Page 33 of Fangbanger

19

LEAH

Marcus slams into the wall of my living room so hard that plaster dusts his shoulders. He stumbles. My heart tries to wrench itself free of my chest. He’s cold and pale and so covered in blood that it slicks my hands. Something critical has been cut. I’m not sure his legs are functioning properly. He smells charred.

“Bathtub.”

He flashes us again, directly to the bathroom, then falls heavily into the tub. His head lolls against the tile. Blood seeps to the front of his shirt. His pants are red to the knees, and the blood spreads down before my eyes, like a sick art project gone awry.

“What do you need?” I yank open the bathroom cabinet. “Bandages. I can sew you. I’m bad at it, but I can do a passable job. Or I can get Karina to do a spell.”

“Leah.”

I look back at him from where I’m crouched. His gaze is half lidded. “Slayer. I’ll heal.”

“How?” I whisper. I feel sick from the sight of him covered in blood. I’ve killed vampires before, but some have gotten away with their injuries, and confronted with the aftermath, I feel guilty.

“I’ll go into a healing coma.” His lids flutter.

I desperately need to fix him. I cut him up that first night here. I’ve killed so many. I would have killed him.

He saved me earlier.

Guilt rises, hot and acidic, in my throat.

“You sacrificed yourself for me,” I say.

“I am—” A wet cough. “A paragon of vampire honor.”

“That makes no sense, vampire. You weren’t supposed to do that.”

He pats the side of the tub, smearing blood along the pristine tile. “Come sit with me, little slayer. Give me good dreams for my rest.” One side of his mouth kicks up.

“Are you flirting with me?”

“If you can’t tell, that proves I’m bad at it.”

I stand, my stomach rolling. The blood under him blots out the white ceramic of the tub. Marcus’s massive body is paler than usual. I force myself to look at him clinically.

“Would feeding help?”

He goes still, except for his eyes, which dart over my body. “Yes,” he finally says.

“Fine.” I stalk forward, shedding weapons onto the bathroom floor. Everything in here will need to be washed or burned anyway.

He catches my wrist when I reach the tub. His thumb feathers over my pulse. “Leah, no.”

“How long for the coma?” My voice is hard.

“A week. Maybe longer. If I were human—” He coughs wetly. “I’d be dead by now.” Another hazy smile. “I don’t think I’d mind so much. If you were the last thing I saw.”

My cheeks heat. “Be serious.”

“I’ve had worse.” His thumb continues tracing over my wrist. “I’ll live.”

“Marcus.” I don’t want to think about worse.

His lids drop. His thumb stops. He looks dead, though I know he can’t be.