Chapter 13

...

The men in blue were at the top of the hill, out of sight for the moment. But only for a moment. I was panicking, so I turned to the old standby. I whispered to Bryce quickly: "I'm sorry, I know it hurts, but whatever you do, don't move."

I cast my trusty cover spell. We disappeared from view. Just in time. I spotted the first man coming over the crest of the hill. There appeared to be mass confusion, for they were shouting back and forth at one another. And through it all, they kept yelling, "Find the witch!"

Underneath me I could feel Bryce's chest rise and fall in an irregular rhythm. Staying on top of him probably hadn't been the best decision, but it had been the fastest and surest way to keep the cover spell over both of us. It also allowed me the chance to apply pressure to his arm, which should help slow the bleeding. As long as he hadn't been hit anywhere else...but I wasn't letting myself think that way. We would be fine. If the soldiers ever left so I could cast a cover spell. I berated myself; a simple healing charm before I had hidden us might have helped him. Now we were trapped. Surrounded and stuck.

More men were coming over the crest and I was beginning to really panic. I couldn't cast until they left, but how long did Bryce have to wait?

Something erupted in the distance. I couldn't make out the sound, but I heard the men pointing it out to one another. Grant and Paulson, hopefully. The men didn't seem the most organized of soldiers. I wouldn't have stood a chance against a Cabal trained force. But finally—years later, if felt like—the men drifted away. I waited ten more seconds and then immediately cast a healing spell. Hands over a bloody hole I urged the blood to still. I knew that spell too well. It would help with the pain too, at least until I could get a better look and figure out the best spells for him.

"We need to go. Come on."

Bryce groaned, but the sound relieved me more than anything else. There was blood everywhere, but at least he was alive to be miserable. I helped him rise and put his right arm over my shoulder. His left arm dangled loosely from his side, and the blood began to flow down it. Considering he had just been shot, he was pretty coherent, even if he stumbled a few times before we got to the drain.

I slipped behind the rock and cringed as he barely slipped through, wincing in pain. Helping him deeper into the drain, I cast on the entrance, hoping to disguise the opening for anyone who wasn't looking too closely. I carefully helped Bryce lie back against the sewer wall. He was suddenly very quiet.

"Bryce, please say something. It'll be a lot harder to fix you if you go into shock," I whispered as I felt around the bloody hole. It was a lot bigger than I had expected—stupid musket balls.

"The Pussycat Dolls?" At least he wasn't complaining about the pain he was evidently feeling. "You listen to the Pussycat Dolls?"

I ignored him, searching around the drain for a better source of light. Finally, I conjured up a small ball of fire. "Hold this," I said and Bryce used his right hand to support the light.

"How could you not think to turn off you're cell?" he complained.

"I'm sorry that wasn't my first priority when we started running for our lives. Fuck. I can't see anything with all this blood."

He was biting his lip, but choked out through the pain: "You're completely not worth this."

I could have told him that. But now wasn't the time for any of that—he could make me feel guilty later. There was sweat running down his forehead and my first cursory healing spell hadn't done the trick. It would be better if I could place my hands right over the wounds, even if it was less sanitary.

I grabbed the material of his Babyshambles t-shirt around the collar and pulled. It didn't work. Of course. Even his t-shirts were well made. I ended up gnawing on the material with my teeth. Eventually I was able to rip the thing completely down the middle. The sleeve was easier to get off.

"I liked that shirt."

"I couldn't let the opportunity to undress you pass me by," I said, not really paying attention. The wound was still spurting blood, from the gigantic hole right in the middle of his upper arm, but it was more of a gurgle now. If I could just get my hand on the exit wound, I might be able to fix it up all by myself.

He moaned when I pulled the material off completely, but it came off, which was the best I could hope for. There were some remnants in the wound that would just have to stay there for the moment. I pulled him a little away from the wall that he had been resting against so I could find the exit wound. There wasn't one. Crap. Crap, crap and double crap. Magic could heal, but removing a musket ball was beyond my skills.

I cast another spell for the pain and then told him, "I can't fix this. You need to get to a hospital."

"We can't."

