“Whoever put it there might be looking for me.”
There was a moment of silence, and then, “I think we need to talk. Get a good night’s sleep, and meet me in my office tomorrow. I’ll text you with a time.”
“You got it, boss.”
“And Blaspheme?”
“Yeah?”
“Be very careful. I don’t want to lose you.” The line went dead, and her stomach went sour.
What had she done? For nearly a hundred years her mother had stressed that she couldn’t trust anyone with her secret no matter how upstanding that person might be. Feared by angels and fallen angels alike, vyrm were born with a price on their heads, a price large enough that few could resist the temptation of either reporting them to authorities or killing them outright.
She doubted Eidolon would kill her for riches or fame or favors, but on the off chance that she was wrong, she was gambling with not only her life, but that of her mother as well.
She glanced at her watch and swore. Now, on top of everything else that was a shit sandwich today, she’d missed the first five minutes of Doctor Who.
Forgetting the popcorn, she hurried to the living room… and stopped in her tracks at the raw stench of fresh blood. A cold fist of fear squeezed her heart as she backed slowly toward the kitchen, her only thought to grab a butcher knife off the counter.
“Blaspheme.” The familiar voice rasped through the room.
“Revenant?” Very cautiously, she pressed her back to the wall and inched toward the sound of labored breathing. As she peered around the corner, she caught a glimpse of Rev’s giant boots on the floor on the other side of the couch. “What the hell?”
Rushing forward, she was shocked to find him sitting on the tile, propped against the wall, his clothes shredded and charred, a massive laceration extending from his right pectoral to the bottom of his left rib cage. Blood seeped between his fingers as he held pressure against the wound.
“Oh, shit,” she said as she crouched next to him. “What happened?”
“Bomb… blast,” he breathed. “I fucked up, Blas. Fucked up so hard.”
She had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the blast, but right now what mattered was getting him fixed. “I’m going to get you to UG —”
“No.”
“You’re in bad shape. You need —”
“What is with people?” He snarled, flashing fangs. “I said no.”
Okeydokey, then. “Let me grab my medic kit.”
As she pushed to her feet, his hand snaked out to circle her wrist. “I mean it. No hospital.”
“Yeah, I got that.” She peeled his fingers away. “I’ll be right back.”
Quickly, she grabbed her old paramedic jump kit from the cupboard beneath the bathroom sink and returned to him. His head had fallen back against the wall, and he was paler than he’d been a moment ago, his blood spilling in a pool beneath him. So much for her cleaning deposit.
“Must have been a hell of an explosion to wreck you like this,” she said.
Closing his eyes, he nodded. “You don’t even know.”
“I’d like to.”
His eyes opened. “Would you really.”
The cynicism in his voice pricked at something deep inside her. Did he think that people were always bullshitting him? Maybe it was a fallen angel thing, because her mother was the same way. Blaspheme might not be the most trusting person on the planet, but Deva left her in the dust.
“Whatever it is,” she said slowly, “you can tell me. Doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“I thought you weren’t held to human standards.”
Ouch. Way to throw that back in her face. “I pick and choose.” She unzipped the bag. “So spill.”
He closed his eyes again. “What’s your mother like?”
Whoa. Talk about a change of subject. But hey, if that was what he wanted to talk about and it would keep him calm, she’d humor him a little.
“She’s extremely high-strung,” she said as she fetched a pair of scissors from her bag and started to cut away his shirt. “But she’d do anything for me. She’d sacrifice… anything.” Including False Angels.
“My mother was like that.” His burned hands tightened into fists, and a shudder went through him. “She was such a fool,” he whispered.
Gently, she moved his hand away from his wound and pressed a blood-stopper pad against it. “She was a mother,” she said. “That’s what they do.”
“Fuck that.” He laughed, a nasty, bitter sound. “Got any alcohol?”
“Of course I have alcohol. I’m a False Angel,” she reminded him. False Angels drank liquor by the gallon, their bodies converting the stuff to the powdery aphrodisiac that coated their wings. Blas didn’t drink for that particular reason, especially now that she wasn’t producing the powder anymore and what was left on her wings was all that remained, but her disguise did make her crave it. “But it’s not a good idea to drink right now.” When his upper lip curled in a silent snarl, she threw up her hands in defeat. “Fine. But when you pass out from blood loss and alcohol, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She replaced his hand on the pad. “Apply pressure. I’ll be right back.”
She fetched a bottle of Smirnoff from the liquor cabinet and handed it to him. He immediately guzzled half of it. Gods, she hoped he had a high tolerance. He was a pain in the ass when he was sober; she couldn’t imagine what he’d be like under the influence. She’d bet her favorite set of scrubs that he was a mean drunk.
