Half-Off Ragnarok
Page 70

“Just give it a second.”
Frowning, she subsided, and we sat in the dark car for several minutes, waiting to see if anyone drove past. When the road remained empty, I turned the engine back on and pulled away from the curb.
“Do you think we’re being followed?” Shelby asked.
“Honestly, I think someone dropped a cockatrice in my backyard and tried to burn down your apartment building with us inside, so right now, a little healthy paranoia is the way to go.”
“I wish I could argue with that,” sighed Shelby.
We didn’t talk the rest of the way back to the house.
All the lights were on when I pulled into my customary spot, and both cars were there; if nothing else, we would be well-defended from any additional arson attempts. I got my things and helped Shelby out of her seat. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, she was having trouble standing. I was doing somewhat better, if only because I was still running in crisis mode. Once we were inside, with people to defend us if things turned sour, then I could fall apart.
“It’s a really, really good first aid kit, right?” asked Shelby, through gritted teeth.
“The best,” I assured her, and together we half-walked, half-limped up the front walkway.
Grandma opened the door before I could reach for my key. Her eyes were glowing a lambent white, all but obscuring her irises and pupils. “Alex!” she gasped. “What happened?”
“Someone burned down Shelby’s apartment building,” I said, stepping inside. Grandma was right there to help support Shelby’s weight, and suddenly walking seemed, if not easier, at least a lot less hard. “We had to jump out the window to get away. How did you know we were coming?”
“I told her,” said Sarah. I looked past Grandma to the stairs, where Sarah was standing, pale in her blue nightgown, eyes glowing even more brightly than my grandmother’s. “I heard the screaming from all the way down the block.”
Sarah shouldn’t have been able to hear anything from that far away; we’d both grabbed our anti-telepathy charms along with our weapons. That Sarah had heard me anyway said something, both about how attuned we were as family, and how badly hurt I really was.
“We’re here now,” I said, trying to project reassurance and calm. “Go back up to your room. Grandma will get us patched up, and then we can have breakfast in the morning, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Listen to your cousin, Sarah,” said Grandma, and began pushing us toward the kitchen. “Look at you two. Martin!”
The kitchen door opened, revealing my grandfather. “I’m almost ready for them.”
“Good.” She half-led, half-shoved us through the kitchen door and to the table, where the first aid kit was already assembled and waiting. There was a straight razor next to the stack of bandages. “Who’s hurt worse?”
“Shelby,” I said, grabbing a piece of clean gauze and using it to wipe the soot off my glasses. The world suddenly became a lot easier to see. The realization that I’d driven through downtown Columbus while half-blinded followed, and I fought back the urge to be sick. There would be time for that later. “Her arm’s worse than any of my injuries.”
“Let me see,” said Grandma.
Thankfully, Shelby didn’t argue. She turned, showing Grandma the red, raw skin of her right bicep.
“We can deal with that,” said Grandma, and picked up the straight razor. She flipped it open before neatly slicing open the back of her own hand.
Shelby shrieked, too startled for composure, only to calm and stare as she realized Grandma wasn’t really bleeding. A thick, viscous fluid was leaking from the cut, virtually clear, with only a hint of blue. “What in the . . . ?”
“Cuckoos don’t have hemoglobin, dear,” said Grandma.
“Do they feel pain?”
Grandma laughed. “Yes, but sometimes we have to work past that,” she admitted, and put down the straight razor before dipping her fingers into the “blood” and beginning to lather it onto Shelby’s wound. Shelby squawked again, only to subside, looking puzzled, when there was no pain. Grandma smiled. “As I was saying, we don’t have hemoglobin. What we do have is a natural antibiotic, with preservative and painkilling properties.”
“They’re very popular with the kind of men who like building men like me,” said Grandpa. “Alex, let me see your feet.”
I stuck them obediently out, managing not to wince when he pulled off my shoes and started examining my blisters. “It’s all right, Shelby, honest. Cuckoo blood won’t heal you, but it’ll make the pain a lot less immediate, and we have drugs to help with the rest.”
“It should reduce scarring, though, and that’s a good thing, as Martin tells me you’re a very pretty girl,” said Grandma, finishing her finger-painting and reaching for the gauze. “You should both have showers, but I want you to leave this on for at least an hour before you wash it off, and I’ll make up a kit for you to use after you get dry.”
“She means she’s going to bleed into a jar,” said Grandpa. “Don’t sugarcoat it for the kids, Angie.”
“I got that, thanks,” said Shelby, closing her eyes. “Alex? You all right?”
My feet looked mostly intact. “I’m fine,” I said. Judging by the tightness in my back and shoulders, I might not stay fine, but right here and now, I could give the reassurance. “Grandma . . .”
“Yes, she can stay here.” Grandma began to wrap gauze around Shelby’s arm. “I don’t want either of you sleeping somewhere undefended until this is taken care of. Do you have any idea who may have attacked you?”
“No,” I said grimly, “but we’re going to find out.”
Grandpa’s hand landed on my shoulder, heavy enough to keep me in my seat, even if my feet hadn’t already been giving me good reason to keep still. “In the morning,” he said. “You need sleep, both of you.”
I thought of my room, where the mice were probably preparing a grand celebration to commemorate my getting set on fire. “About that . . .”
“I already bribed them to relocate to the attic for tonight, and leave you alone,” said Grandpa. “It was the second thing I did after Sarah woke us.”