by Trudi Jaye
We manage to half drag Blade out of the Jeep and are attempting to carry his ridiculously heavy ass to the front of the building, when Mr. Fookes comes out the door.
“What on earth is going on here?” he asks, his hairy brows raised in surprise. His undershirt has a brown stain on it, right down the middle. Probably from lunch.
“I’m helping Hazel take her friend to her apartment,” says Nelson, not missing a beat. He looks up at Mr. Fookes like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Without even asking, Mr. Fookes comes over and takes Blade’s middle section like he carries naked, bloodstained men into the building all the time. “Let’s go, son.”
Nelson nods, I adjust my grip under Blade’s shoulders, and we’re moving again. Blade moans but doesn’t wake. His black T-shirt is wet with blood. If he doesn’t see a doctor soon, he’s going to bleed to death.
I haul Blade backwards through the front doors, with Mr. Fookes and Nelson following. Blade seems to get heavier with every step. I hesitate before the stairs and take a deep breath. Then we’re carrying Blade up the stairs.
“He weighs a ton,” says Nelson, panting.
“Only one more level to go,” I say. But he’s right; Blade is way heavier than he looks.
“I hate living in a building with no elevator,” Nelson mutters.
I grunt. “Me too.”
“Good for your legs,” says Mr. Fookes with a grunt as we turn the corner on the stairs.
We get Blade to my door and lay him on the ground while I fumble in my purse for the keys, and then struggle to find the right one in my bundle. My hands are shaking too hard, and my fingers have turned back into sausages.
Mr. Fookes steps around Blade’s prone body and takes the keys from me. He pushes the key into the lock and opens it. Inside, two more of my junk metal statue creations stare at us as we hesitate in the entrance. They’re smaller than the one that almost gave me a heart attack last night, but not by much.
“Those things are scary,” says Nelson, looking up at my sentinels. “I don’t like them.”
They’re both tall and straight, like guards in front of Buckingham palace. These ones are primarily made of bicycle parts and typewriters. I hit a jackpot of both at a local thrift shop not so long ago.
“Then don’t come in my house,” I say, thinking of my cookies.
He looks away.
“Where are we dumping him?” says Mr. Fookes, breathing heavily. “Somewhere close I hope.”
“In the bedroom,” I say, glancing around my living room, wondering how bad the bloodstains will be. I would put him in the spare room, but it’s filled with demon hunting paraphernalia and my lab equipment.
“Nelson, grab some towels from the hall closet,” I say, and Nelson runs off like he knows exactly where he’s going. He really has been making himself right at home.
Mr. Fookes doesn’t quite manage to hide his grin and helps me carry Blade into my bedroom. “Nelson’s ma has been working longer hours at the diner the last few months,” he says, as if this explains something. Maybe it does.
Nelson races back in and lays towels out over the covers, and then we haul him onto the bed. Despite his short thick frame, Mr. Fookes is surprisingly strong.
“You should probably call an ambulance,” he says.
I glance from Mr. Fookes to Blade, my hands clutched tightly in front of me. “He told me not to.”
He nods like he expected that answer. “You better take care of him then,” he says. “I gotta go. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Mr. Fookes,” I say. I’m so desperately relieved he was there to help—despite my reluctance to involve anyone else—that I’m tempted to give him a hug. I manage to hold myself back. “I appreciate it,” I say instead.
“You just take care of yourself,” he says with a nod. Then he disappears out the door with a wave of one burly hand.
Nelson stays at the end of the bed.
“You have to keep this between us, right?” I say to Nelson. “You can’t tell anyone, not even your mom.” I’m trying to make Blade more comfortable, puffing the pillows under his head, but he’s started moaning and moving restlessly in the bed. I’m trying not to look at the blood on his side.
Nelson just looks at me. “What’s it worth to you?” he says, but his voice is soft, like he wants to be a hardass with me, but can’t quite make it work.
“Continued access to my apartment,” I say, without really meaning to.
A flicker crosses Nelson’s face, a hint of uncertainty. “Why do you let me do it? Most people would’ve changed the lock by now.” He genuinely seems confused.
I let out a breath and consider the young boy in front of me. He’s dirty, and a little scruffy, but his eyes are older than his years. He’s been through a lot in his young life. I decide to answer him honestly.
“I don’t know really.” I shrug. “You don’t mess with my stuff. You don’t try to connect with me. You just wanted somewhere to go. I’m okay with that.”
“You’re a weirdo, Hazel.” He gives me a tiny smile.
“That is the general consensus, yes.”
15
“What’re you gonna do for this guy?”
I take a shaky breath. “Clean the wound I suppose. Stitch it up. Make sure he doesn’t get an infection.”
“You can do all that?” Nelson sounds skeptical.
Rightly so.
“Theoretically,” I say. It’s called YouTube.
I turn and head for the bathroom, searching through the cupboards for my first aid kit. It’s still in the wrapper it came in, which is good in terms of supplies being on hand. It’s bad if you’re hoping to be good at this kind of thing. I pull out the antibacterial soap and wash my hands thoroughly.
Nelson is peering down at the wound when I get back to the room. “It doesn’t make you queasy?” I ask.