"Bryce, I can't fix this. You have to—"

"If we go to a hospital, Grandpa will find out I've been shot. If he finds out, you're dead. Straight away. Bye-bye witch. And Leech. Grandpa's been looking for an excuse to appease the necromancers for years. Not to mention Grant, though at this moment I can't really feel too bad about that. Then Grandpa will raze California looking for the people who did this. That is not good for anyone."

The part where I was shot on sight convinced me that a hospital wasn't the way to go. Still... "You need medical attention, Bryce."

And suddenly Grant appeared in the alcove, looking as pristine as usual. He took one look and for a second the professional mask shattered and he was terrified. "Sir?"

"Where the fuck were you?" Bryce hissed.

"We don't have time for this. Figure out a way to get us out of here," I begged.

Grant took one moment to look completely lost. Then he was on it. "We can get out through the sewage system. Paulson is parked on a street two blocks over. I should be able to transport us. We can travel to the company clinic from there."

"No clinic," Bryce insisted. He closed his eyes, thinking. Finally: "Nadira. Take me to Nadira's."

"Yes, sir," Grant said.

I stood back and Grant leaned over, touching Bryce and then disappearing. He was back a moment later and before I had time to ask why he had grabbed my arm and was bringing me down the tunnel. Then he teleported us up.

Paulson was in the driver's seat, Bryce curled up against the right window when I was brought in. Grant really was good—it took a lot of precision to teleport other people into such small spaces. Of course, he should have been there before, but I wasn't about to argue the point.

Through the window I could see we were on the next street over. Bryce's car was still in front of Savannah's house. He was going to be so pissed. When we were safely away, I risked a tentative, "I'm so sorry. I should—"

If he hadn't been about to bleed out, he would have snapped. As it was, he glared. "Shut up. I don't want to hear it." His voice rose. "Where they hell were you two?"

Grant turned around. "Sir? We were at the park down the street, like you told us to be. We returned when we heard gunshots."

"I tried..." Bryce's indignation was cut off as his eyes fluttered closed.

I frantically checked for a pulse, pressing stained fingers against his pale skin. Healing spells I could do—doctoring, not so much. It was a long thirty seconds before I found the faint fluttering beneath the surface. There was so much blood.

Paulson caught my eye in the rear-view mirror and the car seemed to go faster. My fingers dug just a little bit further into Bryce's arm. I didn't like death very much. And there was also the fact that if I got a Nast killed, I might as well shoot myself right then and hope Thomas would let it go at that. If I was lucky, he would only arrange for a few centuries of afterlife torment.

The moment of panic subsided and I cast a blood replenishing spell. It might not have been safe—I wasn't exactly sure how much blood he had lost, but with all the blood that Bryce was dripping on my shirt, I figured I could get away with it. "You need to stay conscious, okay? Talk, yell, I don't care. Just keep awake."

"Just leave me alone."

"How about you tell me where we're going?" I suggested. "Bryce, come on. Keep your eyes open."

Even half-unconscious, he managed to look peeved. "Fine. Her name's Nadira Patel. We went to school together."

"Harvard?" How sad was it that I knew where he went to school, simply because he was a sorcerer?

"Berkley. And high school," he admitted. "She's a shaman...her dad's on the board of directors. I think he told her to get close to me. I couldn't stand her."

"Oh good. I can't wait to ask her for help," I muttered.

"She grows on you. And she finally got Leech to ask Claire out. Shut him up. Not that...she was good people, Claire. You would have liked her. She couldn't stand me. Cringed every time I came over. She never forgave me for getting Leech arrested that one time."

"Arrested?"

"It wasn't my fault," Bryce muttered. "Leech has bad luck." I'll bet. But Bryce seemed a bit better. I think I had even managed to stop the bleeding. He continued the conversation. "There are a few rules about Nadira."

"I'm listening."

"Her husband just died, so try and not mention that."

"That's awful. What happened?"

"He was eighty-three. Personally, I think it was the sex that killed him, but I'm no doctor."

"I thought you went to high school...Eighty?"

"Three," Bryce began to laugh manically, which jostled his arm until he was wincing in pain again. I cast another spell for the pain. "He was an old friend of the family. Emphasis on the old. Her dad wanted her to marry...long story short, she married a man almost sixty years older. And unfortunately, they were still soul mates. So don't mention him."

"Okay."

"And don't mention her." Bryce hefted himself up even as I tried to keep him staying still. "Ever. No one can know that you met her. Only Leech. No one else, not even Sean. I'm not supposed to visit her."

