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“Promise?” I glared at him with such menace I could feel the heat of anger on my face. I hoped he understood what he’d done. I’d given him a second chance at life, and he’d spit in my face.
I was done showing mercy.
Once I knew I wasn’t about to take a shot to the head, I ran out to Keaty, falling on my hands and knees beside him. I rolled him onto his back and almost cried from relief when he let out a pained groan.
He was alive.
“Keaty.” I cupped his face, doing my best to wipe the blood from his cheeks. He’d been lying in it long enough his whole front was soaked, turning the navy-blue vest almost black. I didn’t know if it was possible for someone to lose that much blood and still be okay.
Desmond had taken a bullet for me once, and he’d lived. But Brigit had been shot, and even her vampiric healing ability couldn’t save her.
But this was Keaty.
Keaty had to be made of stronger stuff.
My fingers hovered over the hole in the side of his neck where blood spilled freely every time he tried to take a breath. I wasn’t sure what to do. Logical suggestions were screaming through my head, Put pressure on it, you idiot. But a chill stole over me, freezing me in place. Hot on the heels of logic came dismal, merciless pessimism. He’s done for.
“Does it hurt?” I asked stupidly.
“No. But I can’t feel my legs. That’s probably bad.” He coughed, and blood bubbled out of his mouth, smearing the part of his face I’d just cleaned.
I gave Desmond a helpless, pleading look. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t call an ambulance. Could we carry him to a hospital? Were the hospitals still open? I tried to picture what must have become of them once the dead rose up in the morgues and came crawling through the halls.
Fuck.
I pressed my hands against the wound on his neck, but the blood—such a deep red it looked black—oozed between my fingers without regard for what I was trying to do.
Crying hadn’t been an option a moment ago, but now it was impossible to avoid. I swallowed another sob, and it stuck in my throat. When I spoke again, my voice croaked. “I need to help you.”
“You can’t,” Keaty whispered.
“No. Don’t be stupid. You’re not going to die here. You’re Francis fucking Keats. And Francis Keats doesn’t die on a fucking sidewalk.” I pushed harder on the wound, and it had to be causing him pain, but he didn’t even flinch. “Keaty?” His eyes had closed, and now my pulse was hammering harder.
“Did you…did you get what you came for?” He opened his eyes halfway.
“Yes.”
I expected him to make a jab at my expense, asking me if it was worth it. If he’d only give me attitude about something, I could make believe things were going to be okay. But if he just kept bleeding and being so calm about it, I didn’t know how to react.
All the blood was making my PTSD fire up in serious ways. This wasn’t the blood of an enemy, this was from someone I loved. I could see Holden wasting away, and his vampire-brother Maxime strung up and gutted like a deer. And I saw my own blood when I looked down at my hands. My own life slipping away.
Get a grip, I scolded. I’d learned to do counting exercises, where I stilled my mind to ease the panic. But I didn’t think I’d be able to concentrate enough to count from ten to one. I needed to focus on the man in front of me.
“Des,” I whimpered. “I don’t know what to do.” I pulled Keaty’s head into my lap, keeping one hand firmly on his wound. He barely blinked. Desmond came forward, not even acknowledging the threat of the men across the street, and kneeled on the opposite side of Keaty, taking over the task of holding the bullet hole.
Everyone was on edge, and the air hummed with tension, but I couldn’t spare a thought for the men who’d come here to kill us.
All I could think about was the one person they’d succeeded with.
I kissed Keaty’s forehead, squeezing my eyes shut to keep from crying on him, but the heat of tears trailed down my cheeks anyway. “It’s not going to end like this.”
“You think…the Oracle…saw this one coming?”
I sobbed. There was no stopping the abrupt, harsh sound from escaping.
“No, because you’re not going to die. This is nothing. It’s a flesh wound.” Maybe trying to make him laugh wasn’t the best idea with a hole in his neck, but I didn’t do so well under pressure.
“He will die,” Jock shouted. “He’ll die, and we’ll bring him right back up again. Make him do a dance number for you. Make him do whatever the fuck I want him to do. He’ll be my puppet.” He waved his fingers.