“Nah, I got a strong stomach.”
“Can you help me, then?” I ask. There probably are laws about asking an eleven-year-old boy to help with this kind of thing. But I think I’m past those limits already.
Blade groans and tosses restlessly on the bed. His wound is still seeping blood.
Good thing I’m not queasy, either. Growing up in the compound saw to that. Unfortunately, this is way above my pay grade. I should definitely be taking him to a hospital. I stand there hesitating, until Nelson taps me on the arm—and I jump.
“What do you want me to do?” he says.
I rub my hands together as if warming them up. “Hold him while I stitch it up. But first I have to wash it out. It’s a good thing he’s unconscious, ‘cause I think this is going to hurt.” I grab a blanket from the hall cupboard, and cover his bottom half, to keep him warm, but also to stop myself from getting distracted by his naked body parts.
Luckily for me, the wound is down his left side, so I can get to it from the side of the bed.
I use the solution in the first aid kit for washing out wounds, generously splashing it over the open gash. It’s a long gash down his side, but it’s not overly deep. I start to feel a little more confident. Maybe this will be okay.
The sterilized needle is in a packet, so I rip it open and thread some disposable thread through the end. Just as I’m about to put the needle through his skin, Blade’s mobile phone, still in my jeans pocket, starts ringing and vibrating, making me jerk backwards. My heart is beating a mile a minute and I put one hand to my chest.
“You going to answer it?” asks Nelson.
I pull the phone out and look at the screen. Dave Cappello. What are the chances that there’s another man Blade knows called Cappello? Little to none, I’d guess. I hold my hand out to Nelson. “You answer it,” I say.
Nelson shrugs and takes the phone. “Hello?”
There’s silence as he listens. “He can’t come to the phone right now. Can I take a message?” he says with impressive formality.
He listens again.
“He’s hurt
,” he says. “He can’t talk to you.”
The voice on the phone is getting louder and louder.
“He’s here with Hazel,” says Nelson as he looks up at me. He’s starting to look nervous.
In a rush, I realize I shouldn’t have made him answer the phone; I hold out my hand to take it from him.
“Hazel wants to speak to you,” says Nelson, looking relieved. He hands it over straight away.
“Hello?” I say cautiously. I can’t give too much away.
“What’s happened? Is Blade okay?”
“He’s wounded, and I’m about to stitch him up. He insisted on no hospitals.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Yes,” I say, but my voice breaks in the middle. It’s not exactly convincing.
A pause. “How did he get hurt?”
“In a fight,” I say cautiously.
“With what? Tell me it wasn’t a demon?”
I hesitate, not wanting to tell him more, but needing to at the same time. “It was a demon, yes.”
“You need to ring Damien Walker, right away. That’s the only thing you can do.” The detective’s voice is in full official mode.
I make a face. I’d forgotten about ringing this Walker guy in my rush to help Blade. “Who is he?” I ask.
“He’s Blade’s boss at the SIG.”
Alarm bells go off straight away. This is why I don’t get involved with other people. It always ends up too complicated. “How could he possibly help right now?” If Blade won’t go to hospital, I’m the best person to get him cleaned and stitched up before infection sets in. I know that much.
“Walker will know what to do.”
“I know what I have to do,” I say. I look down at Blade. His skin is clammy and pale. “And I have to do it right away. Then maybe I’ll ring this Walker guy.”
I don’t know what the detective thinks Walker will be able to do for Blade. He needs medical help right away.
“You can’t—”
“I have to go.” I end the call and throw the phone on the other side of the bed. I don’t have time to debate what I’m going to do.
My hand trembles slightly over the open wound, but I know it has to be done. It’s not the first time I’ve done stitches, just the first time on someone I barely know. I start slowly at one end, pulling each stitch through his skin and tightening it.
I’m pretty sure doctors use staples these days, and maybe other more modern methods of holding wounds together, but this is what I’ve got on hand, and he did say no hospitals.
Yelled it in fact.
The needle gets stuck on a thick part of the flesh, and blood seeps out. Is that normal? My hand starts shaking again. This is much harder when it feels like someone else’s life is in your hands.
“Why’d you stop?” asks Nelson, peering around me at the wound.
I’m gazing at the gaping hole in Blade’s side. Doubt is starting to creep in. He’s unconscious now. There would be nothing he could do about it if I took him to a hospital. They’d know how to save him.
But what if I take him in, and he’s a wanted criminal? I know exactly how that feels, and I don’t want to be responsible for getting him arrested. A shiver of breath escapes my lips. I just have to get on with it.
I lift the needle for another stitch and catch sight of my wonky threading. The hospital staff would be doing a much better job than I am right now. I shake out my arm, trying to relax the muscles.
Slowly but surely, I stitch up the rest of the wound.
Luckily for Blade, he’s unconscious the whole time, although he groans like he’s in pain several times. Nelson watches me closely as if it’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen.
Eventually I lean back and check out my work. It seems crooked but okay. There’s some antiseptic cream in the box, so I smear that around the wound, find some gauze, and bandage my handiwork together.
I stand up and move away from Blade, shaking out my hands and taking big breaths.
