Chapter 4
Both sat stunned, in the wrecked shell of the car. The smell of fuel was strong in the air, and they could both taste it as they breathed. Scanning the empty street, both trying to see where the king had gone. After a through examination, they realised that it had disappeared. John let himself relax a tiny bit, slouching in the seat as he remembered to breathe. He felt shaky and weak. That little show had been solely for him, a display of what he was up against. It was an act meant to frighten him into hiding. It wouldn't work. He'd never been one to run from his fears, even as a child. He'd have been better of if he did run once in a while.
"What was it doing?" Angela asked, voice higher than normal. The brief glimpse of the demon had be terrifying. She couldn't imagine what it must feel like to know that it was hunting you. The fear would paralyse her. She wouldn't be able to think, to act, to live, with that threat hanging over her head. John seemed to be coping very well, acting like the threat didn't apply to him. It wasn't that he wasn't scared- she had seen his face during the attack and knew that he was, he just chose to ignore the emotion.
"Playing with us. It was feeding on our fear. That was fun for it." He sounded disgusted with himself at the reaction. He couldn't stop the wash of shame that he felt as he thought about it. The fear had been pure instinct, he knew, but it didn't quell the feeling that he should have done more than he had. Telling himself it wouldn't have done any good didn't help, and he felt irritated with himself, at his perceived weakness. He scowled darkly, wanting to be out of the car as soon as he could.
He tried his door, pushing it, but it was jammed shut. It would never open again- the warped frame had distorted the door to such an extent that it was sealed forever. He leaned over her, and gave the driver's side door a hard shove. It moved about an inch, before jamming again. Frustrated, he hit it with everything he had. It swung open, hinges screeching at the abuse they had suffered. The noise made Angela grit her teeth- it was like a combination of nails on a chalkboard and a badly played violin.
Warm blood dripped on Angela's forearm, and she examined him to find a long gash above his elbow. It was bleeding sluggishly. That claw had done it's work, after all. He seemed not to notice that he'd been injured. She understood it completely. There was enough adrenaline racing through her body to stop a train. Her heart was still pounding. She laid a hand on his wrist, feeling his pulse racing under her fingertips. He was tense still- she could feel the tendons in his wrist flexing under her hand.
"You're hurt." She said, concerned. The human contact felt nice, and she was reluctant to take her hand away.
He swiped a hand over the wound, feeling it. "It's nothing." He said dismissively, wiping the blood on the car seat. She didn't agree, but chose not to say anything. There would be plenty of time later to fix the cut. Still, she pressed his shirt and jacket back over the wound, both covering it and putting something there to absorb some of the blood. It would be hell to get off, but she had a feeling that he wouldn't mind. He hissed a breath through his teeth as she doctored the cut, but didn't move, but didn't move until she was satisfied. A tiny smile played around the edges of his mouth, and she wondered what was so funny. He didn't tell her, but she got the impression her mothering him had amused him.
He sat back in his seat, letting her slide from the car first. She asked him for her bag and gun, both of which he handed her before escaping the wreck himself. She was surprised at how relieved she was to feel the weight of the gun in her shaking hands. He stood in the doorway, leaning over the roof to pull the claw out of the car. It was hard but he worked at it, smooth muscles bunching under his jacket as he twisted the claw. It moved suddenly, almost throwing him off balance, but he steadied himself before hopping down, claw in hand. She'd never realised just how strong he was before.
She stuck her head back into the car, coming up with a brown paper bag for him to slip the claw into. The bag was a little too small, and about an inch of claw stuck out. He hid the end up his sleeve. It wouldn't do for people to be asking questions about it. Neither of the would be able to answer them properly. He could feel the tip against the side of his wrist. It was surprisingly smooth, with a velvety covering that made him think of deer antlers. It was still slightly warm to the touch, and felt a little bit spongy. He flexed it slightly, amazed at the strength it took to achieve even that tiny movement.
"Where to?" She scanned the area, realizing that her apartment was closer "Mine's closer." She offered.
He hesitated for a split second before saying "I'd rather go to mine."
She agreed readily. It made sense- he had the materials they needed to research the demon. Agreeing on the quickest route, they started walking. After about ten minutes or so, she slowed. He slowed too, looking at her curiously "What's up?"
She was limping slightly, her ankle sore from the demon attack. "Want to get a taxi?" She asked, not thinking. Pain flashed across his face so quickly she was left wondering if she'd imagined it.
Memories of a different taxi were playing through his mind. All the times he'd sat in the back, watching Chas drive, listening to him complain about the world span through his mind. He would never see a taxi again without thinking of his friend. He knew in time that the pain he felt would pass, but it was still raw and open in the middle of his soul.
She understood his feelings perfectly and started walking again, murmuring "Maybe next time," with compassion.
They walked the rest of the way in silence. He could tell that she wanted to ask him something, but was waiting until they reached the privacy of the apartment first. The building had that hushed feeling that they only get when everyone is sleeping. Their shoes made enough noise on the wood floor to wake the dead, or so Angela felt. As soon as she could, she slipped hers off can continued in bare feet.
He pulled his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door quietly. He felt bone weary. He ached all over and knew that nothing but a hot shower and good night's sleep would cure the ache. He entered the apartment first, scanning the room for trouble. Finding none, he pulled out a chair and slumped at the table. His elbows propped up on the table edge, he rubbed the back of his neck. He had a killer headache brewing.
Angela closed the door, making sure the lock clicked home. She laid her bag and gun on the table, kicking her shoes under it. There was a first aid box in the bathroom and she went to fetch it, bringing it back into the kitchen so that her supplies were at hand. She striped him of jacket and shirt, gently peeling the soaked cloth away from the wound. After filling a bowl with some clean warm water, she soaked a handful of cotton wool and cleaned the cut.
It wasn't as deep as she'd first thought, more of a deep graze than an actual cut. She poured a capful of antiseptic into more clean water and dabbed it onto his arm. He sucked air through his teeth, a mild way of telling her that it hurt. Once satisfied that it was clean, she wrapped his arm in gauze and wound a bandage over the top, fastening the ends with tape. It was a neat dressing and would last.
Her eyes were so heavy that she could barely keep them open, and she had to lean against John for several seconds before she found the strength to sit down. His face mirrored her own, exhaustion clearly defining the planes and angles of his cheeks and nose. The dark circles under both their eyes were so dark that they looked painted on. His eyes swam as he tried to focus on the table. There was no point in trying to do any research now. They were both far too tired to make any sense of the books. Decision made, he took hold of her hand, pulling her to her feet before leading the way to the bedroom.
The bed was neatly made, and had never looked so inviting. They collapsed across it, not bothering to get changed. He stayed awake long enough to kick off his shoes and pull the blankets over them, before he, too, slipped into an untroubled sleep.