Her eyes, when they met his, were filled with pain. “It’s a bullet wound. I’m pretty sure they didn’t have guns back when—”
“The weapon doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “The wound needs to be cleaned, the bleeding stopped, and the arm immobilized. I can do that.”
She was giving him a searching look, and there was something in her eyes that he’d never expected to see from someone as fierce as she was. Fear. “I think the bullet is still in there,” she told him. “You’ll have to dig it out.”
He held her gaze without flinching and gave a single sharp nod. “I understand.”
She swallowed hard. “All right. There’s a first-aid kit in my duffel—that’s the big bag over there. It has tweezers, but . . . you might have to use a knife.”
“I don’t know what tweezers are,” he joked, trying to lighten her fear. “But I’m very good with blades, no matter the size.”
She smiled. It was perhaps the first true smile he’d seen from her, and it made him feel strangely proud. “I need to shower first,” she said. “Otherwise, I’ll just get the bandage wet when you’re finished. Here . . .” She picked up a small black device and aimed it at a glass screen on the wall. An image flared to life. “You can watch—”
“Television,” he said delightedly. “I’ve heard so much about this. How do I select the channels?”
She gave him an amused look. “You know about channels?”
“I told you. I’ve heard conversations on just about everything over the years. Your television shows are a frequent topic of lunchtime conversations.”
“I’m sure.” She handed him the small black box, then leaned in close enough to point at the various brightly colored buttons. “This is a remote. It lets you control the television from wherever you are in the room, as long as you’re line-of-sight to the screen. Line-of-sight means—”
“I can figure that one out for myself,” he said dryly.
“Right. Okay, here’s volume, that’s sound, up and down. That one’s for the channel. You don’t have a whole lot of choice here, but it’s a start. Once we get back to—” She stopped whatever she’d been about to say, but Damian didn’t need to hear the rest to understand. She’d been about to say something that implied a future friendship between them.
“Anyway,” she said instead. “There should be enough here to keep you amused while I shower.”
“Excellent.” He took the remote and began running through the channels, but as soon as she’d closed the door on the bathing room—no, they called it a bathroom now—and he heard the water start running—indoor plumbing, another modern improvement he was eager to try—he dropped the channel device and rummaged through her duffel instead. He pulled out the bandage kit, first. It was easily recognizable by the red cross on its case. He’d seen those on the ship during his journey here, and in the museum basement where he’d resided briefly after being purchased by Lester Kalman. Setting the case aside, in the event Cassandra inquired as to what he was doing, he continued his search through her bag, looking for anything that would tell him more about not only her, but her boss. He’d seen something in her reaction to him, especially when she’d realized he was the Kalman Guardian brought to life. There’d been a recognition of sorts in her eyes, and she’d been all too willing to accept his history. After all, how many people had spent the last few millennia as a statue? And yet, she hadn’t blinked an eye.
“You won’t find it.”
He froze at the sound of her voice, then straightened and turned to face her, almost faltering when he saw she wore nothing but a towel, albeit one that covered her from chest to mid-thigh. She made a very tempting sight, bloody shoulder notwithstanding. “I was looking for this,” he said finally, holding up the bandage kit.
“Uh huh. Let me save you some time. When I go on a job, I carry nothing that could lead back to my life or work. And that includes my boss’s information.”
Damian raised an eyebrow. “Is Cassandra your real name?”
“It is,” she admitted grudgingly. “It’s easier that way, but nothing else is real.”
“May I examine your weapons at least?”
“Sure, why not. We’ll both be better off if you know how to work them.”
“Thank you.”
“Whatever. I came out here for some clean underwear. Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” he said lightly, then leaned over and dug out a pair of fresh panties and a bra from her duffel and handed them to her with a grin. He’d seen plenty of those in his years on the rooftop, as well. Being both torn off and put back on.
She closed her eyes briefly. “Thank you,” she said calmly enough, though she couldn’t hide the blush of embarrassment that brightened her cheeks before she turned and went back into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
A moment later, he heard sounds that told him she was bathing. He shrugged and continued his search of her things. She said there was nothing for him to find, but he preferred to discover that for himself.
CASEY TURNED ON the shower, but let it run while she moved to the opposite end of the big bathroom. She wasn’t sure why she’d trusted Damian with her real name. It had been gut instinct more than anything else, and she always listened to her gut. Her head wasn’t quite as sure that he could be trusted, which was why she’d only given him her first name, thus limiting the risk. A truly dangerous spell would require either her middle or last name as well, in order to target the effects. Cassandra wasn’t a common name, but it wasn’t rare either. She’d also considered the fact that she needed him to remain with her, at least until she could reach Nick. A gesture of trust on her part might go a long way in that respect. After all, why would he trust her, when she didn’t trust him?
