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Authors: Sarah A. Hoyt
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first-aid materials down on the table. “That looks awful,” he said.
She nodded and turned her arm over. On the bottom there was another bruise, another puncture.
“It went all the way—” he started.
She shook her head. “No. The dra— He just bit me. I don’t know how deeply. It feels different . . . in the other body.” She’d lowered her head to look at her own arm, and her hair had fallen across her face. The temptation to reach over and pull that multicolored curtain back was almost more than he could endure.
“Have you had a tetanus shot?” he asked, going on routine. “Because if you hadn’t, you should. I don’t know how clean . . .” He realized he was about to say he didn’t know how clean dragons’ teeth were and caught himself in time. He smiled. There was no avoiding it. He was a dragon. She knew he was a dragon. And on that, at least, there was no reason for awkwardness. Hell, she shifted too. He had to keep telling himself that. He had to remember. “I, personally, brush and floss. Use mouthwash, even. But I can’t answer to the cleanliness of another dragon’s teeth.”
That got him a smile. Little more than the polite smile that she gave customers, but a smile nonetheless, and even a teasing sort of reply. “No unified dental hygiene guidelines for dragons?”
“Afraid not,” he said. He soaked one of the balls of cotton wool in hydrogen peroxide and gently started to cleanse the area. “Seriously, you really should go to a doctor. I know we shifters heal quickly, but these deep puncture wounds can be dangerous. Only a tiny area exposed to air, see. The space in there can develop an infection very easily. And you could get blood poisoning, something horrible.” He looked up and saw her open her mouth. “I know what you’re going to say, and I’m not going to tell you that you’re wrong. The last thing we need. The very last thing is to call attention to ourselves—particularly with strange animal bites. And I understand how you feel about being in the hospital. I slept under a bridge many a night, rather than going to a shelter when the moon was full and the impulse to shift greater. But, Kyrie, I’m not joking.” He pushed as much hydrogen peroxide as he could into the puncture, on both sides, by squeezing the cotton right atop of it. “If you get a fever, the first sign of swelling on your arm, you must—must—see a doctor. It could kill you.”
“You know a lot about this stuff.”
He nodded, pulling back the cotton wool, tossing it in the kitchen trash in the corner, and waiting while her arm dried. Then he got antibiotic cream and started slathering it on. There was no reason to tell her anything. Or maybe there was. He’d been so desperately alone all these years. “My mom is a doctor,” he said.
“Is she . . .” Kyrie swallowed. “Is she . . .”
“She left Dad about ten years ago,” he said. “When I was a kid. Went down to Florida with her new husband. I haven’t seen her since. But up till I was ten I gave her many reasons to perform first aid on me, and I heard this speech a lot.”
Kyrie frowned at him. Then shook her head. “I was going to ask if she was a dragon.”
Tom shook his head, then shrugged. “I don’t think so. I know Dad isn’t. And I don’t think Mom is. I’ve never . . .” He was about to say that he didn’t know any older shifters, but then realized he did. He had seen a couple of derelicts shifting while he flew above in the middle of a summer night. It had been further out west, toward New Mexico, and they’d shifted into coyotes and headed for the hills. He remembered because back then, seeing the tattered men shift into ragtag coyotes he’d wondered if he’d end up like that. Old, still a transient, still homeless. It had been part of what led him to steal. . . . “I don’t think it’s hereditary, or at least not that way. Why? Are your parents shifters?”
She shook her head and shrugged, and her eyes
She nodded and turned her arm over. On the bottom there was another bruise, another puncture.
“It went all the way—” he started.
She shook her head. “No. The dra— He just bit me. I don’t know how deeply. It feels different . . . in the other body.” She’d lowered her head to look at her own arm, and her hair had fallen across her face. The temptation to reach over and pull that multicolored curtain back was almost more than he could endure.
“Have you had a tetanus shot?” he asked, going on routine. “Because if you hadn’t, you should. I don’t know how clean . . .” He realized he was about to say he didn’t know how clean dragons’ teeth were and caught himself in time. He smiled. There was no avoiding it. He was a dragon. She knew he was a dragon. And on that, at least, there was no reason for awkwardness. Hell, she shifted too. He had to keep telling himself that. He had to remember. “I, personally, brush and floss. Use mouthwash, even. But I can’t answer to the cleanliness of another dragon’s teeth.”
That got him a smile. Little more than the polite smile that she gave customers, but a smile nonetheless, and even a teasing sort of reply. “No unified dental hygiene guidelines for dragons?”
“Afraid not,” he said. He soaked one of the balls of cotton wool in hydrogen peroxide and gently started to cleanse the area. “Seriously, you really should go to a doctor. I know we shifters heal quickly, but these deep puncture wounds can be dangerous. Only a tiny area exposed to air, see. The space in there can develop an infection very easily. And you could get blood poisoning, something horrible.” He looked up and saw her open her mouth. “I know what you’re going to say, and I’m not going to tell you that you’re wrong. The last thing we need. The very last thing is to call attention to ourselves—particularly with strange animal bites. And I understand how you feel about being in the hospital. I slept under a bridge many a night, rather than going to a shelter when the moon was full and the impulse to shift greater. But, Kyrie, I’m not joking.” He pushed as much hydrogen peroxide as he could into the puncture, on both sides, by squeezing the cotton right atop of it. “If you get a fever, the first sign of swelling on your arm, you must—must—see a doctor. It could kill you.”
“You know a lot about this stuff.”
He nodded, pulling back the cotton wool, tossing it in the kitchen trash in the corner, and waiting while her arm dried. Then he got antibiotic cream and started slathering it on. There was no reason to tell her anything. Or maybe there was. He’d been so desperately alone all these years. “My mom is a doctor,” he said.
“Is she . . .” Kyrie swallowed. “Is she . . .”
“She left Dad about ten years ago,” he said. “When I was a kid. Went down to Florida with her new husband. I haven’t seen her since. But up till I was ten I gave her many reasons to perform first aid on me, and I heard this speech a lot.”
Kyrie frowned at him. Then shook her head. “I was going to ask if she was a dragon.”
Tom shook his head, then shrugged. “I don’t think so. I know Dad isn’t. And I don’t think Mom is. I’ve never . . .” He was about to say that he didn’t know any older shifters, but then realized he did. He had seen a couple of derelicts shifting while he flew above in the middle of a summer night. It had been further out west, toward New Mexico, and they’d shifted into coyotes and headed for the hills. He remembered because back then, seeing the tattered men shift into ragtag coyotes he’d wondered if he’d end up like that. Old, still a transient, still homeless. It had been part of what led him to steal. . . . “I don’t think it’s hereditary, or at least not that way. Why? Are your parents shifters?”
She shook her head and shrugged, and her eyes
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