“Gonna be a nasty bruise,” he said, inspecting the reddened area. “Can you stand?”
“Not without help. But at least I didn’t break it.”
“You should probably get an X-ray. Could be a fracture. You’re gonna need stitches too, unless you want nasty scars,” he said. “But they aren’t too deep, lucky you. Looked worse before I cleaned them up. I did the best I could, though. You wanna go for a ride?” He nodded back to the ambulance with its flashing lights.
“Not particularly,” Armen said.
“You sure?”
“Armen, you probably should go,” Terry said.
“I am not sitting in an emergency room for seven hours!”
Terry looked at the paramedic. “Told you she bites.” He returned his gaze to her. “You’d go straight back if the ambulance takes you.”
“Terry can take me home,” she said to the paramedic.
“What? Why?”
“Somebody has to help me up those stairs, and I can’t shift with a bum leg.”
He turned to the paramedic. “Does she have to go to the hospital?”
“No, but she should do something about those lacerations.”
“I’ll superglue them, how’s that?” She gave him her best smug grin, though it hurt like hell.
The paramedic cocked a brow at her. “It’s called Dermabond, but if you think that’ll work, sure, go for it,” he replied and pulled a small tube from his pocket. “Here, I have an extra.”
“Thanks.” Armen smiled as she caught the tube. “Don’t worry, I have those little stitch bandage thingies at home.”
He arched a brow at her. “How about you don’t do that and get stitches with the Dermabond?”
“No.”
“It’s your face, lady.” The paramedic laughed, picked up his case, and walked away shaking his head. The other paramedic soon joined him.
Terry frowned at her stubbornness and looked around again. “Hey, Johnson, where’s Captain?”
“Outside,” he answered. “He’ll probably want to see you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Terry replied.
“I don’t know what happened down there with you two, but he heard it. Thought you should know.”
“Thanks. Come on, Armen, let’s get you home.”
“Don’t we have to do a report or something?” she asked when he helped her to her feet. She winced when her weight shifted briefly to her injured leg. “Ow.”
“I’ll take care of it.” He tossed his keys to Johnson. “Take my car in, would ya?”
“Sure thing,” Johnson replied, tossing the keys into the air a couple of times. “If you can get past the captain.”
Terry nodded at him and helped Armen hobble along. People scuttled about outside the warehouse, discussing what had happened and how to go about inspecting the scene. Terry did his best to sneak away.
“Armstrong,” Captain McNeil said just loud enough for Terry and Armen to hear him.
His arm was bandaged. Armen had to hide her smile; it served the man right for not paying attention and for not letting her or his officers do their jobs.
“Is it over?” His voice was shaky, a fine tremor underlying his normal deep tone.
Terry’s eyes met Armen’s with a question. She nodded before he could ask out loud. “Yes, it’s over. You can collect evidence now, although I doubt you’ll be able to convict anyone.”
The captain nodded. “I heard that. Go home and rest. Give me a report later.”
“Yes, sir.” He continued to move Armen along to her Jeep and helped her climb in to the passenger side.
“He’s shaken up,” Armen said. “He didn’t even yell at you.”
“Damn miracle, if you ask me,” Terry said as he climbed in and started the Jeep.
He backed out and headed toward Armen’s condo a few blocks away. She remained quiet throughout the short ride. Terry would again question why she spoke to the demon like she knew him. The sad fact was that she did indeed know Sariel quite well, and for a time far longer than Terry could fathom.
But she had a few questions for him too, like how he remained so calm in the face of a demon. Most humans would have frozen or run, neither of which was a good idea when a demon was involved. It made for great prey.
And they loved a good chase.
Terry helped Armen climb to the second floor and handed over her keys. She opened the door, limping inside at a slow pace, clutching the wall as they entered her living room. He followed close behind her in case she fell, which annoyed her.
Her living room, kept dark because she liked the darkness, was furnished simply with just a small sofa and chair, both deep burgundy to match the heavy drapes that shut out the daylight. A petite bookshelf in the corner held vintage prints, and the few paintings scattered across the walls complemented the gloomy décor, and her wary nature.
Upon entering, Terry made a sound so indefinite in its possibilities that she couldn’t decide if it was in appreciation of her décor or against it.
“How are you getting home?” She made her way into the kitchen to make some tea, shrugging out of the borrowed police coat and throwing it over one of the chairs.
“I can call a cab.” He sat down across the counter from her. “You should take care of your face first, Armen.” He stood again and made his way around. “I know how to make tea.”
She gave him a weak smile. The bandage on her face tightened, and she winced. “Thanks.” She moved aside, grabbing the counter for support. It was unsettling that Terry knew she was about to make tea, but she didn’t mind so much at the moment. She eyed the distance between the counter and the kitchen table, and hobbled forward. Once there, she studied the distance between the kitchen table and her bedroom. It was a long shot with nothing much to hold onto except wall.
She felt Terry’s eyes on her. When she aimed for the wall by her bedroom, she stumbled and fell to the floor. He ran over and hooked his arms beneath hers.
