“I’m okay, Kid,” I said, trying to sound stronger than I was. “I’ll be home soon.”
The Kid cursed worse than anything I had ever heard him say and finished with “Later.” The call ended. Eli gave me the ghost of a smile and closed the cell.
“So,” he said. “What do we do about this little shifting problem?”
We. Always we. “I need to meditate and check out my soul home. Maybe visit with Aggie One Feather. Other than that, I don’t know.”
“Concur.”
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“No.” He stood and walked to the door, opened it, and stopped in the shaft of light from the hallway. “I got some clean clothes from your locker downstairs. They’re in your satchel.” He left the room and closed the door softly, very carefully. He had said satchel. Not purse. Eli had once called it a purse. Once. I’d decked him and he never said it again. I do not carry a purse. But this time there was no teasing. He was fighting slamming the door. Eli was really messed up.
I turned off the electric blanket and rolled slowly to the floor, the blanket sliding across my skin like steel wool. The soles of my feet hurt when I transferred weight to them. I ached deep inside when I moved. Standing slowly to let my body accept what gravity was doing, moving things around inside me, I touched my side with fingertips that were hypersensitive and dry, as if all the moisture had been leached from them, leaving me with mummy skin over skeleton hands. I found a puckered scar up under my arm, higher than I had thought. There was no blood on me or the bed, not wet, tacky, or dried. Someone had stripped me and cleaned me. I smelled of lavender soap and a female human. Thank God for that.
The wound wasn’t right, however. It felt as though it had healed with microscopic shards of glass sticking from inside the new skin. I hissed softly at the touch and tried to see the scar in the small mirror over the delicate table, but it wasn’t a real mirror; it had no silver backing to insult a vamp wanting to see himself clearly and without pain. I couldn’t get a good look, only enough to tell that my hair had come down from the bun at some point and hung in a scraggly, knotted half braid. I slung it out of the way, the movement making me aware of my scent and the smell of Leo and Edmund still on me, almost, but not quite, hidden by the smell of the soap.
Vampires have scent-marked Jane, Beast thought happily.
Gag, ick, and ewww, I thought back.
Beast chuffed with laughter.
Inside the satchel was my soap from home, shampoo, conditioner, and scentless moisturizer. Comfortable clothes I could pull on without too much pain. Someone knew how to dress when injured in the chest. Eli had been injured in the chest. I had never asked how because his brother had nearly gone to prison searching for that info in DOD and Pentagon databases. It was classified. But he knew how to dress for pain. I knew without asking that he hadn’t left my side, so he had sent for the things. There was even a bottle of water in the bottom. Portable. Unbreakable. Nice.
Sitting on a tiny bench, I managed to get into the shower and clean myself of strong-smelling soap and vampire saliva, all without falling down and hurting myself. Again. I slathered on the moisturizer and the jojoba oil soaked in, making my skin feel nearly hydrated. I went back to the satchel.
I dressed in cotton panties and a pair of yoga pants with a soft waistband. There were a selection of tops, and I chose a very tight, seamless Lycra camisole, one that would give my wound some elastic fortification, pressing against it with a steady pressure, not letting cloth or seams rub across it. Wearing it would mean I could go braless. I didn’t think I could wear a real bra, not even a sports bra, until the wound healed properly. Until I shifted into Puma concolor and the wound went away. I stepped into it and pulled the body-hugging cami up from my feet into place. The tight fit felt good on the wound, and the shivery feeling in the tender flesh eased. I slid into a soft gold cowl-neck sweater that I loved.
There was a brush and comb in the bottom of the satchel along with a scrunchie. And my tube of red lipstick, and my stakes that had been in my hair. And my official cell. And my thigh rig with one of Eli’s nine-millimeters in it. I had left mine at home and my shoulder holster wasn’t going to work, not tonight. Eli had known. His thoughtfulness was nearly my undoing. I was thirsty and shaky and tears pooled in my eyes. One fell and landed on my hand while I tried to unsnarl my braid. I remembered the blue eye that had faded green. I needed to talk to Gee DiMercy.
I gave up on my hair and checked the load on the nine-mil, set the safety, and weaponed up. The sweater hung long and I tucked the hem into the top of the thigh rig to keep it out of the way.
A knock came at the door and I said, “It’s open.”
Edmund stepped into the bathroom. I had expected Eli. The vamp stopped with that undead, block of marble thing they do, and he sniffed. A strand of horror in his voice, he said, “You are crying.”
Which made me laugh through the tears. “Yeah. I don’t even know why. I need water. Tears are a stupid waste of it.”
Edmund stepped back into the room and I followed, to the far side of the bed, where he opened a small refrigerator I hadn’t noticed. From it he drew a six-pack of flavored bottled electrolyte water, chilled and icy. He opened the first bottle and handed it to me with a slight nod, like a truncated bow.
“I’m not your master,” I said.
“Drink. Please,” he added. “Slowly, so you don’t become ill.”
And toss my cookies all over his fancy décor. I got it. So I drank. I finished off three bottles of water and set the empties beside the bottle I had finished earlier. The fluid made me feel better, but I probably needed more sugar and electrolytes, because the expected spurt of energy didn’t come. Before I could fall, I sat on the edge of the unmade bed. It smelled of blood and spit and other things I didn’t want to think about. I pulled my snarled wet hair to the front and worried at it. “Who did Eli shoot?” I asked, more to make conversation and keep Edmund from noticing the tremble in my fingers than from any real interest.