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She could hear Mr. French’s snarls, then a yelp, then more vicious snarling as he went back at her attacker.
The man aimed her own gun at her, and she knew in that second he intended to kill her, and the dog … and then he looked around, backed up, kicked Mr. French out of the way, and ran.
Bryn rolled over slowly to her side. Blood dripped onto the grass in vivid red globes, and when she coughed it sprayed out in a mist. It was all weirdly pretty, and seemed very remote. So did the pain. She was aware it was there, but a chemical firewall had gone up between her and her nerves, and that was a good thing. Very good.
Mr. French suddenly appeared in her field of vision, whining in concern, and licked her face anxiously. She tried to shove him away, but there was no strength in her arms.
“Bryn. ” That wasn’t her voice; that was someone else‘s. Oh, it was McCallister, kneeling next to her dog, staring down at her. He didn’t look remote anymore, or cold, or guarded. He seemed worried. “Can you get up?”
“Sure,” she said, and tried. She couldn’t. He pulled her up,
and when her legs folded, he lifted her and carried her with Mr. French growling and whining around his feet as he walked. “Shut up, dog. ’M fine. ”
“No, you’re not,” McCallister said. “You’ve got a broken cheekbone, your nose is smashed, and that’s just what I can see. Bryn, I left you alone for one minute. ”
“Not my fault,” she whispered. “Mugged. ”
“Why didn’t you use the gun?”
“Tried. ” She swallowed a mouthful of blood, which tasted awful. “He took it. ”
“He won’t have it for long. ” McCallister sounded grim and very sure. “I’m going to have to let you stand for a second. I’ll hold you up. ”
“I’m fine,” she said again, as if saying it could make it so. He let her legs swing down, and she concentrated on keeping her knees firm. And holding on, because the first plan wasn’t working so well. McCallister slotted a key attached to a big plastic tag into the door that was facing them, opened it, and carried her inside over the threshold, which struck her as weirdly funny.
When she laughed and coughed, he looked down at her with a frown. “What?”
“Just married. ”
“Did he kick you in the head?”
“A little?”
McCallister slammed the door shut and put her on the bed. He probably did it as gently as he could, but all of a sudden, the firewall came crashing down in Bryn’s brain, and the full force of her screaming nerves hit her in a wave. She couldn’t bite back the cry of pain, and McCallister put a soothing, warm hand on her forehead. “Easy,” he said. “Be calm. I’m going to give you a booster shot, but I have to wait. The shots have to be a couple of hours apart. You’ve got enough damage that the last one will burn off quickly”. His fingers stroked her brow, smoothing back her hair, then withdrew. She felt Mr. French’s warm weight drape itself across her legs, and heard him whining in concern. “How bad is the pain?”
She swallowed and lied, like a good soldier. “It’s fine. ”
“You really need to look up the definition of that word. Hang on. ”
He put a hand on her nose, and pulled. A glassy, hot snap of pain bolted through her head, drawing another cry, and she felt her muscles tense and her back arch. McCallister grabbed her hand and held it as she squeezed. She gasped out, “What—”
“I had to reset your nose so that the nanites could heal it,” he said. “You’ll feel some pain when the bones start healing in your cheek, too. Hold on. I’ll be back. ” He disappeared for what seemed like an hour, and returned with a glass of warm water and a thin washcloth, which he wetted and used to wipe the blood from her face in slow, soothing strokes. Her nose was still bleeding, and the rose red blooms spread across the washcloth, but she felt it trickle to a stop.
The pain built up along her cheekbone, like an unanes-thetized root canal boring through bone. She grabbed for his hand again and held on, trembling, as the wave kept rising. It filled her head until she thought it would burst, and then there was that same glassy pop of bone shifting, and the pain began to recede. It left her weak and sick.
“Breathe,” McCallister said. “The worst is over. Soft-tissue damage doesn’t hurt as much as it heals. ”
“Says you,” she whispered. Her whole midsection felt as if a truck were running over it, crushing and ripping things apart. But he was right; it faded fast. In five minutes, she was breathing easier, and the blood that had been choking her was just a nasty memory.
McCallister took the reddened washcloth back into the bathroom, and Bryn finally felt good enough to try to sit up a little. It was a mixed success. Mr. French watched her with unwavering attention, and if a dog could frown, he was definitely trying out the expression. She couldn’t decide whether he was concerned or annoyed with her initiative.
McCallister, as it turned out, had the identical expression when he came back. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Sitting up. ” Sort of.
“Don’t. Let the nanites do their job. You’re at least an hour away from the next shot, and the more you move around, the less effective they’ll be as they try to maintain additional activity. Understand?”
She did, but she’d finally gotten the thin motel pillow tucked where she wanted it, and it was more effort to lie flat again. “I‘m—”
