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.Use their shower.Milo s clothes shouldfit you.Wyatt blinked, and I couldn t help but smile.It was the not-oft-seen mother henside of her peeking through.It seemed that rumpled and worn fellow Handlersside of her peeking through.It seemed that rumpled and worn fellow Handlersalso rated high on her sympathy meter.And it gave Wyatt and me some timealone before & well, everything. Okay, I said, then gave Bastian a fierce glare. As soon as Marie or whoeverknows something? We ll call, he replied. My word.I wanted to tell him just what I thought his word was worth. Call Wyatt.I mightnot be able to answer. Of course. Kis, I ll let you know when I ve got things squared here, Baylor said.We left R&D, still the dead of night well, morning, technically.Crickets wereactually chirping somewhere nearby, and overhead a sky full of stars winkeddown at us.As beautiful as the mountains were, I didn t stop to admire them.Wyatt, Kismet, and I crowded into the already stuffed Jeep.The Hunters waitingin the backseat were subdued, and Kismet filled them in on the way back to thecity, giving them all the details she had.I just held Wyatt s hand and tried not topanic.Half an hour later, she dropped us off in front of the apartment with a key andpromise to return in about an hour and a quarter.As Wyatt and I walked insideand veered toward the elevator, those seventy-five minutes loomed.It wasn tnearly enough time.But if Thackery had his way, it was all the time we had left together to explorethe intense, if somewhat peculiar, relationship we d begun so many months ago.Long before I truly realized anything had changed.Long before I truly realized anything had changed.Chapter EighteenChapter EighteenFour Weeks PredeathAn hour-long soak in the tub has relieved the majority of my aches and pains.Myown stupidity brought them on, and, for once, they aren t the result of a fistfight orbrawl with bloodthirsty Dregs.Our Triad isn t even on rotation again untiltomorrow evening.Nope, the bruises and scrapes on my back and shoulders aremy own fucking fault.No pun intended, however apropos.I watch the bathwater swirl down the drain in a mini-cyclone of bubbles andsoap, and hope Ash is still having a good time.I hated ditching her at the club butwas in no mood to continue our usual barhopping extravaganza.The cab driver Iflagged down took one look at me, muttered something that sounded like hooker, and drove me home.Bastard didn t get a tip.He was lucky I didn t plant my heel in the back of hishead.After I m thoroughly towel-dried, I check the scrapes in the bathroom mirror.Afew along my shoulder blades are still oozing clear liquid.Most are surfaceabrasions they ll itch like crazy later.The backs of my thighs have smatterings ofblue bruises, perfectly oval and fingertip-size.They ll keep darkening, I bet.Goodthing I prefer jeans.In my line of work, dating is out of the question, but I m a woman with needs,dammit, which is why Ash and I troll the bars on our nights off.Once in a while,one of us will find someone to hook up with for a little & activity.Location is rarelyimportant, as long as I get my itch scratched.Only tonight s selection had been a little rougher than usual, and doing it upagainst a brick wall, in a storage room at the club, hadn t been exactlycomfortable.Oh, I got off all right, but my back regrets it with a vengeance.I slip into clean sweats and pad into the kitchen for a snack.It s been a weeksince I shook off a horrid bout of the flu, and my appetite has finally returned.Isettle on a bologna sandwich with mustard and steal one of Jesse s lagers.Helikes the dark brown sludge that tastes like rat piss, but it s that or water.We need to go shopping.Sandwich and beer in hand, I retreat to the living room and curl up on the sofa.A gentle ache between my legs reminds me my back isn t the only thing regrettingtonight s interlude.What was it Wyatt used to tell me? Sometimes I don t have thegood sense God gave goats.I shoulda said no.I didn t, though.The apartment phone s shrill chime makes me jump.We keep the landline foremergencies and in case  real people need to contact us; everything else ishandled over our Triad-issued cells.I stare at the telephone, an old rotary Ashpicked up at a yard sale eons ago, and debate answering it.On the fifth ring, I do. Hello? Yeah, this is the super, a deep baritone says, not happy about making this Yeah, this is the super, a deep baritone says, not happy about making thiscall. One of your neighbors called and complained about a drunk man sitting infront of your door. I What? I sit up straighter and peer at the metal door, as if I can see rightthrough it. Drunk man in front of your door.People are tripping over him.If he s a friend,take him inside.If he s a vagrant, call the cops.I just don t want no more of thesedamned calls at three A.M. With that, he slams his phone down.Okaaay.On the way to the door, I snag one of my favorite serrated knives from theweapons trunk behind the couch, just in case.I press one ear to the door andlisten nothing.Try the peephole.All I see are a pair of black sneakers stickingout from jeans-clad legs that disappear beneath my line of sight.Confident in myability to subdue a regular human male if the need arises, I turn the various doorlocks, grasp the knob, and pull.Wyatt tumbles through the open door and lands on his back, cracking his headon the cement floor.He blinks up at me with bleary, bloodshot eyes.He hasn tshaved recently, and a black beard creeps along his jaw and chin, spilling downhis neck.A brown paper bag is clutched in one hand, obscuring my view of thebottle s label. What the fuck, Truman? I toss my knife on a nearby side table and glare downat him. Don t you have a home? Sure, he says. Few blocks from here.Why?Oh boy, he s three sheets to the fucking wind.In the four years I ve worked forWyatt Truman, I ve seen him run the gamut from cool and collected to whollyenraged, but I ve never before seen him utterly shitfaced. Because you re loitering in front of my home instead of sleeping this off inyours, I finally say.Lame. My apartment s empty. His tone is solemn, as if the statement alone explainedeverything.It s also sort of loud, and the hall door is still open.The last thing Iwant is another call from the building super. Think you can crawl to the couch?He frowns, which looks like a smile upside down. Nope.Can walk.Uh-huh.He ends up half crawling ten feet to the stained, beaten sofa, and curls up onone end, head on the armrest.He still hasn t let go of that bottle, but the smellhints at whiskey.Yuck.I relock the door, then move to stand in front of him, armscrossed over my chest.He swigs from the neck of the bottle and winces as heswallows. Where s everyone? he asks. Out. Duh.I can t help smiling.I think it s quite possibly the first time in our entire historyhe s ever said that. Jesse s up north, picking up a new ax from that blacksmithfriend of his, I say. Ash is still out having a good time. Why didn t you go? he asks my midsection. I did.Now I m home. I did.Now I m home.He manages to raise his gaze so our eyes meet.Something like confusion orconcern flickers there but is beaten back by liquor [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]