Under the Moon (28 page)

“I need to borrow your car.” Quinn didn’t wait for Chloe, who’d followed her into the hall, to answer. “Please,” she added, but only because autopilot told her to. She strode down the hall, Chloe running to keep up with Quinn’s longer legs and desperation.

“What’s going on?”

“Nick’s been shot, and it’s serious.”

“I’ll come with you,” Chloe said immediately, but instead of moving faster, her stride slowed. Quinn turned back, ready to protest. Her friend had said she didn’t want to leave the ocean, and despite her positive attitude about the whole thing, Quinn doubted she was ready to come face to face with her leecher. Without power, she’d be vulnerable if it came to a fight. But the keys in Chloe’s hand rattled before she closed her fist over them, and even then her hand still shook.

“Thank you, Chloe, but it’s better if you stay.”

“I can identify Adrian.” Her voice cracked on his name, and despair slumped her shoulders.

“I don’t even know if he’s there.” Quinn walked back to Chloe and hugged her. “Nick could have been shot for trespassing or something.” Her throat clenched, and adrenaline surged again, driving her to leave, to get there
now
.

Chloe handed Quinn the keys to her Prius. “I’m sorry. Yes, take my car. I’ll get a ride from someone.”

Quinn took the keys but hesitated. “I’m sorry. I’m being—”

“What you need to be. Go.” She turned Quinn toward the door and shoved.

Quinn ran. She jumped into the car and took off without familiarizing herself with any of the controls. At the first stoplight, she punched the coordinates Sam had given her into Chloe’s GPS system. After that, she tapped what power she could to cast ahead and make sure every light was green when she reached it. When she got on the highway, she checked surrounding energies for radar, only slowing when she sensed its use. Then she did ninety up I-95, wishing she had enough power to jump herself to Nick’s side. But even if it were possible—which it wasn’t—it would require massive amounts of energy, and then she wouldn’t have any left to help Nick.

And she knew he needed her help. Sam hadn’t given her any details. Okay, she hadn’t let him. She’d ordered him to give her their location and hung up on him, a stupid move. She was driving too fast to risk calling him back. The longer she drove, the harder it was not to notice that he hadn’t called her back, either.

She didn’t know if Nick was in a hospital, if he was dying or dead, who had shot him and why, or what he’d been doing to get shot in the first place.

“It was a simple scouting mission,” she ground out to no one. She wished telepathy was one of her abilities. She had to conserve her use as much as possible, which pretty much limited her to turning red lights green and avoiding cops. The quirk that allowed her to measure time passing was enhanced as the full moon approached, and she’d never hated it as much as she did now, when every minute, every second, passed in agonizing slowness.

The GPS beeped, and she slowed the car. An exit sign loomed ahead of her, and the unit told her to take the exit. She was near the New Hampshire/Maine border, and had set a land-speed record getting here. But “here” was nowhere, she realized as she coasted to the end of the ramp. She looked right and saw only darkness and trees. No signs. To the left was a sign for a town twenty miles away, and nothing else. The GPS flashed. She was here.

No one was behind her—and hadn’t been for the last half hour—so she fished out her phone. Sam had called twice, and she hadn’t even heard the ring. Dammit. She dialed him back.

“Are you okay?” he asked as soon as he answered.

“Fine. Drove fast. I’m here, but ‘here’ is nowhere.”

“You’re at the end of the ramp?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, turn right and go about three miles. Then call me back.” He hung up.

“Sam! Shit.” She set the phone down and hit the trip meter as she turned right. Less than three minutes later, she called Sam back.

“Left on the dirt road. Go a little over a mile, and turn left again on the wagon track. We’re a few hundred yards up. You’ll see the Charger first.” He hung up again.

Cursing more foully, Quinn did as Sam had instructed, trying not to bottom out the Prius on the rutted dirt road or the vegetation between faint double lines he called wagon track. Then there it was, the Charger, parked askew on the side of the road. There was no one there. She crept forward. The car hit a bump, jostling her, then glided across new macadam. She braked and stared at the brightly lit two-story building ahead of her and the three rows of parking containing a few cars between her and the building.

She pulled into an empty spot and looked for a sign or any kind of identification to tell her where she was, but she saw nothing. Uncomfortable with the whole scene, she charged ahead anyway. Sam came out the double glass doors as she approached the building.

“Thank god.” He grabbed her hand and rushed her inside. “I’m sorry, Quinn. But thanks for hurrying.”

“What’s happening? Where’s Nick? What is this place?” She caught glimpses of calming artwork on pastel walls as they dashed down corridors lined with handrails. “Is this a hospital?”

“Private psych facility. But it’s the only place in a fifty-mile area, and I knew they had to have some medical supplies.”

“Did they take care of him?”

He didn’t look at her. “They bandaged it.” He skidded to a halt outside a room. “He’s in there.”

Quinn abandoned her questions and pushed through the wide door, closing her eyes in gratitude as soon as she saw Nick, awake, lying on a hospital bed.

“Hey.” It came out of his throat as a croak, and her worries flooded over the relief. He was in bad shape.

“Hey, yourself.” She looked him over. He wore his own clothes rather than a hospital gown. The left leg of his jeans had been cut and torn up the seam, exposing a bandage-wrapped calf. Sweat stained the neck and armpits of his T-shirt, and his face shone with it. As Quinn stepped nearer, she saw wildness in his red-rimmed eyes.

Sam caught her arm before she got too close. “Don’t touch him.”

