liked Dermot, there was an element to his father’s mien I didn’t quite trust.

“I wouldn’t call her a friend, more like an occasionally useful nemesis,” I replied.

“Perhaps she can be of use now.”

Casting a sidelong glance at the stout leprechaun, I tried to decipher his ulterior motive for putting the news of his son’s attack out there. I had no doubt he was up to something, but at the same time, couldn’t see any fault in his words. It was true: the supernatural community needed to know that there was someone out there attacking them. Though as unpredictable and random as the attacks were, I didn’t know if it would help, or just make everyone even cagier than they already were. Looking past his shoulder, I watched the steady rise and fall of Dermot’s chest and thought about how miraculous it was that he was alive.

“I thought the fae handled their own business,” I said, recalling Alyssa and Dermot’s words from earlier. They’d made it pretty clear that they cared little about what happened to the rest of the supernatural community, so why was Alastair asking me to put out a warning?

Removing his cap, he ran a gnarled hand through his grey streaked hair and sighed. “Sometimes the old ways are not always the best. My boy seems verra fond of ye. He told me what you’re trying to do, of the trouble you’ve already gotten into. Maybe this old fool dinne think you should have all the glory,” he said, adopting a crooked grin.

Glancing back at Dermot once more, I felt some of my apprehension dissipate. So far, I’d been alone in the mess Cordova had thrust me into, waging war against unseen foes and insurmountable odds. Alastair’s plea for help was the first time I felt as though maybe I didn’t have to face this fight by myself after all.

Catching the direction of my gaze, Alastair said, “And be sure to say my lad’s okay. Times are dark enough as it is, and folks will be needing a wee bit of hope.”

“Er... sure,” I said as I dried off my hands and pulled the slim pink phone from my pocket. Alastair took a couple steps back to give me the semblance of privacy as I dialed Chrismer’s number, but I knew he was listening.

“What do you want, Cray?”

“I need a favor.” When Chrismer made no reply I added, “There’s been another attack, a fae. Shit is escalating fast. We need to warn people.”

“And incite a riot? Yes, that sounds like a
great
idea,” she said with the warmth of an iceberg.

“People need to know what’s going on. I don’t know about you, but I’m not willing to have any more innocent blood on my hands.”

There was a long pause before she answered with a sigh and said, “Fine. Give me the details and I’ll see what I can do about getting it on the ten o’clock show.”

* * *

“You should go home and get some rest,” Alyssa said, rousing me from my exhausted daze. She didn’t look like she was fairing much better, but I was glad to see she’d regained some of her usual color after Alastair had forced a glass of orange juice on her.

Rubbing at my gritty eyes, I shook my head. “No, I want to stay.”

For a moment she looked as though she’d argue with me and muscle me out of the room if she had to, but then, seeing the stubborn set of my jaw, she just shrugged and went back to check on her patient. He was sleeping again after rousing himself for a short while to give a full recitation of the attack and his all too close brush with death. The details had left us feeling more than just a little grateful that we’d been able to keep him from death’s clutches and had turned my dinner of orange chicken into a leaden and greasy weight in the pit of my stomach.

Rising from my chair, I walked the perimeter of the room hoping it would help ease the stiffness in my limbs and shake off some of the weariness weighing me down. My circuit of the room took me past the open door of Alyssa’s small office that doubled as overflow storage. The small TV on her desk was tuned to one of the local news stations, where, true to her word, a somber-faced Chrismer was warning the public of the faceless danger stalking the city streets, attacking supernaturals.

“The latest victim is said to be recovering at home after escaping with only minor injuries...”

Alastair looked up at the sound of my footsteps. All traces of his earlier concern were gone now that he was confident his son would survive. Instead, the craggy lines of his face were etched with the heat of vengeance.

“You did good,” he said in a gruff, rumbling tone that I imagined gave few compliments freely. “I can see why the boy likes ye.”

I didn’t know what to say to that beyond a murmured “Thanks.”

* * *

“I’ll be back, lassie,” Alastair announced when he emerged from Alyssa’s office, his shoulders set in determination.

“Alastair—” she started to protest, her fiery brows meeting in a worried frown.

“Nay, lassie. It has to be done. We canna let this stand.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, sensing a wealth of unspoken communication passing between them.

Damn fae.

“Nothing to worry yourself about,” he said, waving off my question. Turning back to Alyssa he spoke with a solemnity that left me breathless, “Take care of my bairn.”

Sighing in resignation, Alyssa nodded and replied, “Be careful.”

In confusion I watched the elder leprechaun retrieve a cell phone from the pocket of his overalls as he stalked to the door and listened to his fading words as he thumped down the stairs on legs just a little too short for the steps. “...call up the lads, Hugh, we’re going hunting. Aye, one of those furry bastards went after me boy.”

At any other time, I might have taken offense at his words, but seeing as his son was lying half-dead only a few feet away, I couldn’t really begrudge him his prejudices. Besides, my own track record with my kin wasn’t all that stellar, either.

The echoes of the door slamming shut below us had barely started to fade when I turned wide eyes on Alyssa. “Hunting? What the hell kind of thing is that to do while his son is lying here half-dead?”

I didn’t realize I was shouting until I stopped and heard my voice ringing in my ears as I sucked in ragged, angry breaths.

“It’s not that kind of hunting,” Alyssa said, her cheeks taking on a washed out pallor once more, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the doorway.

“What is he...” I started to ask, the rest of my question dying in the back of my throat at her haunted expression. “He’s going to do something stupid, isn’t he?”

“Most likely,” she replied. “Like father, like son.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I WAS STUCK in an endless dream of being chased in the dark by an unknown creature when whispering voices infiltrated the darkness. The ascent from the depths of my dreams was slow, like swimming through cold, murky water. When I finally broke through the surface into consciousness, I caught the tail-end of a heated argument.

“...should wake the lassie right away. She’ll be wanting to see the proof, ye ken?”

“And I said no,” Alyssa hissed in reply. “She’s been sitting up watching over
your
boy.”

For a moment I was tempted to stay as I was, with my head pillowed on my folded arms resting on the edge of the exam table where Dermot was stretched out under blankets and bandages, but I could already smell Alyssa’s cotton candy scent intensifying, a sure sign that she was not at all happy.

“I’m awake,” I croaked before their argument could go any further. I had no idea what special abilities Alastair might have, but I knew that Alyssa could more than handle herself and wasn’t in the mood for dealing with the aftermath of Alyssa going full out succubus on his ass.

Straightening from my slumped position, I groaned as the muscles in my back protested the movement.

I’m getting too old for this shit.

Rubbing the grit from my eyes, I tried to dismiss the lingering fragments of my dreams. At times I had thought I heard the hissing voice of the vamp who bit me in the catacombs beneath Asylum, and at others it was the panting breaths of a massive wolf gaining on me with each step. Blinking away the last of the blurriness from my vision, I was stunned by Alastair’s appearance.

His face was a mess of dark purple bruises and swollen flesh, and he moved with a prominent limp. I caught the scent of blood, almost identical to Dermot’s except for a slightly sour note that made my nose twitch, as he limped towards me.

“What happened?” I asked, already halfway out of my seat to offer him a supportive arm.

Waving off my hand, he pulled a small object from his pocket.

“I got ye a piece of evidence of the bastard that attacked my son.”

“It looks like he got a piece of you too,” I said, studying an eye that was little more than a sliver of green peering out from his blood crusted eyelids.

“Ach!” he said dismissively. “It’s just a scratch.”