There was a moment of silence, and then, “I think we need to talk. Get a good night’s sleep, and meet me in my office tomorrow. I’ll text you with a time.”
“You got it, boss.”
“And Blaspheme?”
“Yeah?”
“Be very careful. I don’t want to lose you.” The line went dead, and her stomach went sour.
What had she done? For nearly a hundred years her mother had stressed that she couldn’t trust anyone with her secret no matter how upstanding that person might be. Feared by angels and fallen angels alike, vyrm were born with a price on their heads, a price large enough that few could resist the temptation of either reporting them to authorities or killing them outright.
She doubted Eidolon would kill her for riches or fame or favors, but on the off chance that she was wrong, she was gambling with not only her life, but that of her mother as well.
She glanced at her watch and swore. Now, on top of everything else that was a shit sandwich today, she’d missed the first five minutes of Doctor Who.
Forgetting the popcorn, she hurried to the living room… and stopped in her tracks at the raw stench of fresh blood. A cold fist of fear squeezed her heart as she backed slowly toward the kitchen, her only thought to grab a butcher knife off the counter.
“Blaspheme.” The familiar voice rasped through the room.
“Revenant?” Very cautiously, she pressed her back to the wall and inched toward the sound of labored breathing. As she peered around the corner, she caught a glimpse of Rev’s giant boots on the floor on the other side of the couch. “What the hell?”
Rushing forward, she was shocked to find him sitting on the tile, propped against the wall, his clothes shredded and charred, a massive laceration extending from his right pectoral to the bottom of his left rib cage. Blood seeped between his fingers as he held pressure against the wound.
“Oh, shit,” she said as she crouched next to him. “What happened?”
“Bomb… blast,” he breathed. “I fucked up, Blas. Fucked up so hard.”
She had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the blast, but right now what mattered was getting him fixed. “I’m going to get you to UG —”
“No.”
“You’re in bad shape. You need —”
“What is with people?” He snarled, flashing fangs. “I said no.”
Okeydokey, then. “Let me grab my medic kit.”
As she pushed to her feet, his hand snaked out to circle her wrist. “I mean it. No hospital.”
“Yeah, I got that.” She peeled his fingers away. “I’ll be right back.”
Quickly, she grabbed her old paramedic jump kit from the cupboard beneath the bathroom sink and returned to him. His head had fallen back against the wall, and he was paler than he’d been a moment ago, his blood spilling in a pool beneath him. So much for her cleaning deposit.
“Must have been a hell of an explosion to wreck you like this,” she said.
Closing his eyes, he nodded. “You don’t even know.”
“I’d like to.”
His eyes opened. “Would you really.”
The cynicism in his voice pricked at something deep inside her. Did he think that people were always bullshitting him? Maybe it was a fallen angel thing, because her mother was the same way. Blaspheme might not be the most trusting person on the planet, but Deva left her in the dust.
“Whatever it is,” she said slowly, “you can tell me. Doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“I thought you weren’t held to human standards.”
Ouch. Way to throw that back in her face. “I pick and choose.” She unzipped the bag. “So spill.”
He closed his eyes again. “What’s your mother like?”
Whoa. Talk about a change of subject. But hey, if that was what he wanted to talk about and it would keep him calm, she’d humor him a little.
“She’s extremely high-strung,” she said as she fetched a pair of scissors from her bag and started to cut away his shirt. “But she’d do anything for me. She’d sacrifice… anything.” Including False Angels.
“My mother was like that.” His burned hands tightened into fists, and a shudder went through him. “She was such a fool,” he whispered.
Gently, she moved his hand away from his wound and pressed a blood-stopper pad against it. “She was a mother,” she said. “That’s what they do.”
“Fuck that.” He laughed, a nasty, bitter sound. “Got any alcohol?”
“Of course I have alcohol. I’m a False Angel,” she reminded him. False Angels drank liquor by the gallon, their bodies converting the stuff to the powdery aphrodisiac that coated their wings. Blas didn’t drink for that particular reason, especially now that she wasn’t producing the powder anymore and what was left on her wings was all that remained, but her disguise did make her crave it. “But it’s not a good idea to drink right now.” When his upper lip curled in a silent snarl, she threw up her hands in defeat. “Fine. But when you pass out from blood loss and alcohol, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She replaced his hand on the pad. “Apply pressure. I’ll be right back.”
She fetched a bottle of Smirnoff from the liquor cabinet and handed it to him. He immediately guzzled half of it. Gods, she hoped he had a high tolerance. He was a pain in the ass when he was sober; she couldn’t imagine what he’d be like under the influence. She’d bet her favorite set of scrubs that he was a mean drunk.
