Title: Boxers' Fracture
Rating: T for language.
Summary: Hurt in more ways that one, Kate returns home from the hospital to find an uninvited visitor in her Savannah home.
Pairing: Cannon pairings mentioned.
Disclaimer: I own it all, by which I mean a copy of Magic Bites, Magic Burns, Magic Strikes, Must Love Hellhounds, Magic Bleeds, and Dark and Stormy Knights...Hexed and Magic Slays are on pre-order.

The first three chapters of this story have been overhauled so it might be a good idea to read the whole thing again...and it has been over a year since I updated. Bad Beckles. *gives self Gibbs headslap*

November 31st - more than two weeks after the dinner that never was

According to the medmage at Northside, I'd fractured the distal end of my left fifth metacarpal. Boxers' fracture. The doctor blamed the punching bag. I blamed Curran.

Bastard.

There had been no word from him, apologetic or otherwise, and, barring Andrea, I'd seen neither hide nor hair of a shapeshifter since Doctor Dolittle reluctantly discharged me from his care after my latest brush with death courtesy of the rakshasas. Something was going on. It had to be. Curran wanted in my pants too much to stand me up. Something had changed and now none of the few friends I'd made despite myself were talking to me. Not only had the pie-stealing psychopath decided to cut all his ties with me he'd cut the ties I had to the Pack. Derek, Jim, Dali, Raphael, Aunt B…hell at this point having Doolittle faking hurt at me being seen by another medmage would be welcome.

To make matters worse, Andrea, my closest friend, had been…not herself, distant. But that could have been down to the fact that she now knew more about me than anybody else on the planet. She knew about the rot in my family tree and it was more than enough to get her killed. Death by uncontrolled vampire was bad enough but death by Roland would involve unimaginable pain. Even Andrea telling him everything she knew, including the secret ingredient in the special sauce, wouldn't make any difference, not that she'd betray me. Andrea would die horribly because it would hurt me, weaken me. The moment Hugh d'Ambray found out she was my best friend, she was a weapon to be used against me. Like I wasn't hurt enough already.

The splint holding my little and ring fingers together was already irritating me. Saying it was uncomfortable to drive in was a serious understatement. I wanted to take it off but I couldn't afford to lose even the smallest amount of strength, flexibility or movement in my hand, even if it wasn't my sword hand.

I couldn't afford weaknesses of any kind…magical, physical or emotional. The bitch of it was that I had all three and all three could be attributed to the Beast Lord. I'd outed myself in front of Roland's Warlord to save his furry ass, broken my hand hitting the punching bag I'd been imagining his face on and as for the emotional stuff…the less I thought about it the less likely I was to break my other hand or do something completely ridiculous…like cry.

Caring whether he lived or died was caring too much. Caring whether or not he was planning to apologise for standing me up…never mind trying not to agonise over him possibly not wanting me anymore…well that was caring to an almost suicidal degree.

Not to mention the fact if his furry high(handed)ness ever found out whose blood I carried in my veins he'd either keep the Pack safe by banning everybody in it, including himself, from having anything to do with me…which given the amount of contact I'd had with them lately he might have already done…or do something monumentally stupid like trying to protect me from the most powerful man on the planet. There was always the chance that he would try to use me to gain power but I didn't think him capable of handing me over to Roland even if the Pack would benefit in some way. A beast he might have been but he wasn't a monster and he wasn't stupid enough to think anything he did could take the Pack off Roland's hit list.

I parked Betsi automatically, realising that I'd spent the entire journey thinking about that damn cat. It was something of a minor miracle that I hadn't run anybody over or crashed the car. Shaking my head in a vain attempt to clear it of thoughts, I walked over to the house and considered drinking the bottle of Boone's Farm sangria I'd been saving.

Cool air hit me as I opened the door but the house wasn't as welcoming as it used to be. It wasn't a safe haven anymore. Even out of the city and away from the casino I was always on the alert for vampires at my window or worse waiting for me inside. The notion of running away had become increasingly appealing. Leaving town would solve more than one problem.

The wards, the strongest I knew, should have kept out everybody except god and Roland but magic had fallen the night before so it was with a creeping sense of unease that I entered the kitchen. I wasn't alone. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on me. There was somebody in my house but I'd never been lonelier. Of course a fight for my life would stop me dwelling on such depressing thoughts.

Slayer was in my right hand, smoking and dripping the liquid that never made it to the floor as I quietly went room to room, searching for the intruder. It wasn't a vampire, there was no instinctive wave of revulsion that always signalled the presence of a undead. Something else had broken in to my house, something powerful and clever enough to be a serious risk to my health.

Roland's Warlord was probably capable of breaking in. When we met I'd had the insane urge to fight him, to see which of my father's pupils was the better swordmaster but I was at a disadvantage now. I had my words of power but I didn't want to let on how many I knew, which was kind of dumb seeing as he'd already seen me perform serious magic, but if he underestimated me I had a chance at survival.

Who was I kidding? Tech was up and without a fully functioning left hand I was probably dead already.

The bedroom door loomed large in front of me. It was the only room I hadn't checked. Sweat trickled down my spine. I wanted to wipe it with the back of my shirt. I couldn't, not with my left hand and there was no way I was putting my only weapon down. Damn Curran.

I was definitely a dog person from now on.

With Slayer raised and ready, I gripped the doorknob with the functioning digits of my left hand and paused.

If I die Curran had better not blow off my damn funeral.

Please review if you haven't already, and if you have...tell me what you think of the changes via PM or anonymous review. :)