by P. R. Frost
In his current temper, that described Donovan perfectly. Behind my mask, I swallowed a shaky smile.
“Oh, my gosh, Tess! Are you all right?” Donovan ripped off his mask and grabbed my bleeding arm. The fierceness of his grip only made me hurt worse.
He’d struck with more than ordinary human strength. He shouldn’t have been able to hurt me like that wielding only foils.
Coach continued to grumble as he picked up the broken pieces of Donovan’s foil and retreated to the benches along the far wall of the salle d’armes where he kept a tackle box of tools and spare tips.
Donovan helped me remove my mask and escorted me to the coach’s side, clearing the strip for the next pair of fencers. I still trembled with shock—both from the blow and the knowledge of just how short Donovan’s temper was. I’d seen what happened to demon halflings when they lost their temper.
They transformed and ate people. Innocent people. Honorable people I liked and respected.
Donovan’s computer game company was named Halfling Gaming Company, Inc. for a reason.
“Jacket off, Tess. Let’s take a look at that,” Coach ordered.
My hands shook too badly to manage the left side zipper. Donovan gently opened it for me and helped me shed the tight garment.
“Not too bad. Bleeding’s slowing down. You’ll bruise pretty bad, though,” Coach said. He held my arm from wrist to elbow. Gentle. Reassuring.
“I’m so sorry, Tess. I know better than to let my temper rule me on the strip.” Donovan guided me to a bench and urged me to sit.
I continued to stare at the splotch of blood, that had spread out from the jagged inch-long cut.
“Cold water, antiseptic, and a bandage will take care of that,” Coach said. “Staring at it like a couple of moonstruck lovers won’t. And ice for the bruising,” Coach added. “Should be a disposable pack in the first aid kit in the back.”
“I’ll get it,” Donovan hurried away and was back in seconds. He slapped the pack against the bench to send the catalyst into the slush and freeze it.
“No fixing this blade, Donovan.” Coach shook his head. “After a blow like that, I wouldn’t trust Tess’ blade either. You’ve probably weakened it.”
“I’m so sorry, Tess,” Donovan apologized again, kneeling in front of me while he held the ice pack on my wound.
“If I were you, Tess, I’d hit up Mr. Estevez for a replacement blade. Make him get you a de Paul, or one of those new Italian blades everyone is raving about. The more expensive the better,” Coach said and glared at Donovan. He carefully put the broken pieces into a long canvas bag for safe disposal.
“Hey, Gareth,” he called to a lanky youth hovering nearby. “Run a broom over that area and make sure we got all the slivers.”
I think I giggled. My usual reaction to shock. One that kept me from crying at the sharp pain that now invaded my entire hand and shot up to my shoulder.
“There’s gauze pads in my purse,” I said. "Two or three should cover this until I can get home and properly bandage it.” It would probably be three quarters healed by that time. The imp flu had left me with all kinds of antibodies and extraordinary powers of recovery.
“Let me,” Donovan said. His slow, sexy smile brightened as he removed the ice pack and kissed the wound. While he was at it, he licked it clean of blood. He ran his tongue along the gash, savoring the taste of me.
The whole move could have been extremely sensuous, a prelude to long, slow lovemaking.
So help me I couldn’t break his magical hold over my senses.
Then last night’s dinner conversation slammed into my memory. Vampire bats licking tiny cuts in their prey. Feeding off of their blood. Returning to the same victim time after time. Damiri demons becoming the source of vampiric legends. Drinking blood.
Only then did I notice that the dark bruise around Donovan’s eye had almost completely healed.
Yeah. Tell me again you aren’t a demon.
I yanked my arm away from his touch and dashed for the restroom, suddenly sick to my stomach and shaking all over. I splashed cold water on my face and neck. Then I washed the injury over and over with soap and hot water. Public restroom, antibacterial soap. Was it enough?
He’d tasted my blood. He could find me anywhere in any dimension to drink again.
“Scrap,” I whispered, hoping against hope I was far enough away from Donovan for him to come to me.
Right here, dahling. Oooh, that’s a nasty scratch. He hovered over the sink.
“D . . . Donovan licked it. Can you please clean it. Make sure you get rid of every molecule of him.”
