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All the while she looked at the dark stains on Marcy’s shoulder. At the ragged red of her shirt. At the skin that was exposed by the torn material.
There was a cut there and she bent closer to look.
No. Not a cut.
A bite.
She looked down at Marcy. Her eyes had rolled up high and white and there was no expression at all on her rigid face. Those teeth kept biting into the leather. What was this? Was it epilepsy at all? Or was it something else? There were no rattlesnakes or poisonous anythings around as far as Dahlia knew. What else could give a bite that might make someone sick? A rabid dog? She racked her brain for what she knew of rabies. Was that something that happened fast? She didn’t think so. Maybe this was unrelated to the bite. An allergic reaction. Something.
The spasms stopped suddenly. Bang, just like that.
Marcy Van Der Meer went totally limp in Dahlia’s arms, her arms and legs sprawled out. Like she suddenly passed out. Like she was . . .
“Marcy?” asked Dahlia.
She craned her neck to look at Marcy’s face.
The eyes were still rolled back, the facial muscles slack now, mouth hanging open. The leather sheath slid out from between her teeth, dark with spit.
Except that it wasn’t spit.
Not really.
The pale deerskin leather of the knife sheath was stained with something that glistened almost purple in the glare of the bathroom fluorescents.
“Marcy?” Dahlia repeated, shaking her a little. “Come on now, this isn’t funny.”
It wasn’t. Nor was Marcy making a joke. Dahlia knew it.
It took a whole lot of courage for Dahlia to press her fingers into the side of Marcy’s throat. Probably the toughest thing she’d ever had to do. They taught how to do it in health class. How to take a pulse.
She checked. She tried to listen with her fingers.
Nothing.
She moved her fingers, pressed deeper.
Nothing.
Then.
Something.
A pulse.
Maybe a pulse.
Something.
There it was again.
Not a pulse.
A twitch.
“Thank God,” said Dahlia, and she realized with absolute clarity that she was relieved that Marcy wasn’t dead. Dahlia fished around for the actual pulse. That would have been better, more reassuring.
Felt another twitch. Not in the throat this time. Marcy’s right hand jumped. Right hand. Then, a moment later, her left leg kicked out.
