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Authors: Lisa Shearin
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the night sky with a shriek that said she wasn’t done, not by a long shot.
As pissed as he was, Yasha had had the presence of mind to find a stretch of side street lined with small businesses that were closed for the night. It took a lot of hell being raised to make New Yorkers look out their windows, but apparently a harpy and werewolf going at it in the middle of the street qualified. Lights were coming on in the apartments above the closed businesses. The harpy had messed up the Suburban’s body, not the engine, so Yasha got us out of there fast.
The shoulder of Ben Sadler’s tux jacket and the shirt beneath were hanging in shreds, and blood was streaming from a puncture just under his collarbone. Ian had his handkerchief out, putting pressure on the wound.
“Get the kit,” he told me.
I knew what he was talking about, and better yet, I knew where it was. All SPI vehicles carried military-quality medic kits. Yasha kept his anchored under the middle row of seats. I flipped the clips holding it in place and hauled it up onto the seat with me. I tore into a pack of gauze bandages and passed a handful back to Ian, followed by a roll of heavy-duty gauze wrap.
“Flying stone monsters,” Ian said, changing out his soaked-through handkerchief for a stack of gauze bandages. “Sound familiar?”
“If you mean gargoyles ripping apart a borrowed bakery truck to turn us into road paste on my first night on the job, then yeah, it sounds familiar.”
He started tightly wrapping Ben’s shoulder, bringing the bandage under the appraiser’s arm to keep it in place. “I do.”
“Then it does.”
I didn’t need reminding to know how terrifying those gargoyles had been. Almost as terrifying as those harpies coming to life and raising unholy hell in a crowd of civilians.
Those gargoyles had been after me. That harpy had been after Ben.
The possibility of a connection was the sprinkles on the squashed cupcake of my evening.
6
THE protocol for bringing in a rogue talent was tossed out the nearest window when that harpy punched out the back window of Yasha’s Suburban.
Ben Sadler had a deep puncture wound from a harpy claw in his shoulder, and more than a few nasty scratches. He didn’t need surgery, but he did require more medical attention than Yasha’s first-aid kit could handle.
Increased danger plus serious injury meant we’d be taking Ben home with us.
At SPI, we weren’t encouraged to bring friends home to headquarters for sleepovers, but I was sure Mom would be willing to make an exception. One, he was the new kid on the freaky ability block. Two, Viktor Kain thought he was involved with the theft of his diamonds and had looked at him like he was the meat entree on the midnight dragon buffet. Three, whoever had masterminded that robbery was treating the diamonds and Ben Sadler like a matched set they didn’t want to break up. They also weren’t averse to that harpy poking a few holes in him—and killing us—to get what they wanted.
SPI’s resident doctor was presently taking care of Ben, who was still conveniently unconscious from the drug Ian had given him. One of the medics had just finished bandaging the burn from Ben’s hand around my lower arm. I’d been burned before, but this didn’t feel like any burn I’d ever had. It tingled like a continuous low-voltage electric shock, like when I hit my funny bone, which I’d never found to be funny in the least.
SPI’s infirmary looked enough like a hospital that when Ben woke up, it might help alleviate a continuation of the panic attack that had hit him just before Ian stuck him with that needle.
Or not.
When we got to his room, Ben Sadler was still out, or asleep, or playing opossum in his hospital-type bed. The shredded tux was gone, replaced by one of those cotton hospital gowns that were open down the back.
That
was going to be a shocker when he woke up. Spend your evening getting all gussied up for a gala at the Met to get an early look
As pissed as he was, Yasha had had the presence of mind to find a stretch of side street lined with small businesses that were closed for the night. It took a lot of hell being raised to make New Yorkers look out their windows, but apparently a harpy and werewolf going at it in the middle of the street qualified. Lights were coming on in the apartments above the closed businesses. The harpy had messed up the Suburban’s body, not the engine, so Yasha got us out of there fast.
The shoulder of Ben Sadler’s tux jacket and the shirt beneath were hanging in shreds, and blood was streaming from a puncture just under his collarbone. Ian had his handkerchief out, putting pressure on the wound.
“Get the kit,” he told me.
I knew what he was talking about, and better yet, I knew where it was. All SPI vehicles carried military-quality medic kits. Yasha kept his anchored under the middle row of seats. I flipped the clips holding it in place and hauled it up onto the seat with me. I tore into a pack of gauze bandages and passed a handful back to Ian, followed by a roll of heavy-duty gauze wrap.
“Flying stone monsters,” Ian said, changing out his soaked-through handkerchief for a stack of gauze bandages. “Sound familiar?”
“If you mean gargoyles ripping apart a borrowed bakery truck to turn us into road paste on my first night on the job, then yeah, it sounds familiar.”
He started tightly wrapping Ben’s shoulder, bringing the bandage under the appraiser’s arm to keep it in place. “I do.”
“Then it does.”
I didn’t need reminding to know how terrifying those gargoyles had been. Almost as terrifying as those harpies coming to life and raising unholy hell in a crowd of civilians.
Those gargoyles had been after me. That harpy had been after Ben.
The possibility of a connection was the sprinkles on the squashed cupcake of my evening.
6
THE protocol for bringing in a rogue talent was tossed out the nearest window when that harpy punched out the back window of Yasha’s Suburban.
Ben Sadler had a deep puncture wound from a harpy claw in his shoulder, and more than a few nasty scratches. He didn’t need surgery, but he did require more medical attention than Yasha’s first-aid kit could handle.
Increased danger plus serious injury meant we’d be taking Ben home with us.
At SPI, we weren’t encouraged to bring friends home to headquarters for sleepovers, but I was sure Mom would be willing to make an exception. One, he was the new kid on the freaky ability block. Two, Viktor Kain thought he was involved with the theft of his diamonds and had looked at him like he was the meat entree on the midnight dragon buffet. Three, whoever had masterminded that robbery was treating the diamonds and Ben Sadler like a matched set they didn’t want to break up. They also weren’t averse to that harpy poking a few holes in him—and killing us—to get what they wanted.
SPI’s resident doctor was presently taking care of Ben, who was still conveniently unconscious from the drug Ian had given him. One of the medics had just finished bandaging the burn from Ben’s hand around my lower arm. I’d been burned before, but this didn’t feel like any burn I’d ever had. It tingled like a continuous low-voltage electric shock, like when I hit my funny bone, which I’d never found to be funny in the least.
SPI’s infirmary looked enough like a hospital that when Ben woke up, it might help alleviate a continuation of the panic attack that had hit him just before Ian stuck him with that needle.
Or not.
When we got to his room, Ben Sadler was still out, or asleep, or playing opossum in his hospital-type bed. The shredded tux was gone, replaced by one of those cotton hospital gowns that were open down the back.
That
was going to be a shocker when he woke up. Spend your evening getting all gussied up for a gala at the Met to get an early look
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