But now, she had to track down Nick. He had a tendency to go off on his own business, whatever that was, and he sometimes dropped off the grid for days. With a guilty glance at the closed bathroom door, she pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her bloodied combat pants, where they lay on the counter, and hit Nick’s speed dial. It went straight to voicemail. What the hell was he doing that he couldn’t answer the damn phone? With an impatient breath, she hung up and immediately called again. Maybe if she just kept calling, he’d get the idea and answer the fucking phone. She tried that four times before finally leaving a whispered message, covering her mouth while straining to hear, over the shower, any sounds of Damian moving around out in the other room.
She made sure the ringer was off before tucking the phone back into her pocket, then opened the shower door and edged reluctantly toward the hot spray, knowing it was going to hurt. And she’d pretty much reached her limit on pain for the night.
“Just do it, Casey,” she muttered to herself. She squinted her eyes shut and stepped under the water. She ground her teeth together to keep from doing anything more than hissing in pain, then reached for the soap.
She didn’t linger, but it still felt like forever before she’d done enough to justify setting aside the soap and turning off the water to step out of the shower. Grabbing one of the hotel’s big fluffy towels, she dried off carefully. There was one thing she never stinted on when she was working, and that was hotels. She liked her creature comforts—a nice shower, a big tub, good towels. There were times when she had no choice, but in a city like this, with a big airport, she could always find a top-notch hotel or two.
Unfortunately, the pain in her shoulder was making it really difficult to enjoy the fluffy towels. The painkiller she’d taken on the drive here had helped somewhat, but it was wearing off already, and the hot shower—while necessary from a hygienic point of view—hadn’t helped the pain angle. It was as if the hot water had reawakened every nerve ending on the right side of her body. Not to mention what the water had done to encourage bleeding, which was currently ruining one of those nice hotel towels she w
as so fond of. She might have felt guilty about that, if she’d had two brain cells left to consider anything except the pain.
She forced herself to dry off completely, then pulled on the pair of boy-shorts underwear that Damian had so casually dug out of her duffel for her. She looked at the bra, but gave it up as a lost cause without even trying. It was a sports bra. There was just no way she was going to be able to get that on one-handed, even if she’d wanted to try.
Far too aware of the good-looking god of war in the next room, she did what any self-respecting woman would do. She ignored the pain and stepped over to the mirror to study the wreckage. She’d done a half-assed job of washing her long hair, pouring on some of the hotel’s conditioner to help with the comb-out, though it wore her out just to think about that. Normally, she’d have slapped a quick bandage on her arm, taken a couple of pills, slept for about ten hours, and figured out what to do when she woke up.
But she didn’t have that luxury tonight. First of all, as she’d told Damian, she was worried that the bullet was still in her shoulder. Something certainly was. From what she could see, she guessed there’d likely be an exit hole in the mess of her shoulder, but there was still something firm in there, something that didn’t belong. She couldn’t risk going to a hospital, of course. Bullet wounds were automatically reported, and it wasn’t only the good guys like her who could do a decent computer hack. If her enemies were still tracking her, that would be one of the easiest ways to do it. They had to know she’d been shot. She hoped that Damian really did know what he was doing. He’d probably never touched a gun before tonight, much less pulled a bullet out of someone.
And he was the other reason she couldn’t blank out tonight. If she got a lead on the Talisman, they needed to be ready to go, and Damian needed clothes. He drew attention simply by existing—his height and his good looks, not to mention his overbearing personality, were hard to ignore. Leaving him half-naked on top of everything else was out of the question. She’d have to run over to the store down the road. But she couldn’t do that until whatever was grinding in her shoulder was removed, and the wound bandaged well enough to stop bleeding. Not even in a big-box store would she be able to hide that she was dripping blood on the floors. She doubted the staff would appreciate having to clean up that mess.
Sighing, she ran a wide-toothed comb through her hair using her left hand, which was awkward as hell. This should be a lesson for her. She was too dependent on her right hand. She should have been working with both hands all along, strengthening her left against just this possibility.
With her hair done, or as done as it was going to get, she wrapped a towel around herself, securing it tightly, then grabbed her dirty clothes, including her pants with her cell phone in the pocket. If her new roommate had been one of the men she sometimes worked with, she’d have taken the situation in stride. Bodies were bodies. She’d patched them up, and they’d done the same for her more than once. But there was a distinctly sexual quality to Damian that changed the equation. Maybe it was just his combination of confidence and supreme arrogance—historically, she did tend to find such men attractive—but whatever it was, it made her reluctant to get naked around him.
She opened the bathroom door, then stood there like a terrified virgin, holding her clothes in one hand and clutching the towel over her breasts with the other, staring at Damian, who was kicked back on the bed, one arm behind his neck, looking like an invitation to sin.
“I need your help,” she said, trying not to sound defensive.
His dark eyes took in her wet hair, lingered at her breasts beneath the towel she was gripping so tightly, and then traveled down over her bare legs and back up to meet her eyes at last. Casey simmered slowly. She was so tempted to tell him to go fuck himself. He could have the damn room. She’d get another, or maybe go to the safe house. She could do some research while her arm recovered, and then go after the Talisman once she found it. She’d done it on her own before; she could do it again.
