Chapter Seven
Her sudden silence made Ethan wonder if she’d taken him at his word and left, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe she’d go that easily without saying goodbye. Not after making so much fuss about being allowed to stay. Somehow, Cady struck him as the type of girl who didn’t like to give up without a fight, and he could admit, he kind of liked that about her. Part of him wanted her to stick around and fuss over him; he wanted it very much. But it was a bad idea that could only end in disaster, so he geared himself up to do what he had to in order to send her packing.
Ethan came out of the bathroom, expecting another argument. When he spotted her sprawled across his bed, he figured she must be exhausted. But better she get rested up in her own bed where it was safer. “Hey, time to get up.” He tapped her foot, frowning when she didn’t respond.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he tried again, shaking her foot harder. Nothing. Brows drawing together into a single line, he approached the side of the bed, only then noticing the beads of sweat across her forehead. His hands were cool from the bathroom sink but she felt hot to him as he touched her cheek. Too hot. Feverish. “Shit,” he breathed, shaking her by the shoulders, which drew a moan from her lips. Had she been wounded somewhere and he’d missed it?
Careful to preserve her modesty as best he could, he examined her from head to toe, the bare legs making an easier job of it. When he got to the nastiness on her shoulder, he sucked in a breath. This was bad, real bad. An infection from the looks of it, but something tugged at the edge of his memory, he’d seen it before.
“Cady, can you hear me?” he asked gently, easing her up higher on the bed, away from the stained mess he’d left the night before. She gave no response. Grabbing a washcloth from the bathroom, he laid a cold compress to her forehead, before he fired up his laptop, not quite knowing what he was searching for.
Instinctively, he knew there was no point in taking her to the hospital; it wasn’t a normal infection. All they’d do was shoot her up with antibiotics, but that wouldn’t touch the root of the problem.
Pictures… he knew he’d seen a picture of something similar before. It could be anywhere, a previous search on the net, maybe not even on the same computer, but Ethan doggedly searched through his history for anything that sounded of a similar vein. Cady shifted restlessly on the bed, and he looked up, his frustration palpable. What if he was wrong? What if it was a normal infection and by keeping her there, he was killing her?
Briefly, he considered taking her next door, dropping her in her brother’s lap to make it his problem. She was nothing to him, and he had very little time before the demon jumped to the next body. It wasn’t his problem, he’d already saved her once. She wasn’t his responsibility and he had plenty to do to clean up the mess he’d made the night before. Washing his hands of her would be the easiest thing to do.
Instead he got up and dipped the cloth in cool water, pressing it to her flushed cheeks, drawing it across the slope of her neck before replacing it on her brow. The dark web of infection was now visible from the neckline of the t-shirt like an intricate tattoo.
Tattoo.
Was it that simple?
Snatching up the laptop, he opened the folder for case files, scanning back to the first folder, labeled Genesis. Not a case, but documentation of his own process. It had been years since he’d sorted through the pictures, though he regularly added to it when he picked up a new glyph. Ignoring the documents, he scanned the pictures, back to the older ones. The ones taken by the Company.
There they were. The series of tattoos down his back, one by one. Stills of the result, but not the process. There was nothing in the pictures to differentiate them from any other tattoos received in a regular parlor, nothing to indicate there was anything out of the ordinary.
Ethan’s eye caught what he was looking for, a single picture showing him lying on his stomach soon after the ritual. The line of symbols tattooed into his back bore the same network of diseased lines radiating out from them. It was a shadowed blur to him, time dulling the memory of pain. By the time he’d woken, the transformation was complete, his skin healthy, but permanently marked, binding him to a single purpose. But the pictures captured his body’s reaction to the foreign substance, those same dark tracks as his body fought off the infection.
She’d been poisoned by demon blood.
If he was right, there was nothing modern medicine could do to save her, she either would survive it on her own, or she wouldn’t. When he’d been marked, the process was controlled, the rituals binding the demon’s power with his, directing it, harnessing it. But her exposure was under no such guidance, and to his knowledge, such a thing was extremely rare. Most victims exposed to a demon in any form didn’t survive the encounter.
It was his duty to report it. The Company would want to know, possibly have him take steps.
