Page 97 of Cruel Kiss

The stupidest three words in the English language.

Of course I'm going to fucking worry.

"What hospital?"

"Methodist. In Park Slope. But you should not—Ronan said you should stay home, it is not safe?—"

"I'm coming."

"Mrs. Akov?—"

"I'm coming, Grigor. Send me a car or I'll drive myself, but I am coming, and if you argue with me, you're going to make it worse."

There's a pause. A sigh. Then: "A car will be at your door in six minutes."

I call my mom. She's chirping something about a knitting pattern as she answers, but I cut right over her. "Mom. I need you to come get the kids. Right now. Something happened and I have to go. I don't know how long I'll be."

God bless her, she doesn't bombard me with questions. "I'm getting my coat," is all she says. "Go. I'll let myself in. Go, baby."

The kids are upstairs. Hayden's got a documentary on. Isabella's got Doctor Fuzz on the windowsill in his little box. She hasn't taken her eyes off him since he went into his cocoon. I go up and, in the lightest, happiest voice I can muster, I tell them Grandma's coming and Mommy has a work thing and I love them, I love them so much, be good.

Isabella asks, "Is Mr. Ronan coming home for dinner?"

"I hope so, baby. I hope so."

The car ride is a blur.

I look out the window in amazement as we go. How can people keep living their normal lives in a time like this? Walking dogs,carrying groceries? Don't they know that this is only the first shot? That more are coming? That Lev made a threat, and now, he's starting to make good on that threat?

Don't they know all the horrible things that could happen next?

They don't. And truthfully, neither do I. All I know is that Navi getting shot feels like the beginning of what might be the end.

The emergency entrance is chaos and fluorescent light. I don't know where to go, so I charge toward the loud part. They stick out like a sore thumb: a knot of men in dark coats clustered in a waiting area near a set of double doors markedSURGICAL. One of them detaches from the bunch when he sees me coming and comes to greet me.

"Mrs. Akov," he says in the same voice that spoke to me on the phone. This must be Grigor, then. I don't bother correcting him on the use of the wrong last name. It kind of feels good right now, to be honest.

"What's going on? What happened? Where's?—"

"Navi is in surgery," he explains. "Two hours or so left, they tell us. Maybe more. Ronan is—" He tips his head toward the corner.

And there he is.

Ronan is sitting in a molded plastic chair against the wall. He's not sitting like himself. The whole Prince of Darkness thing is gone. He's folded forward with his elbows on his knees and his head down. He's still in his shirt from this morning, and the shirt?—

The shirt issoaked.

Not spattered. Not stained.Soaked. From the chest down to the waist, dark and stiffening, brown at the edges where it's started to dry, and his hands, resting loose between his knees, are the same. Rust-colored to the wrist. Dried into the creases. There's a smear of it across his jaw where he must have touched his own face without knowing.

He looks up when I'm halfway across the room, like he felt me coming.

His eyes are gone. Red-rimmed and hollow and lost, the eyes of a man who has seen death.

I don't say his name. I don't say anything. I just cross the last of the distance, grab two fistfuls of that ruined shirt, right at the front, right in the worst of it, and I hold on.

The blood is tacky against my palms. It's still faintly warm in the deepest folds, or maybe I'm imagining that. One thing is beyond doubt: My hands are full of another man's blood and I don't let go.

"You're okay," I say. It comes out more like a question than I wanted it to. "Grigor said you're okay. Are you okay? Tell me you're okay."