Don’t know. He dropped to the counter, cocking his head and peering intently at the angry red gash. The skin already tried to knit closed. I pressed on either side to make it open again. Making it bleed again. I didn’t want so much as an atom of Donovan’s DNA inside me.
Scrap flicked out his tongue and jumped back, nearly crashing into the mirror.
“What?”
His saliva is poison to me. He spat and gacked.
I turned on the cold water. He drank and spat three times.
Then I stuck my arm under the stream. The water flowed over the wound, taking away the fresh blood. Then I soaped and rinsed it three more times.
“Does that mean he’s poisoned me, too?”
Doubt it. But this gives me an idea. Mind if I duck out for a few? I need to do some research.
“If you’ve got an idea about what Donovan is, then go for it. But don’t be gone long. I don’t intend to stay close to him any longer than I have to.”
Scrap popped out. I breathed deeply. Eventually I gathered enough courage to face him again with a calm visage if not a quiet gut.
Donovan had already fished the gauze pads and tape out of the zipper pocket in my purse for me. I bandaged it myself.
Poison. What is poison to me besides demon toxin? Donovan carries no trace of demon in that bit of saliva I tasted. I’d know. Believe me. I’d know if he tasted of demon.
An old memory tickles my brain. I may have tasted something similar before.
I hop over to Lincoln, England, for a chat with the father of all imps, the one carved in stone inside the cathedral.
He’s not inclined to chat. Turning into stone will do that to a body.
I’ve been in modern churches. No problem getting in or out. Same with this cathedral. Because of the imp glaring down from his perch? Does his presence get me past the gargoyles?
Just to test my theory, I scoot across the Channel to Notre Dame de Paris. This place has more than its fair share of gargoyles. Old and venerable ones with a great deal of power. I stand outside on the porch for a long time. Eventually, a human comes along and opens one of the doors. I follow nearly on his heels, walking every step. This is hard for me. My legs are bandy and short. They hardly support my weight. Imps are meant to fly.
And fly I do. Backward. The portal to this church repels me.
Above me, a particularly ugly gargoyle laughs when I land on my bum in a mud puddle.
Why? What have I done to offend a hideous gargoyle?
Disaster. My fall has stripped me of two of my warts. How humiliating.
I am so ashamed of my loss that I cannot bring myself to share this experience with anyone. Not even Tess.
Chapter 21
"I NEED A FAVOR,” I stated as Donovan pulled his car out of the salle parking lot. What better time to ask than when he’d just inflicted bodily harm?
“Name it, L’akita.” Worry pulled the corners of his mouth down. “Do you need to go to the ER?”
I inspected the swelling beneath the ice pack I still held against my arm. I slung my parka over my shoulders so I could keep it there along with some pressure. Hardly any redness left at all.
“No. I need backup when I confront Allie’s new partner.”
“Confront? Sounds ominous.” An almost grin. I could tell his blood was still up. He needed a fight.
“About twe
nty-four hours ago, my Windago may have tagged him. If he’s going to turn, he’ll be showing symptoms by now.”
“Got a cover story if we have to kill him?”
“He attacked and tried to rape me. I fought him off in self-defense.”
“Local courts and cops going to buy that?”
“I hope so. He’s new to the area. From Miami. Not well enough known to be one of the ‘good ol’ boys.’ ”
“From Miami?” Donovan’s face took on a new rigidity.
“What do you know?”
“Suspicion only.”
“Spill it!”
He looked away, swallowed deeply, made a big deal of using his turn signal at the next corner.
“Stop stalling and tell me.”
“D’s headquarters is in Miami. He has fingers in a lot of different pies. I find it too coincidental that a new cop from Miami shows up in a small town at the same time as D announces his engagement to a local woman. Then he gets tagged by a Windago? Too much.”
“Yeah. If he’d come from Boston or New York, he wouldn’t look so suspicious. Allie’s in Boston with Gollum. This will give us a chance to talk to him without her interference.”
I called police dispatch on my cell. “Hi, Millie, this is Tess.” Right person on duty for this kind of call. Millie was the secretary for Mom’s garden club.
“Yeah, what ya need? Allie’s off duty,” she said around a wad of gum. I knew from experience that she chewed and chewed on grape bubble gum for hours without blowing a single bubble. When the flavor ran out, she added more.
“I know Allie’s in Boston for the evening. But I’d like to talk to her new partner, Mike Gionelli.”
