intimidate Camille.
Bela moved aside so that Camille could see the sleeping detective and the wicked-looking wounds readily visible on his tanned chest, neck, and shoulder. “We’ve fought it to a draw for the moment. Meaning he’s not dying right this second or changing into anything other than human. Yet.”
More of that sickly dark energy slid out of Duncan Sharp’s slash wounds, heading for Camille, only to perish against the elemental locks of the cuffs and bed.
Camille drew back a step, watching the foul energy break apart. “What is that shit? And what were those things that attacked us in DUMBO?”
“Trouble, no doubt,” Mother Keara grumbled as she stood. She hobbled across the room toward Camille and put out her hand for support, though Bela didn’t think she really needed it. As Camille took her by the elbow and moved to help her out of the laboratory and back upstairs, Mother Keara looked pointedly at Bela. “If that porcupine of an air Sibyl you’re so bent on keepin’ is worth her freight, she’s upstairs in her archives right now, huntin’ answers.”
Bela was too tired herself to argue the point or defend Dio again. She let Mother Keara go with Camille to summon more Mothers, and took a seat in the metal chair Mother Keara had vacated. The metal was still hot enough to melt ridges in her leathers along both sides of her ass.
Wonderful .
Bela rubbed her hand across her eyes and refocused on Duncan Sharp’s breathing and heartbeat. Still steady and regular. She didn’t catch any hint of pain at the moment.
Good .
She made herself get up and go to the sinks. From a too-yellow cabinet overhead—Goddess, what had she been thinking when she bought that paint?—she took down a smooth cotton cloth and dampened it with warm water. She brought the wet cloth back to the detective’s bedside and began to dab away the grit, soot, grime, and blood from his stubbled cheeks.
With each gentle swipe, she could see more of his tanned face, from the strong line of his jaw to the corners of his mouth. The guy probably had a drop-dead grin to go with that thick brown hair, which would be curly if he hadn’t cut it so short. She imagined Duncan Sharp awake again, fit and well. If that gorgeous face could relax, it might be boyish.
Her own breathing slowed more, falling into rhythm with his as she bathed away what she could of his pain and damage. She glanced at his slash wounds, which were still behaving for the moment, with the ancient coin resting beside them on its golden chain. Bela knew better than to toy with ancient things, so she left the coin where it lay and moved on to bathing the bulging muscles of the detective’s shoulders and chest.
He had big, strong hands, which she lifted as far as the metal cuffs would allow, letting them rest on his rock-hard belly at the top of the sheet covering him at the waist. She was careful not to damage the cast Andy and Dio had crafted to support the broken bone in his right forearm.
There.
Now he looked more comfortable.
And, damnit, even more handsome than he had three minutes ago.
Bela stared into his face, so close at the angle she had taken to clean him up, squeezing the rag in her fingers, trying to decide if she was finished.
She couldn’t make up her mind.
She couldn’t even move.
From over her head, on the main floor of the brownstone, came the distinct and powerful shifting of elemental energy that let Bela know the ancient channels of communication and transportation had been opened. Her living room was probably filling up with Mothers, stepping through the projective mirrors used to connect the brownstone and every Sibyl dwelling to the Motherhouses and each other.
Just what she needed.
A buttload of cranky old women powerful enough to shake, burn, and blow down New York City, all come to monkey with this man’s health—and probably with her quad before they departed.
Bela was grateful for their help. It was lovely that they were
Bela moved aside so that Camille could see the sleeping detective and the wicked-looking wounds readily visible on his tanned chest, neck, and shoulder. “We’ve fought it to a draw for the moment. Meaning he’s not dying right this second or changing into anything other than human. Yet.”
More of that sickly dark energy slid out of Duncan Sharp’s slash wounds, heading for Camille, only to perish against the elemental locks of the cuffs and bed.
Camille drew back a step, watching the foul energy break apart. “What is that shit? And what were those things that attacked us in DUMBO?”
“Trouble, no doubt,” Mother Keara grumbled as she stood. She hobbled across the room toward Camille and put out her hand for support, though Bela didn’t think she really needed it. As Camille took her by the elbow and moved to help her out of the laboratory and back upstairs, Mother Keara looked pointedly at Bela. “If that porcupine of an air Sibyl you’re so bent on keepin’ is worth her freight, she’s upstairs in her archives right now, huntin’ answers.”
Bela was too tired herself to argue the point or defend Dio again. She let Mother Keara go with Camille to summon more Mothers, and took a seat in the metal chair Mother Keara had vacated. The metal was still hot enough to melt ridges in her leathers along both sides of her ass.
Wonderful .
Bela rubbed her hand across her eyes and refocused on Duncan Sharp’s breathing and heartbeat. Still steady and regular. She didn’t catch any hint of pain at the moment.
Good .
She made herself get up and go to the sinks. From a too-yellow cabinet overhead—Goddess, what had she been thinking when she bought that paint?—she took down a smooth cotton cloth and dampened it with warm water. She brought the wet cloth back to the detective’s bedside and began to dab away the grit, soot, grime, and blood from his stubbled cheeks.
With each gentle swipe, she could see more of his tanned face, from the strong line of his jaw to the corners of his mouth. The guy probably had a drop-dead grin to go with that thick brown hair, which would be curly if he hadn’t cut it so short. She imagined Duncan Sharp awake again, fit and well. If that gorgeous face could relax, it might be boyish.
Her own breathing slowed more, falling into rhythm with his as she bathed away what she could of his pain and damage. She glanced at his slash wounds, which were still behaving for the moment, with the ancient coin resting beside them on its golden chain. Bela knew better than to toy with ancient things, so she left the coin where it lay and moved on to bathing the bulging muscles of the detective’s shoulders and chest.
He had big, strong hands, which she lifted as far as the metal cuffs would allow, letting them rest on his rock-hard belly at the top of the sheet covering him at the waist. She was careful not to damage the cast Andy and Dio had crafted to support the broken bone in his right forearm.
There.
Now he looked more comfortable.
And, damnit, even more handsome than he had three minutes ago.
Bela stared into his face, so close at the angle she had taken to clean him up, squeezing the rag in her fingers, trying to decide if she was finished.
She couldn’t make up her mind.
She couldn’t even move.
From over her head, on the main floor of the brownstone, came the distinct and powerful shifting of elemental energy that let Bela know the ancient channels of communication and transportation had been opened. Her living room was probably filling up with Mothers, stepping through the projective mirrors used to connect the brownstone and every Sibyl dwelling to the Motherhouses and each other.
Just what she needed.
A buttload of cranky old women powerful enough to shake, burn, and blow down New York City, all come to monkey with this man’s health—and probably with her quad before they departed.
Bela was grateful for their help. It was lovely that they were
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