Page 69 of Ghost Hunted

“Damien says to tell you: ‘I told you so.’”

19

Logan

“Hey, stupid.”

“Goddammit.”

This whole waking up somewhere with new injuries thing is getting really old. I try to squeeze my eyes shut then reopen them, hoping to still be on the curb I’d sat down on outside the apartment, but no: I’m in a very comfortable bed with white sheets and paintings of flowers on the wall, and Damien is sitting on a chair beside me.

“Where the hell am I?”

“Nice to see you too.” He stretches then goes back to typing on his phone.

“Damien. What is this place? What happened?”

“This place is a room. And what happened is you passed out like a pussy, and my guys had to carry your ass here.” He glances up, and I notice the flicker of concern in his eyes. “The doctor said he had no idea how you managed to walk around for as long as you did, given your injuries. A concussion and a few glass shards still stuck in your scalp, a bullet wound, a stab wound that cut off I don’t know how many nerve endings, half the skin on your side gone, and I don’t even remember what else. What the fuck, man?”

“Hey, well, at least no broken bones, huh?” I manage to joke feebly.

He scowls at me.

“I did see a doctor, though,” I add. “It’s not like I’ve been walking around untreated.”

“Yeah, well, not much of a doctor, was he? You had four glass shards sticking out the side of your head!”

“Alright, fine. Whatever.” I close my eyes, letting out a heavy sigh. “Where’s Lia?”

“And after all this, you’re still talking about her.” Damien stands up, pushing back his chair. “You gotta get your shit together, man.”

It’s my turn to scowl, my hands fisting by my side. “Damien, where is she?”

“You know, I wish I had kept what happened that night a secret, all those years ago. I should’ve intervened earlier when I realized you were stalking her. You promised to move on, and look at you. In a hospital bed with barely an inch of non-injured skin.”

I try to sit up, but it hurts too much. He’s right; it’s fucked. But that doesn’t matter. I meant it very literally when I said I’d rather my body be riddled with stab wounds and bullets than lose her.

“Where’s Lia?”

“You sound like a broken record, man.” But at last he relents, sitting back heavily in his chair. “No fucking clue.”

“Okay. I have to get up.” I try again to move, but it’s useless, and Damien doesn’t help me. On the contrary, he looks on, mild amusement marking his features. “Where are we?”

“In an apartment.”

“Yeah, okay, I figured as much. Where? In Belfast?”

“No.”

“Where, then? In Dublin? In…” I pause, trying to remember my geography.

“No; not in Ireland.”

“Not in… Ireland? Damien!” This time, I do manage to sit up, even though it hurts like hell. “Don’t fuck with me, man. We can’t have left Ireland. Lia is…”

“We’re in Paris,” he says, “and you’re waiting for a flight back to New York. Everest tried to get a private jet, but you might just have to go commercial.” He wrinkles his nose. “I guess it’s better for the environment, though.”

“Damien,” I interrupt him. “We can’t leave. I need to find Lia. Are you insane? We can’t just leave her behind.”