“Chri—, Jes—.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “Here, Armen, let me help you.”
She struggled against him. “I don’t need any help. I just aimed poorly.”
“Well, obviously you do need help; otherwise, you wouldn’t be on the floor.” He pulled her to her feet and leaned her against the wall. He palmed the wall near her head, and leaned close to her. “Armen, you’re hurt. There’s nothing wrong with needing a bit of help now and then.” His green eyes focused intently on her.
And he was too close. His warm breath fluttered over her lips. She tried to hide the gasp and hoped the heat rushing to her cheeks didn’t give away how she felt at the moment.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m just used to doing everything myself.”
“I know you are. But that stubbornness of yours has to give sometime.”
She closed her eyes and gave a short nod. “Can you help me get to the bathroom?” She opened her eyes to Terry’s widening emeralds and a smile stretching across his face.
“Wow! That must’ve hurt.”
Anger soared back into her. “Are you going to help me or not?”
He chuckled. “Sure, come on.” He moved his hand down to her waist, and with her arm around his shoulders, he helped her walk to the bathroom.
Once there, he lifted and set her down on the edge of the granite counter. “Where do you keep those ‘stitch bandage thingies’?” He only half-attempted to hide the grin as he drew quotation marks in the air.
“Funny, wisenheimer. I told you that was the word of the day. They’re in the medicine cabinet.”
“Indeed, you did.” Terry searched through the cabinet and found the butterfly closures. He set a few on the counter and stepped in front of her.
She lifted her brow. “What are you doing?”
His eyes met hers. “Helping you.”
“That, I can do myself.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “It’ll be better if I do it for you.”
“Oh, and you have a medical b
ackground, do you?”
He smirked. “I’ve been through EMT training, so yes, I have some medical background. Plus, half of my friends are firefighters and paramedics.”
Her smug smile slid off her face. Shit.
“Thought that’d get you.” He reached up to pull the bandage off, and she slapped at his hand.
“I’ll do it!”
“Damn, you’re grouchy when you’re hurt.”
“Wouldn’t you be?” She pulled at the bandage on her cheek, wincing as the tape yanked tiny hairs from her face.
Terry looked at his left hand wrapped in gauze and held it up in front of her. “No.”
She ignored the fact that he wasn’t complaining, which pissed her off, and stared at the blood already seeping through the dressing. “You should probably change that. There’s some first aid supplies in that cabinet down there.”
He crouched and searched through the cabinet. When he stood again, Armen had ripped the bandage completely off. From the way he stared at the wounds, she knew it must look bad. “Does it hurt a lot?”
She shook her head, but stopped short. “It burns a little,” she replied, which was the understatement of the year. “Does yours hurt?”
“It doesn’t seem to hurt much now,” he said. “I think I lost all my fingerprints, though.”
She smirked. “You could commit a crime one-handed.”
“Or red-handed, at that,” he replied.
She let out a groan, but then laughed. “Oh, that was bad.”
“You laughed,” he said.
“Because it was bad.”
“And still, you laughed.” He eyed her wound more closely. “Looks like it only got you with two fingers. The third is just a scratch.”
Armen waited for the questions to begin. She’d been dreading the moment he’d start asking about what he’d seen and why she could speak a language not known to man. The dread settled into the pit of her stomach, making her feel queasy.
“Where’s that Dermabond?” He yanked an exam glove from his vest pocket and pulled it over his right hand.
She pulled the compound from her pocket and handed it to him.
“Ready?”
She drew in a deep breath and nodded, waiting for more pain to hit her face.
“You sure you want to do this? The lacerations are awfully close together.”
She glared at him. “Make it work.”
“Here goes.” He applied the Dermabond to the first wound and attached a butterfly closure above the cut. Then he pulled the skin together and attached the other end of the closure below the cut, smoothing the Dermabond in place as best he could around the closure. He continued the process until the gash sealed.
Armen breathed through the pain, turned, and looked in the mirror to see Terry’s handiwork. “Not bad.” Although the gashes were worse than she thought. Damn.
“Thanks,” he replied. “No medical background . . . .”
She turned back to face him. “Shut up and finish it.”
“Oh, now I’m qualified, am I?”
“Terry—”
He chuckled again and worked on the next laceration. “Why does it burn?”
Here it comes. “Because of the nature of the creature.”
“Demon, huh?” His fingers worked deftly at closing the second gash, which wasn’t easy considering he had one hand wrapped in gauze. That had to be painful for him, too.
“Yes.” She stared at the wall while he worked on her wounds.
“A demon you were talking to in a language I’ve probably never heard before.”
“I’m sure there are several languages on this planet that you’ve never heard before.”
“Perhaps so, but you said it was the same language as the demon script written in blood.”
Armen sighed. “Why do you have to have such a damn good memory?”
“It gets the job finished.” He stood straight and looked at her. “There, all done.” He snapped off the glove and tossed it in the trash can.
She turned to look in the mirror again. He’d done a pretty good job. She slowly turned back to him, waiting for that question—the one asking why she knew demon tongue.
