She’d thought about moving it far away while he remained unconscious. Hiding it until he was either healed or undeniably transformed. But she’d never forgive anyone who stole her ability to decide the terms of her own life and death, so she’d forcedherself to leave it near him, hoping like hells he’d bide his time and not do anything rash. Especially since they didn’t yet have definitive proof of his eventual fate.
“Yes. You’re a vampire. Which means we don’t actually know what would happen if youwerebitten deeply enough for a fluid exchange,” she rushed to point out. “And let me emphasize this again: Whether that even occurred is somethingelsewe don’t know.”
She laid her palm over the scratches as an Enhanced healer would, begging all the gods and goddesses for their intercession. For an entirely unprecedented flow of energy through her body and into his. For a bearable future, however long that future might be.
Nothing happened, of course. She wasn’t a conduit for the divinities, and she contained within her no real power, other than hope and determination.
“How…” He grunted, shifting uncomfortably on the floor. “How long has it been?”
Although he didn’t sound convinced by her argument, he didn’t stake himself either, and she considered that a victory. As she fumbled for her cell, she smeared his diluted blood across her bag and her screen. Only to recall that she hadn’t checked the time at any point between their zombie encounter and now, so she had no good answer for him.
“You were out for maybe five minutes?” It was her best guess. “And it took us at least another five minutes to get down here after I confronted the zombie. So that’s ten minutes, Max. Ten minutes and no zombification. I think you’re good.” She paused. “Well, still horribly injured. I meantgoodin a relative, yay-I’m-not-turning-into-a-brain-slurper sense.”
“Transformation…” His speech had begun slurring a bit. Slowing down. “Might take longer…for vampires.”
Even as he spoke, the tension in his body seemed to drain away, leaving him limp against the floor once more. Dipping the hand towel back into the warm water, she slowly swept it up his relatively undamaged spine, then back down, encouraging his relaxation. Urging him without words to rest.
“It could. Or maybe there was no fluid exchange.”
“Hmmm.” He gingerly turned his head again, meeting her eyes for the first time since his collapse. His lids were heavy, the blue of his irises hazy, but his next words turned sharp again. “Sleep will speed my healing. I need it. But if anything happens, my Edie, if you see any signs that I’m—”
“Yes, yes. Iknow. If you go all chompy, I’ll take care of it,dude. I already promised.” Gods, did they need to discuss this for the millionth time? Glaring at him even as her sinuses prickled and filled, she mimed a karate chop near his jugular. “Cleaver. Neck. Hack hack.”
For good measure, she added a gargling death sound at the end.
And that seemed to be what he needed, bizarrely enough, because he let those half-lidded eyes close entirely then. His mouth even curved a little in what might have been an actual smile. “Good. Thank you, ma puce.”
“Thank yourself,” she muttered sourly. “Jerkface.”
“Don’t mind if I do. Thanks, me.”
Yes, that was definitely a smile, and if he weren’t so injured, she would have been tempted to smack it right off him. But hewasterribly injured, so she took his hand instead and cradled itbetween both of hers. Tears slid down her cheeks, and she didn’t try to stop them. Didn’t bother blinking them away.
“While you sleep, I’ll take care of you. No matter what it t-takes,” she told him, her voice cracking. “You can trust me.”
His other hand lifted off the floor. In a slow, deliberate movement, he uncurled his fingers. The stake dropped soundlessly to the carpet, and he nudged it a few inches away.
“I know,” he said, and fell asleep.
17
Other than some surprisingly vigorous snoring—Edie would have to mock Max for that later—and a lot of healing, nothing much happened as he slept. No agitated thrashing. No transformation. No decapitation. No additional trauma.
Minute by minute, though, his bleeding waned as the rents in his flesh turned shallow and slowly knit together. The less egregious injuries disappeared entirely within a couple of hours, and while the gaping wound at his neck required longer to mend, at some point his eventual recovery became a factual prediction rather than wild conjecture or the panic-stricken hope of a desperate woman.
He would live. Probably wouldn’t even have scars to show for his troubles.
When she knew that for certain, when she was absolutely sure he’d be fine sooner rather than later and wouldn’t require the neck-rending services of her cleaver, she tucked a pillow beneath his head, covered him with a thick, down-filled duvet, rose up from her stiff, sore knees, and stumbled to his bedroom. To hisen suite shower, where she washed his blood off her numb limbs with trembling hands. To his bed, where she huddled naked beneath the covers and finally allowed herself a much-needed, much-delayed breakdown.
For a while, she was too busy shaking and crying to think much, other than a brief moment of wondering whether she’d gotten snot on his very nice sheets.
Spoiler alert! Of course she had.
But once she’d calmed enough to gather her thoughts, she couldn’t avoid the obvious any longer: She cared about Max. A lot. Like,a lota lot.
She’d like to believe that witnessing anyone’s near-fatal battle with a zombie would distress and panic her, as would promising to personally cleave someone’s neck before they fully transformed into a violent, brain-gulping creature.
But Max wasn’t justanyoneorsomeoneto her. Not anymore.
