The hunting cabin wassomewhere in the Catskills, hours from where Constantine's convoy had nearly run us down at dawn. Diego had keys. I didn't ask how or why. At this point, his network of safe houses and contacts had stopped surprising me.
The adrenaline had worn off a while ago, and now Lorenzo was paying for it. His blood had soaked through Diego's field bandages. The eagle's talons had sliced deep.
We hit the doorframe, and Lorenzo's dislocated shoulder caught the edge. The sound he made wasn't quite a scream but close enough that my hands started shaking.
"Sorry." I adjusted my grip, trying not to jostle the shoulder that sat wrong in its socket. "I've got you."
His hand came up to grip my shirt, fingers cold against my ribs even through the fabric. Too cold.
"Rafael." His eyes opened halfway, struggling to focus on my face. "Your face is..."
Then his eyes rolled back, and his full weight hit me all at once.
I frantically searched for a pulse. There. Faint but there. Still alive, still breathing, still mine to save if I didn't fuck this up.
I got him to the bed before my legs gave out. The bandages on his back were completely soaked now, blood seeping through his torn shirt and pooling on the mattress.
"How bad?" Diego crouched beside me, already pulling supplies from the medical bag.
"His shoulder's been out since the crash. There are puncture wounds in the shoulder too from the first eagle strike. They might be infected already."
Diego's jaw tightened. "Jasper needs stitches too. Head wound won't stop bleeding."
Jasper stood in the doorway, one hand pressed to his temple, blood seeping between his fingers. "I'm fine," Jasper said, his accent thicker than usual.
"You're bleeding on my floor." Diego's voice came out sharp. "Sit down before you pass out."
Diego looked at Jasper, then back at me. "I'll handle Jasper. You work on Lorenzo. There's antibiotic powder in the kit. Use it on those puncture wounds."
I stared at him. "You know how to do this?"
"My grandfather smuggled people out during Franco. You don't take bullet wounds to hospitals when hospitals mean arrest." Diego pulled out a suture kit. "My mother taught me. Said the skills might matter someday."
The medical kit sat on the floor beside the bed. I pulled out supplies with shaky hands. Antiseptic, gauze, surgical thread, antibiotic powder, and a leather belt Diego had thought to pack.
“Here.” Diego grabbed an ancient-looking ceramic carafe from a nook in the wall and held it out to me. “Drink. Keeps the hands steady.”
The liquid hit like a match struck inside my lungs.
I doubled over, coughed once, and swallowed hard, eyes watering as the burn clawed its way down. It wasn’t a drink so much as apurification—grape ghosts and fire, meant to cauterize something unseen. My hands stopped shaking, though whether from shock or the liquor, I couldn’t tell.
Diego took the carafe back without comment, tilted it to his mouth, and winced. “It helps,” he said, voice thin.
“Does it?” I wiped my lips with the back of my hand. The heat was still spreading, chasing the cold out of my blood. I could almost pretend it was grace.
Lorenzo's shoulder was still out. Before I could clean the wounds, I had to hurt him worse than the eagles had.
I touched his cheek. "Lorenzo. I need you awake."
His eyes opened slowly, struggling to focus.
"Your shoulder. I have to reset it."
His jaw tightened, and he nodded once, already bracing himself, and that trust was a weight I didn't know how to carry.
I picked up the belt. "You'll want this."
He took it from me and put it between his teeth. His good hand came up to grip the mattress edge, and his knuckles went white.