“I can’t believe you just did that, stitched him up like that,” says Nelson softly. “That was cool.”
“Thanks for your help,” I say, and I really mean it. It was soothing to have another person with me.
“No problem. Better than what I was doing.” He’s moved back as well, standing near my wardrobe.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask why he isn’t at school, but he’s just helped me sew up a naked dude with a huge gash down his side. I think I should cut him some slack.
Plus, he’s not my responsibility.
“Come on, I’ll get you something to drink,” I say instead.
But first I stop in at the bathroom and wash my hands with the antibacterial soap again. Nelson watches from the doorway, until I gesture at the soap and insist that he washes his hands too.
He follows me out into the small kitchen area, and I open the fridge. There’s not much in there. “You like juice?”
“Sure. Thanks.” He sits on the chair next to the kitchen like he’s totally familiar with it—which he probably is. This kid has been hanging out in my apartment for months now. For the first time, I get a sense of how strange that really is. I pour the juice into two glasses and hand one to him, taking a sip for myself.
“Why do you break in?” I ask suddenly.
Nelson takes a sip of his drink. “I don’t know. At first, to see if I could.”
“Why didn’t you take something?”
He looks up at me, his expression startled. “I didn’t want to steal anything. I was just curious. You keep weird hours. Do strange stuff.” He glances to where the metal sentinels are standing guard in the lounge. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”
“And then you saw my PlayStation?”
His ears flush. “We don’t have a PlayStation. All the kids at school talk about them.”
I’m not really sure why I have one. I bought it thinking it might help my reaction times when I go out after demons. But I never play it. “Are you any good?”
“I’m getting better,” he says.
A hoarse cry from the bedroom interrupts us, and I race back to Blade. I hope he’s not moving around too much. My bandaging isn’t that skilled.
The blanket has slipped down over his body and Blade is slicked with sweat. There’s yellow liquid seeping onto his bandage as well as red from the blood. The skin on the rest of his stomach is purplish red and starting to look puffy. I put one hand to his forehead, and he’s burning up.
“He’s got an infection,” I say. “I didn’t think this kind of thing happened so fast.”
“Should we call the doctor?” says Nelson.
I shake my head. “I promised him I wouldn’t.” Then I remember what I promised him I would do.
Ring his boss, Damien Walker.
But I really don’t want to do that either. I don’t know Walker, he doesn’t know me, and I definitely don’t know if he’s someone I can trust.
“Let’s see if we can bring his temperature down a bit by ourselves. Grab my computer, let’s Google how to do it.”
16
Two hours later and I’m ready to quit.
I’ve changed the bandages three times. I’ve wiped him down with a cool cloth. I slathered on a whole load of the antibacterial cream that was in my first aid kit. Ice under his tongue, and on the soles of his feet.
Nothing is working. He’s getting worse.
Nelson had to go home about an hour ago, saying he’d be back tomorrow after school to see how Blade is getting on. I didn’t want to say it to Nelson, but I’m not sure Blade is going to make it that long.
He needs medical knowledge I don’t have.
My gaze falls on the cell phone still lying on the bed. There’s one thing I haven’t done yet. Ring Damien Walker. I’m not convinced Walker can do anything, but it’s worth a try. Nothing else has worked. I search through the contacts. Damien Walker has a speed dial number.
He answers on the third ring. “
What do you want, Blade?“ The voice is sharp and efficient. It sounds like he’s doing at least three other things on the other end of the phone.
“Uh… it’s, uh, not Blade. He’s ill. He told me to call you.”
“What happened?” Concern enters his voice, and I’m relieved. At least I’m calling someone who cares about Blade.
“He… he attacked a demon.” I say the words softly, wondering if I’m going to end up back in Ravenwood after this day’s work. I scrunch up my eyes and wait for the inevitable.
“What kind of demon?”
My eyes flick open. “Pardon me?”
“I said, what kind of demon?”
“I… don’t know. What kinds are there?”
“Was it small, medium, or large? Did it glow? Did it seem angry?”
“It was the biggest one I’ve seen, about twice Blade’s height. It only started glowing after a while. And it was pissed off.“
“What was it doing when he attacked?”
“Coming after me,” I say softly.
“How big is the wound?”
“Maybe five inches long, on his left side.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“About three hours ago.”
“Shit! Why didn’t you call me earlier? We don’t have much time. You’re going to have to do exactly what I say.”
“Okay,” I whisper, wondering who this guy is exactly. Is he right? Have I messed this up? I glance down at Blade, who’s tossing and turning on the bed, his wound purplish-red, his whole body slicked with sweat. Is he going to die?
“Have you done anything with the wound?”
“I stitched it up and then put antibacterial stuff on it and bandaged it.”
“Take all that off again.”
My first instinct is to tell him no. But he seems to know what he’s talking about. “Even the stitches?”
“Especially the stitches.”
I hesitate, fighting with myself over what he’s saying. “Then what?”
“Call me back when you’re done.” Without another word, he hangs up.
“But—” I hold the phone up to my ear for a moment longer, unable to believe he just hung up on me. He expects me to just do what he says without question?