"Why not?"

He didn't answer as an enormous white villa appeared in front of us. I had to find myself a husband sixty years my senior. Palm trees lined the driveway and an elaborate wrought-iron fence barred the way between the towering white walls that surrounded the place. There was an intercom and Paulson quickly brought the car up beside it.

Grant sais something to the servant who answered and eventually a melodious voice came over the tiny speaker, a voice that made it clear we were talking to someone important: "Speak to me."

Paulson leaned over and answered. "Excuse me, ma'am. I have Bryce Nast here. He would like to come in."

There was a slight pause and then: "Bryce! How are you? I've missed you dreadfully. Come in, come in. How come this is the first I'm hearing about you being out West? You better have loads to tell me. Come in."

Bryce was drifting out of consciousness again, but managed to grab my hand. "And whatever you do, don't pay attention to anything she says. Understand? Gillian?"

"You're going to hurt yourself," I scolded. "I understand. Calm down."

Paulson parked the car right in front of an ornately carved wooden door and came around to help Bryce out of the vehicle.

The door of the house was opened by the ideal trophy wife. She was gorgeous—perfect skin, perfect features, the sweetest almond eyes and thick, dark hair that cascaded in perfectly neat waves down her back. The dress she was wearing was clearly made out of silk, revealing enough skin to be inciting, but not enough to be trashy. She was like a Barbie, come to life. No wonder Bryce knew her.

Nadira's eyes widened as she took in the scene: Bryce, practically in Paulson's arms, shirt off, blood soaked, dirt everywhere. The strange blonde woman with blood all over her hands. And then she smiled.

"It's never boring when you're around, I'll give you that." Addressing Grant, she clearly ordered: "Put him in the living room—watch the carpet. I just had it installed. On the green couch. It's a good excuse to buy another one. What kind of mess have you to gotten into this time?"

Bryce didn't manage a response. It was my mess but I wasn't going to claim responsibility for it. I just hurried out of the car and after Paulson who was hurrying into the house. I was hoping to pass without comment, but Nadira's eyes lit up upon seeing me. "Fresh blood?" she asked.

"I slowed the bleeding as much as I could," I replied. "But I can't stop it completely until you get out whatever's not supposed to be there. I didn't want to put a bandage on. The healing spells wouldn't work as well."

"That isn't what I meant at all, sweetheart," Nadira said with smile. "But it'll do for now. Come on."

She led me inside one of the nicest houses I'd ever seen. It was ornate without being flashy, bright without being tacky, sparse without being barren. Whatever the balance was that made up a perfectly decorated place, Nadira had found it. I was starting to really hate the bitch. She led me through a few large rooms to one where Bryce was lying on the couch, looking a lot less annoyed than as usual, being unconscious and all.

Nadira lay one perfectly manicured hand on Bryce's forehead. "What sort of mess have you gotten into this time?"

When she received no answer—could she hurry this up? He was starting to look really bad—she got up and waved me to follow her. Grant as well. We both did as were told. She walked us to an enormous kitchen. "Wash up. I don't want you to infect him. Grant, once you're done I'm going to need all of that equipment that's upstairs in the black bag in the blue room. Sweetheart, how do you feel like playing nurse today?"

I nodded and she smiled again and handed us the plastic gloves she had put on her own hands. Opening a cupboard with her elbow, she pulled out a tray and began lining it was clean linen, gesturing Grant to hurry up. Still addressing me she asked, "Once I get it out, do you think you can close him up? Or should I prepare for stitches?"

"It depends on how deep and how tired I am. I wouldn't count on me being able to do it. I'll try, but you'll probably have to sew manually."

"It's been a long while since I've had to do that," she admitted. "You're a lot shorter than the women he usually sleeps with."

Seeing as I was covered in a lot of blood that wasn't mine, I answered a lot more impolitely than I intended. "We can compare the experience after he's all right, okay?"

"Oh, sweetie," she said, facing me full on. "Unless you shot him yourself, there's no need to feel guilty. He wouldn't have brought you here if he wasn't going to forgive you. Unless he was going to kill you." She tilted her head to the side, then shook her head. "I don't think he will. He doesn't like killing women."