If only she could be sure the arrogant bastard wasn’t important to Nick.
“Can you do it?” she asked with forced patience.
He grinned, and she ground her teeth when she realized her mistake. Everything would have sexual overtones for this guy. She’d have to watch her words.
“Can you help me with my shoulder?” she asked, her voice flat, her meaning unequivocal.
He stood and, without a word, pulled a leather cord from his wrist and tied back his long hair. “We’ll need light,” he informed her. “The bathroom is the brightest, but the work will be painful, and the bed will be more comfortable for you.”
Casey wanted to tell him that she could tough it out; that sitting on the closed toilet seat while he dug into her shoulder wouldn’t be a problem. But that wasn’t true, and it would be far less humiliating to admit it now, than to wake up from a dead faint on the bathroom floor.
“We can move the lamps around in here,” she said instead. “The desk lamp over there is an LED. Um, that means it’s very bright. If we move it to the bedside table, it should be enough. Just pull the cord there from the electrical outlet . . . the thing in the wall.”
Damian started for the desk, speaking over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ve done this sort of thing by candlelight. This will be easy.”
“For you,” she muttered. She eyed the bed, then considered the towel and underwear which were all she had on. Her arm and shoulder, front and back, would have to remain bare, but she could at least put on some pants. Walking over to the other bed, she shoved her dirty clothes into the duffel, pulled out a pair of cotton sleep pants, then pawed through the rest, hoping against hope that a tube top would magically appear. That didn’t happen, of course. She’d never owned a tube top in her life, and her duffel contained only an assortment of T-shirts, along with black combat pants, and one pair of jeans.
Her clothing was the story of her life. Her mom had taken off when Casey was barely walking, leaving her with her drill-sergeant father and two much-older brothers. Her father had treated all of them more like recruits than children, so she’d never had much of a chance to be a little girl. She’d been one of the boys her entire life. It was no surprise she’d ended up as one of Nick’s hunters. Or thieves. It was all a matter of perspective.
Yanking the sleep pants up her legs, she secured the towel, then turned around to see that Damian had set up his operating theater. She was rather impressed. He’d organized the bandages from the first-aid kit and set them within reach, and he was just coming out of the bathroom where he’d clearly been washing the instruments he’d be using to dig into her shoulder.
Damn, she was so not looking forward to that.
She met his eyes across the room. She didn’t know what hers showed, but his were patient and waiting. Everything about him told her this was her choice, her timetable, and he’d wait as long as it took.
She gave a resigned sigh. “Let’s do this,” she said, and had to swallow to avoid throwing up.
“Drink this,” he said, holding out several mini-bar-sized bottles of vodka.
Casey laughed in surprise. “How’d you know about those?” She’d never considered the mini-bar, hadn’t even remembered it was there. Stupid of her, really, because the alcohol was good for more than just anesthetizing her against the pain. It could also be used to sterilize the instruments.
“I explored while you were showering. I recognized the labels, although these bottles are ridiculously tiny.”
“Not if you drink enough of them,” she commented. “But you can also use that to clean the tweezers and stuff. I have some alcohol wipes, but probably not enough.”
“I used soap and hot water. Your soap is milder than ours, but it should do.”
“Oh. Well, yeah, that’ll work,” she muttered. “That antiseptic spray will work for bandaging, and there are gloves in the
kit, too. You know, if you don’t want blood all over your hands.” She took the vodka from him and cracked open the first one, drinking it down like water while he went to the bathroom and grabbed more towels. Tears filled her eyes at the strong alcohol flavor, and she sat down on the bed. She wasn’t much of a drinker normally, which worked in her favor. By the time she’d gulped the second tiny bottle, she was feeling buzzed. “Buzzed,” she murmured and smiled.
Damian smiled back, his hand warm on her back as he urged her to turn. Wait. His hand was on bare skin, which meant. . . . She clutched the towel to her breasts, stifling a cry when the sudden movement jerked her bad shoulder.
“Stop that,” he said impatiently. “I’ve seen breasts before, and I’ve no intention of spying on yours.”
Casey frowned. What was wrong with her breasts? She realized the drunken thought for what it was, but couldn’t quite shake the suspicion that he didn’t find her breasts worth looking at. Fortunately, her head was turned away from him, and he couldn’t see the expression on her face.
“I apologize in advance, Cassandra,” he murmured, as she heard the snap of gloves being pulled on. The nitrile gloves from her first-aid kit, her brain supplied, eager for any thought which avoided contemplating what was about to happen.
There was the touch of cool metal and then a pain like nothing she’d ever felt before. She fisted her good hand against her mouth to keep from sobbing and waited to pass out. Hoped to pass out.
“Not a bullet,” he said, mostly to himself, but she heard him.
“What was it?” she asked. There were tears in her voice, but she didn’t care. He was lucky she hadn’t drawn security with her screams.
The Stone Warriors: Damian Page 5
