nesting somewhere, and I grab a first-aid kit out of one of the bathrooms. A set of sheets I can tear into bandages. And towels. I bring lots of towels.
Back on the first floor, Chuy prowls around a little before settling just inside the front door, waiting. Sebastian looks even worse than before. Maybe it’s the loss of blood, but his skin is gray. His breathing is shallow and labored. And it hits me—I could lose him. He could die. Right here.
After all we’ve been through, after every horrible thing he’s done and I’ve done, I could lose him.
I’d panic, but there’s no time for that. Instead I race through what needs to be done in my mind: get the stake out, clean him up, bandage him up, and then feed him. Exactly what I’m supposed to feed him, I don’t know. I’ll worry about that if he lives long enough.
I dash back to the kitchen—ignoring the pots big enough to boil body parts and a terrifying array of food processors. I look for the basics: soap, more towels, water. But the water must run on an electric pump, because it doesn’t come on. And there’s tons of dish soap—probably for washing all those food processors—but not a simple bar of soap.
Panic edges into my thinking, moving me faster. Okay. No soap. No water. Then how do I clean a wound?
My mind races back to the Before and lands on some old TV show. A western, I think. Where they cleaned a wound with alcohol. I throw open the cabinets and start searching. I don’t know if vampires even drink alcohol. I hope so. A couple of cabinets in, I hit pay dirt. Big-time. I’m guessing this stash had belonged to Roberto’s valet. If I’d been the human responsible for disposing of Roberto’s victims, I’d need to drink a lot, too.
Back in the living room, Sebastian doesn’t look any better. His eyes flutter open. “Took you long enough.”
I kneel beside the sofa. “What? No sarcastic quip?”
“Quipping takes too much energy.”
“I’ll try to hold up the conversation for both of us, okay?” I say as I unbutton the front of his shirt. I peel back the right side, but hesitate on the left. The stake went through his shirt, which undoubtedly means there are bits of fabric deep within his heart. Fabric that he’d been wearing for who knew how many days. And who knew how clean it had been when he’d put it on. I think of the bacteria and panic starts to creep back in. Pushing it down, I focus on how to get his shirt off instead of why I need to.
I’ll have to slip the shirt off his right arm and around his back, leaving it pinned to his front until I pull the stake out.
“Cuffs,” Sebastian gasps out.
“What?”
He raises a hand weakly. “You haven’t undone my cuffs.”
I feel myself blushing as I realize my mistake, because I wouldn’t have been able to get his shirt off at all. I’m helpless at this. I quickly undo one and I’m undoing the other when his fingers grasp mine until I look him in the eyes.
“Whatever it is you’re so worried about,” he says softly, “it’ll be okay. Just get the stake out and feed me. I’ll be fine.”
There’s such confidence there. Such faith.
No one has ever had confidence in me before. No one has ever trusted me to handle things. As much as I want to argue with him, to warn him about my incompetence and the bacteria, this time I really do put them out of my mind and I just move. Quickly.
I undo the cuff on the other side and raise him enough to get the shirt off and to put a towel down underneath him. I don’t let myself look at the smear of thick blood that’s pooled under his body. I pull out the stake, careful to tug the fabric with it. The remains of his shirt and the stake both go onto one of the towels. Then I open up the bottle of scotch and upend the bottle over his chest.
When the scotch hits the hole in his chest, Sebastian loses it. He bucks off the sofa, his arms flailing. He knocks the bottle out of my hands and scotch sprays across the room. I go flying
Back on the first floor, Chuy prowls around a little before settling just inside the front door, waiting. Sebastian looks even worse than before. Maybe it’s the loss of blood, but his skin is gray. His breathing is shallow and labored. And it hits me—I could lose him. He could die. Right here.
After all we’ve been through, after every horrible thing he’s done and I’ve done, I could lose him.
I’d panic, but there’s no time for that. Instead I race through what needs to be done in my mind: get the stake out, clean him up, bandage him up, and then feed him. Exactly what I’m supposed to feed him, I don’t know. I’ll worry about that if he lives long enough.
I dash back to the kitchen—ignoring the pots big enough to boil body parts and a terrifying array of food processors. I look for the basics: soap, more towels, water. But the water must run on an electric pump, because it doesn’t come on. And there’s tons of dish soap—probably for washing all those food processors—but not a simple bar of soap.
Panic edges into my thinking, moving me faster. Okay. No soap. No water. Then how do I clean a wound?
My mind races back to the Before and lands on some old TV show. A western, I think. Where they cleaned a wound with alcohol. I throw open the cabinets and start searching. I don’t know if vampires even drink alcohol. I hope so. A couple of cabinets in, I hit pay dirt. Big-time. I’m guessing this stash had belonged to Roberto’s valet. If I’d been the human responsible for disposing of Roberto’s victims, I’d need to drink a lot, too.
Back in the living room, Sebastian doesn’t look any better. His eyes flutter open. “Took you long enough.”
I kneel beside the sofa. “What? No sarcastic quip?”
“Quipping takes too much energy.”
“I’ll try to hold up the conversation for both of us, okay?” I say as I unbutton the front of his shirt. I peel back the right side, but hesitate on the left. The stake went through his shirt, which undoubtedly means there are bits of fabric deep within his heart. Fabric that he’d been wearing for who knew how many days. And who knew how clean it had been when he’d put it on. I think of the bacteria and panic starts to creep back in. Pushing it down, I focus on how to get his shirt off instead of why I need to.
I’ll have to slip the shirt off his right arm and around his back, leaving it pinned to his front until I pull the stake out.
“Cuffs,” Sebastian gasps out.
“What?”
He raises a hand weakly. “You haven’t undone my cuffs.”
I feel myself blushing as I realize my mistake, because I wouldn’t have been able to get his shirt off at all. I’m helpless at this. I quickly undo one and I’m undoing the other when his fingers grasp mine until I look him in the eyes.
“Whatever it is you’re so worried about,” he says softly, “it’ll be okay. Just get the stake out and feed me. I’ll be fine.”
There’s such confidence there. Such faith.
No one has ever had confidence in me before. No one has ever trusted me to handle things. As much as I want to argue with him, to warn him about my incompetence and the bacteria, this time I really do put them out of my mind and I just move. Quickly.
I undo the cuff on the other side and raise him enough to get the shirt off and to put a towel down underneath him. I don’t let myself look at the smear of thick blood that’s pooled under his body. I pull out the stake, careful to tug the fabric with it. The remains of his shirt and the stake both go onto one of the towels. Then I open up the bottle of scotch and upend the bottle over his chest.
When the scotch hits the hole in his chest, Sebastian loses it. He bucks off the sofa, his arms flailing. He knocks the bottle out of my hands and scotch sprays across the room. I go flying
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