Ethan turned on his heel, knowing he was only delaying the inevitable decision, but he was thirsty. His side pulled painfully when he lifted the pitcher of tea from the fridge, but it could have been a lot worse. One, two, three tall glasses of tea disappeared as he gulped thirstily, standing nearly naked in the kitchen, a strange girl in his bed.
It was a new situation for him, and Ethan disliked change in general. There were too many unknown factors in his job. He liked his home life to be as neat and orderly as possible.
He’d seen her around the building, of course, he wasn’t that much of a monk. Some of the things she wore when going out with her friends... they made a man sit up and take notice, disciplined or not. The walls were thin, sometimes he heard her laughter when he was trying to focus. The annoyance at the interruptions had soured his opinion of her, but seeing her up close and personal… she was so full of life. How long had he spent in the company of death, ignoring everything but the hunt?
Realizing he’d found his way back to the bedroom again to stare down at her, Ethan took in the delicate arch of her brow, the siren’s hair already starting to fight the control she’d imposed in her efforts to bind it away. The shapely legs, her slender form masked by the baggy t-shirt and shorts; she seemed impossibly small and frail, nothing like the woman who’d hauled him back to the apartment in his time of need.
There was something about seeing her dressed in his clothes that he found sexier than the skimpy club wear. It made him think of what it would be like to wake up to glorious, fiery hair mussed with sleep, her eyes half lidded and drowsy. To see her padding through his apartment in a t-shirt and nothing else.
“Not for you, buddy,” he reminded himself, turning away. But why not? Why should he have to live like a priest? The vows he’d taken were far from holy. She was a friendly thing, and tough too. Not too many girls her age would have pulled a knife out of him and managed to bandage him up like that without falling apart. Why not? Except he knew exactly why it was such a bad idea.
He really needed to call and check in.
Ethan took a long, hot shower, washing away the remnants of his failure, covering the mirror out of habit after shaving even though it was still daylight out. Barely glancing at the girl, other than to make sure she wasn’t worse, he dressed and forced down three more glasses of tea, even though he wasn’t particularly thirsty anymore. Out of habit, he scoured the apartment, removing any traces of his blood or the demon’s. Venturing out into the hallway, he did the same, checking for droplets of blood in the elevator and in the parking garage, retrieving his dague from the back seat of the car. The obsidian ritual dagger was sticky, but unharmed and he was glad she’d thought to bring it along.
The car was a bigger problem, his blood had seeped into the upholstery, but he put that off for another day. He was still moving a lot slower than he’d have liked, but he knew he was over the worst of it. Within a few days he wouldn’t even have a scar to show for it.
Checking in on Cady, he thought the infe
ction seemed better, but it was hard to tell. The sun was high in the sky, and the apartment sweltering hot, even with the windows all thrown open. Ethan busied himself cleaning his weapons and scouring the net for signs of the investigation into the body he’d left behind. A random knifing in the Tenderloin didn’t merit the front page, but he found it in the crime section. The victim’s identity hadn’t been released yet, and details were few, but the police boasted several promising leads.
He really needed to call and check in.
Two more glasses of tea brought the end of the pitcher, and he brewed another pot of the potent concoction. Cady seemed less restless, sleeping peacefully. Her skin no longer held the sheen of sweat, though that could have been the cooling coastal breeze coming in through the bedroom window. The stain at her shoulder definitely showed signs of improvement though, the spidery tracks more red than black, about the radius of a tennis ball.
He really needed to call and check in.
Ethan fished out his cell phone, dialing the number without looking. “Shaw,” he said succinctly, waiting through a series of clicks as he was transferred.
“Identify.” The feminine voice came on the line, passionless as a machine.
“Shaw, sector twelve, number six five six zero nine.”
“Acknowledged, Shaw, sector twelve, number six five six zero nine,” she replied. “Report.”
“Currently still in pursuit of subject Q. Subject was identified and pursued, but the host was destroyed.”
“Casualties?”
“Only the host. I sustained injuries of a non-critical nature.” Ethan downplayed the severity of the injury, knowing he couldn’t appear weak.
“Do you require assistance?”
“No, it’s fine, I’ve got it under control. Standard protocols are still in effect. Estimate it will be two to three days before I can pick up the trail again.”
There was silence on the line, but Ethan knew better than to speak. “Any complications?”
His gaze fell to the girl sleeping on the bed. Now was the time to come clean. “No, ma’am. No complications.”