Terry held up his hand. “Mine now?”
The man was always full of surprises.
She took him by the wrist to undress his hand. Round and round, the gauze slowly came off until she reached the square covering his entire palm and those wrapped around his fingers. Terry winced and drew in a breath between his teeth as she pulled the gauze back, exposing the torn flesh to the air.
“Hold still,” she told him and inspected the wounds. “Damn, Terry, you’ve ripped off an awful lot of flesh.”
“Steel cables will do that when sliding down at fast speeds without gloves.”
“You’re insane for doing so.”
“Didn’t have much of a choice. I fell into the shaft when the razor wire started moving. I think I’d rather fall and shred my hand than get sliced up by that shit.”
Armen’s heart sank. “This is my fault. If I’d been paying attention—”
“Don’t start that. I’m the dumbass who couldn’t keep his footing. Besides, Captain set the damn thing off, remember?”
Terry clenched his jaw as she cleaned the wound. When she reached toward the medicine cabinet, she nearly fell into the sink.
He caught her with his right hand. “What do you need?”
“That jar there.” She pointed to a small jar containing a blue jellied compound.
He plucked it from the shelf.
“Thanks,” she said and unscrewed the top. “This may feel a bit odd.”
“What is that?” She applied a glop of it to his hand. “It tingles.”
“It’s a salve I made. Works great for pretty much anything.”
“Special herbs and whatnot?”
“Something like that.”
“Why didn’t we put that on your face?”
She smoothed the salve around his hand. “It won’t work on my wound because it was made by a demon. I’ll have to grin and bear it.” She replaced the dressing pads with new ones and reached for a new roll of gauze. As she unrolled it around his hand, her eyes met his again. “Why didn’t you go to the hospital?”
Terry grinned. “I didn’t want to sit in the emergency room for seven hours, either.”
Armen laughed. “Nice excuse.”
“Wonder where I got it from. Besides, I knew you’d take care of me.” He looked at his hand when she finished wrapping it up. “There isn’t any pain at all now.”
She smiled. “Special herbs and whatnot.”
He chuckled, and his hand dropped to her thigh. “How’s your leg?”
She sucked in a breath from the touch. “It aches,” she replied. “Probably ache more tomorrow, but I’ll manage.”
“Like you always do.”
She turned away because his eyes held that caring crap she didn’t want to consider.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Terry stood too close to her. He leaned forward, slowly gliding his uninjured hand to her ear and cupping the side of her head. He combed his fingers through her loosened hair and held it suspended.
“You want me to help you wash this out?” His voice held a softness too personal for two people who just worked together.
She looked from the corner of her eye, seeing the blood and dirt caked in her blonde locks. “Damn,” she said. “No, I think I can do that. Just help me over to the tub.” She carefully pulled off her hoodie and saw the seared claw print on her arm. “Shit. I was wondering why my arm hurt.” The wound wasn’t open, having already started to heal, which it would do much faster than the gashes in her cheek since her flesh wasn’t ripped open.
Terry lightly touched the burn marks. “He grabbed you there. I remember you were chanting something when it happened.” He looked around the room. “Don’t you still have that cane from the last time you got hurt?”
“It’s in the closet.”
Terry helped her off the counter and to the edge of the tub. “I’ll get it for you.” The teapot began its whistle. “And then I’ll get that.”
Armen leaned forward and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature. She reached up for the showerhead, but it was too far.
“Damn it,” she mumbled.
The light flipped on in her closet. She eyed the showerhead’s distance, braced her left leg, and grabbed the wall for support to climb up and grab it.
“Holy hell, do you have enough shoes?” he shouted from within the small walk-in.
“No, I don’t,” she returned.
As she made her way slowly up the wall, her foot shifted and she started to lose her balance. She sat back down on the tub’s edge. “Fuck.”
The teapot’s whistle grew louder. She heard him hit the light, and then he walked back into the bathroom to find her attempting to reach the showerhead again.
“For the love of God, can’t you just ask for help?” He placed the cane next to the tub and grabbed the showerhead for her.
“The last time I asked, you mocked me.”
He walked out of the room shaking his head. “I’ll make the tea.”
“You do that,” she replied and soaked her hair.
Armen hobbled out with her cane and a wet head a few minutes later to find the teabags steeping. She sat at the table where Terry placed a cup for her.
“You used the green tea, right?” When he nodded, she asked, “Could you get the honey for me, please?”
He picked it up from the counter next to the toaster. “Here you go, honey,” he said and handed it to her.
She eyed him and he grinned when she shook her head. “You’re so not funny.”
“Yes I am.” He sat down and circled both arms around his mug. “So.” He paused intentionally so she would look at him. She’d become accustomed to this tactic after working with him a few years. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”
She blinked in surprise, shock throwing her for a loop. “What . . . why?”
Terry grinned. “Because I want to see you in that little black dress I saw in your closet.”
“Oh God, Terry,” she said. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
He remained stone-faced. “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”
Dusk of Death: an Armen Leza, Demon Hunter novel (Armageddon Trilogy Book 1) Page 3