“Gionelli?” Donovan mouthed in surprise.
My curiosity level rose three notches. He knew the name. Too many coincidences.
“Whas up, eh?” Millie sounded relaxed, ready to settle in for a good gossip.
“We’re having a party in the next few days. I wanted to invite Mike to meet the neighbors socially before he has to meet them professionally.”
“Yeah, I heard about your mom, eh. When’s the wedding? ”
“A few weeks. But we want to have an engagement party first. Know where I can find Mike?”
“Long Wharf Café. He’s got an apartment nearby and takes most of his meals there. You tell your mom I wish her the best, eh. I can run a background check on her new beau if you need me to.”
“That would be . . .” Underhanded. Sneaky. Yeah, all that and more. Necessary. “Could you do that, Millie? Legally?”
“Sure. No problem. Can’t have some furrener making time with one o’ our own now can we, eh?”
“Good idea. Go ahead and start the process. And report back to me, Millie. Just me.”
“Even if it’s bad news?”
“Especially if it’s bad news.” Then, as an afterthought, I asked, “Did anyone do a background check on Dill when we got married?” He was a “furrener,” too.
“Just your dad. We figured he had a right to.”
“Yeah, he did, I guess.”
“We didn’t find anythin’ on him, though, eh.”
“Didn’t think you would.” And I doubted they’d find anything on Darren Estevez either.
“Say, you ever find that raccoon what bit Moonfeather? I thought she had some kind of special connection with critters and they left her alone, eh.”
“Uh. Yeah. My out-of-town friends found it, dead on the road.”
“Found on road dead. Just like my old Ford, eh. Glad I finally got rid of it.”
We both chuckled at her tired joke. "MoonFeather whacked him good on the head with a cast iron frying pan. Must have given it a concussion and it got confused. Someone ran over it. We had it tested. No sign of rabies.”
“Good thing. I hear those shots ain’t fun, eh.”
Another moment of chitchat and I closed my phone.
“Must be a slow night,” Donovan chuckled.
“About usual. Millie always has time to gossip.”
“Even on a Friday night when the bars are hopping and the parties going strong?”
“Yeah.” I told Donovan how to find the Long Wharf, three blocks behind us. He made an illegal U-turn, skidding the tires. Another driver yelled and shook his fist but didn’t stop.
We found Mike in a corner booth with his back to the wall and his nose in a book. Not one of mine.
“Mind if we join you?” Before he could object, I scooted in next to him. Donovan frowned at me as he took the bench seat opposite. We blocked the guy in. He couldn’t run if our conversation became uncomfortable.
I waved to the waitress, signaling a need for coffee and pie. She brought it right away along with water. She refilled Mike’s ice-tea-sized glass with more ice water.
“So, Mike, where’d you come from?” I asked, in my friendliest down-home, folksy way. I’d learned a lot from Millie over the years.
“I told you. Miami.” He folded down a page corner to mark his place and closed the book.
I scowled. That was no way to treat a book. So I dug one of my own bookmarks out of my purse, placed it neatly inside and smoothed out the corner. “What did this nice innocent book do to you to deserve that kind of treatment?”
“Um . . .”
Donovan just laughed. “Books are sacred to writers,” he half whispered as if confiding a deep secret ritual to an initiate.
Keep it friendly. Let him relax. He’d be more likely to confide in friends.
Only he didn’t relax. His slender body tensed as he drank half his water.
“Why are you here?” Mike asked, staring directly at Donovan.
“You know who I am.”
“Yes.”
“And you know what I am,” I added, more a statement than a question.
“I’ve heard.”
“Then you know you can’t lie to us,” Donovan persisted. “You can try, but you know we’ll see through it.”
Mike looked at the cover of his book, suddenly fascinated by the minimalist artwork and lettering of the latest thriller. My books sold well. I’d be extremely happy with a quarter of that man’s numbers.
“He’s not in your league for world building and emotional depth of character,” Mike mumbled, still tracing the book cover with his finger.
“Thanks.” Damn. Hard not to like the guy.
“I have a better question for you, Mike,” Donovan stilled the man’s hand with his own fierce grip.
Mike was forced to look into Donovan’s eyes. He remained calm. I knew the strength in Donovan’s hands and arms and winced inwardly for Mike.
“The Windago tagged you last night. Any swelling, signs of infection?”