“What’s going on? What happened?” She looked back at Nick, who swallowed and tried to talk. Sam spoke over him.

“I found him at the edge of Marley’s property, about a quarter mile from the inn. He was hiding in a ditch—”

Nick made an angry noise.

“—doing surveillance. He had a scope trained on a window of the inn and wasn’t moving. When I approached him, he flipped out for a minute.” Sam looked down, as if giving Nick a chance to protest his phraseology. “When he calmed down, he figured out he’d been looking at that same empty window for hours. A lot of hours,” he added. “Part of the reason he didn’t take our calls. We decided to go closer—”

“You decided to go closer?” Quinn protested. “He’s obviously in a trance or compulsion of some kind, and you go
closer
?”

Sam grimaced. “Yeah, well, I think compulsion is the right word. When we got about a hundred yards onto the property, he got shot in the leg.”

“And then?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. We couldn’t see anyone, and it’s not a bad wound, but the bullet’s inside and he was bleeding more than enough to need treatment. I found the nearest facility and brought him here.” Despair came down over his face. “Quinn, there’s something majorly wrong.”

She barely registered his words. “Why didn’t you call the police?” she demanded.

Sam thrust his hand through his hair. “You know the kinds of questions they’d ask. Might detain him or both of us. He wouldn’t let me do it.”

“I’m fine,” Nick croaked. “Just need to rest a little.”

“He’s not. No one can touch him. When someone tries—”

Nick waved his hand toward a pitcher on the rolling table next to Quinn.

“He needs water.” She grabbed the pitcher and held the straw toward Nick’s mouth.

“Quinn, don’t!”

She stopped, but Nick lurched forward and caught the straw in his mouth. He sucked hard on the water, his hand on hers where she held the pitcher, but his face turned red and pain filled his eyes. He drank fast, then fell back on the pillow, gasping.

“What the—” Sam moved closer to the other side of the bed, looking back and forth between them in bewilderment. “Why didn’t—”

“She’s a goddess, Sam,” Nick rasped out. “Get the doctor.”

“But—”

“Get the doctor.”
He reached for Sam’s arm. Sam lurched back, but Nick’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. Both men screamed in pain. Sam dropped to his knees on the worn tiles, his fingers scrabbling at Nick’s hand. Nick writhed on the bed, arching, the tendons in his neck bulging.

Quinn ran around the bed and caught Sam as he collapsed onto his side, breaking Nick’s grip. Both men panted. Quinn, torn between them, didn’t know whom to help first. Nick lay on the bed, his eyes closed, chest heaving, but he didn’t look like he was still in pain. She supported Sam as he sat up. He touched his wrist, wincing, but it looked normal.

“What the hell was that?” she asked.

“We don’t know.” Sam’s voice was weak. “Every time someone touches him, he screams. That’s why they couldn’t get the bullet out.”

“Sorry,” Nick managed to mumble. “Not thinking.”

“The bullet is still in there?” Quinn left Sam’s side and went back around the bed. Careful not to touch Nick’s skin, she unwrapped the gauze from his calf.

The wound was ugly. It oozed dark blood and had purple edges. Worse, lines of purple extended from it, reminiscent of blood poisoning.

“We’ve got to get that bullet out. Sam, get the doctor.”

“But—”

“Get him!”

“Quinn, he’s a psychiatrist.”

She turned to look up at him. “He’s the only doctor here?”

“It’s a small facility. He couldn’t reach anyone to come in. I don’t think he has the stomach for this.”

Resolve took over. “Then we’ll have to do it. Get him. We need supplies.” For the moment, she’d forget the facility was required to report the gunshot wound. They’d deal with that later. All that mattered right now was that Nick was in pain, possibly dying, and they had no other options.

Sam didn’t leave, but he didn’t say anything, either. He was looking at Nick with compassion and regret, and Quinn assumed he didn’t want to cause him more pain. Or maybe…

“Sam, when he touched you, you screamed, too.”

He wrenched his gaze back to her. “Yeah, it’s a shared thing. Like he’s projecting what he’s feeling. It’s okay—if I wear gloves, it should block it. For me. That won’t help him.”

“God.” She shoved her hair back and drew a long breath. “Okay. I’ll take care of the pain. You extract the slug. Get the doctor and everything you’ll need to do this.”

Sam nodded and left. Quinn moved up to kneel next to the bed at Nick’s side, masking her fear. This was beyond anything she’d ever done before, and she didn’t understand what was causing it. “You okay?”

He looked exhausted, his eyes sunken and bruised, his lips white at the edges. But he nodded a little.

“What do you see when someone touches you?”

“Their demons,” he whispered. “The doc was the worst. He’s dealt with some serious shit in here. It fades after the contact breaks, so I can’t tell you what I saw, but the pain is worse than anything I’ve ever felt. And Sam.” He opened his eyes and licked his lips. “It’s all about you.”

She winced. “You didn’t scream when I touched you. But it hurt.”

“Some. No demons, though.”

Quinn didn’t know why that would be, but maybe, as he’d said, being a goddess offered some protection. She had demons, of course, and if Nick could see them, he’d know they were mostly about him. She tried to smile reassuringly. “We’ll take care of you.”

Nick’s eyes closed. “I know you will.”

Sam returned, followed by a tall, thin man with equally thin hair pushing a steel cart laden with instruments and supplies. Sam pulled a plastic chair to the foot of the bed and positioned the cart.

“Ready?” he asked. Quinn nodded.

Nick managed a weak grin. “Go for it.”