slender limbs tense. It's a damn shame he never grew wings.
The troll grumbles, his chest rumbling against my back.
"Keep it shut, idiot, you're giving me ideas. D'ya think this thirty-eight would even put a dent in your bonehead skull?" Gavain's jagged teeth shine, his berry lips curling back into a crooked snarl. "Maybe not. But can this snarky faeborn freak leap over there and chew your throat out before you crush this guy's larynx to muck?" He throws the weapon away and crouches, thighs quivering and claws bared, ready to spring. "Bet your scaly green ass I can. Wanna try?"
Bonehead growls for a moment, his rough nails cutting soft dents in my throat, and then he shoves me into the gutter and barrels off into the night, his fat feet splashing.
I scrape my face off the asphalt and wobble to my feet, my muscles jerky and unreliable. Bile still stings in my mouth, and I lean my hands on my knees and cough it up. It scorches my throat, and pale lumps gleam like little oysters in the stain. Nice.
I ease my back straighter. Vertebrae crunch under my palm, and my fingers squelch into ripped flesh along my ribs where the prick kicked me. The pain arced a bit of life along my nerves, but it wasn't enough to reverse the decay, and that warning smell hits my nose, sweet but bordering on sickly.
Gavain scampers over on all fours, dark hair falling in his narrow face. His bare arms shine with sanguine sweat, and in the streetlight he glows like a fiery angel. He crouches before me, peering beneath the knotted mess of my hair, and sniffs, checking me out. "Christ, Tam. You look like shit."
"Should've thought of that before you saved my ass." Hell, it's the best I can do in the circumstances. I've never been a damsel in distress before, and Gavain's not a guy you associate with fuck-it-all courage like that. That he should dredge it up from nowhere for me is even more of a shock. I always thought he was shallow as piss on concrete.
Part of me wants to smack his pretty head and ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing. I mean, teasing Whippy's prick at Unseelie Court so I can creep up on him is one thing. Shooting the bastard in the head for me is quite another. But asking Gavain for reasons is useless. Half the time, I don't think he understands himself.
His berry eyes glint up at me, guileless. There's a slant to them, like mine, just an exotic little tilt up at the corners that makes him look wild, those dark reddish lashes improbably long and fine. Looking at them makes me want to swallow, though there's nothing in my mouth but slime.
He chews softly on his bottom lip. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I don't want to look at him anymore, and I turn away, stumbling.
There's Whippy, limp on the concrete in a bloody puddle, his blond locks streaked with lumpy red flesh. Told him that bullet had his name on it. See you in hell, shitball. For a moment, it itches like a mosquito bite on my ass that he's dead and I didn't do it. But better this, than stealing oxygen that should have been my Katie's. Fuck him.
I fumble my phone from the concrete beside him. A few scratches, but unbroken. Gavain sniffs on the ground like a dog following scent, and plucks up a tarnished shell casing. Sweet. One less piece of evidence. My blood's everywhere, but I can't do anything about that now.
I crawl over to my lamp and scrabble it up, my knuckles crackling like rotting bamboo. Water beads on its shiny brass surface, and I try wiping it off but only leave a greasy smear. Scoop up the lid, plop it back into place, stuff the whole thing back into the wet bag . . . whoa.
My vision clouds over, pale like dry ice, and I see the smoke girl, staring at me, black eyes wide, hair wild in a dark halo. She whispers, urgent like a threat or a warning, but I can't hear her.
Whatever. Piss off, lady. If you weren't so damn sexy, I wouldn't be in this mess. I blink a few times, and the weird picture fades. Maybe my brain's finally rotting away. Lobotomy,
The troll grumbles, his chest rumbling against my back.
"Keep it shut, idiot, you're giving me ideas. D'ya think this thirty-eight would even put a dent in your bonehead skull?" Gavain's jagged teeth shine, his berry lips curling back into a crooked snarl. "Maybe not. But can this snarky faeborn freak leap over there and chew your throat out before you crush this guy's larynx to muck?" He throws the weapon away and crouches, thighs quivering and claws bared, ready to spring. "Bet your scaly green ass I can. Wanna try?"
Bonehead growls for a moment, his rough nails cutting soft dents in my throat, and then he shoves me into the gutter and barrels off into the night, his fat feet splashing.
I scrape my face off the asphalt and wobble to my feet, my muscles jerky and unreliable. Bile still stings in my mouth, and I lean my hands on my knees and cough it up. It scorches my throat, and pale lumps gleam like little oysters in the stain. Nice.
I ease my back straighter. Vertebrae crunch under my palm, and my fingers squelch into ripped flesh along my ribs where the prick kicked me. The pain arced a bit of life along my nerves, but it wasn't enough to reverse the decay, and that warning smell hits my nose, sweet but bordering on sickly.
Gavain scampers over on all fours, dark hair falling in his narrow face. His bare arms shine with sanguine sweat, and in the streetlight he glows like a fiery angel. He crouches before me, peering beneath the knotted mess of my hair, and sniffs, checking me out. "Christ, Tam. You look like shit."
"Should've thought of that before you saved my ass." Hell, it's the best I can do in the circumstances. I've never been a damsel in distress before, and Gavain's not a guy you associate with fuck-it-all courage like that. That he should dredge it up from nowhere for me is even more of a shock. I always thought he was shallow as piss on concrete.
Part of me wants to smack his pretty head and ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing. I mean, teasing Whippy's prick at Unseelie Court so I can creep up on him is one thing. Shooting the bastard in the head for me is quite another. But asking Gavain for reasons is useless. Half the time, I don't think he understands himself.
His berry eyes glint up at me, guileless. There's a slant to them, like mine, just an exotic little tilt up at the corners that makes him look wild, those dark reddish lashes improbably long and fine. Looking at them makes me want to swallow, though there's nothing in my mouth but slime.
He chews softly on his bottom lip. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I don't want to look at him anymore, and I turn away, stumbling.
There's Whippy, limp on the concrete in a bloody puddle, his blond locks streaked with lumpy red flesh. Told him that bullet had his name on it. See you in hell, shitball. For a moment, it itches like a mosquito bite on my ass that he's dead and I didn't do it. But better this, than stealing oxygen that should have been my Katie's. Fuck him.
I fumble my phone from the concrete beside him. A few scratches, but unbroken. Gavain sniffs on the ground like a dog following scent, and plucks up a tarnished shell casing. Sweet. One less piece of evidence. My blood's everywhere, but I can't do anything about that now.
I crawl over to my lamp and scrabble it up, my knuckles crackling like rotting bamboo. Water beads on its shiny brass surface, and I try wiping it off but only leave a greasy smear. Scoop up the lid, plop it back into place, stuff the whole thing back into the wet bag . . . whoa.
My vision clouds over, pale like dry ice, and I see the smoke girl, staring at me, black eyes wide, hair wild in a dark halo. She whispers, urgent like a threat or a warning, but I can't hear her.
Whatever. Piss off, lady. If you weren't so damn sexy, I wouldn't be in this mess. I blink a few times, and the weird picture fades. Maybe my brain's finally rotting away. Lobotomy,
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