Was she being serious? Hadn't Bryce knocked himself telling me not to listen to her? The whole calmly discussing my possible death had shaken me, though. I did not like that.

"I—is there anything else you need me to do?"

"Make sure not to touch anything. We don't want our hands to get dirty," Nadira said, still smiling.

Grant brought the black bag into the living room and Nadira had Paulson sit down on the floor beside Bryce, arms out, so she could rest a tray on him. She had Grant open the black bag and she carefully took out a bunch of surgical instruments that I couldn't name. No matter. Nadira evidently could.

It was one of the stranger experiences in my life—and my father could hear when the guy down the street bit his nails. Performing home surgery with a shaman who occasionally asked me if I preferred the Gucci or Prada accessories wasn't something I wanted to do very often. But even over the incessant chatter, it was obvious that Nadira knew what she was doing. Her tools were immaculate, her stitches even—Bryce barely flinched when she removed the musket ball from his arm, though I liked to think the calming spells she had me continuously casting helped a little. We didn't have the tools to put him under properly, but she promised the spells would help enough and though Bryce was sweating an awful lot, he remained unconscious the whole time.

As Nadira finished up the stitches, she grinned at the rest of us. "All done. He's very lucky, you know. A few more inches up and to the right, it would have caught him right in the heart." She took my gloved hand and placed it on his chest. "See, right there. There wouldn't be anything for me to do then."

I shivered, even as she told me to cast another spell to replenish the blood he had lost. I did that while she said something about resting. Bryce had different ideas—he woke up and started complaining.

"I want to know what the fuck happened back there. Where the fucking hell did you go?"

Grant looked down, clearly miserable, and so Paulson answered. "You ordered us away. I heard you—you said to go for a long drive. We did. We returned to the scene when we heard gunshots. I listened, found your position and Grant moved in. We were following your orders."

"I called you six times," Bryce said. "It was busy every time."

Both bodyguards reached down to check their phones. Again Paulson spoke. "No one called us, sir."

"Are you doubting me, Paulson?" There was a dangerous edge in his voice that reminded me that Bryce was not to be messed with. He was used to getting what he wanted; it didn't matter how unpleasant or impossible it was.

Grant finally decided to talk: "Sir, I would like to hand in my resignation, as soon as possible. I can have headquarters send in reinforcements immediately."

Paulson's eyes widened, and it wasn't hard to figure out why. Cabal employees didn't quit. Especially bodyguards. They knew too much to be allowed to leave. Grant was effectively asking for a death sentence.

Bryce relaxed slightly. "Denied, obviously." He closed his eyes as Nadira finished cleaning up the room. "Grant, you need to figure out what happened. Because I swear I called you and I couldn't get through. Oh, and I need you to kill whoever just called Gillian."

I pulled out my cell phone and quickly checked the phone number. "It was probably just Leech wondering if we had found the grimoires," I said. The number didn't look familiar, and my phone didn't give me any identification. I reluctantly handed it over to Grant. "You're not actually going to kill them?"

"No," Bryce promised. "But really, Gillian? Vibrate. Not that hard."

Nadira came back in the room, blindingly white teeth flashing at everyone. "Who wants something to eat? You all must be starved."

"Dira," Bryce said almost patiently, "You know I can't stay."

"You can't be moved. Gillian will agree with me. You have to stay." There was a plea in there that was unmistakable. Bryce sighed.

"Only because you're a saint for fixing me up on such short notice."

"Excellent. Now then—"

But she was interrupted by the entrance of a rather small man with a bow tie around his next. "Ma'am, is everything—" He stopped moving, taking in the scene before him. Taking in everything, even as Nadira's face turned an ashy colour.

"Why are you here, Keller? You're supposed to be at the dry cleaners."

"They finished, Madame," Keller said. "Is there anything I could do for you here?"

"No, thank you," she whispered. "You're dismissed."

He bowed and then slipped back out the door. Nadira turned to Bryce. "He wasn't supposed to come back. He...he wasn't—" She was practically crying. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"So he's the one," Bryce said. She nodded. "Okay. Grant, ready to make this morning up to me?"

Grant straightened up, standing tall and proud in the living room. "Yes, sir."

Bryce gave a tiny half-smile. "Kill Keller."

And Grant disappeared and the carefully muffled gunshot that came next said he had.

...