P.C. Cast - Tempted

Then she shifted her attention to his wings. The wing on his left side was tucked tightly against his back. It didn’t look like it had been injured at all. But his right wing was another story. It was totally messed up—shattered and bloody and hanging lifelessly down his side.

“Well, I guess it’s time to admit I’m totally out of my comfort zone back here. I mean, the bullet wound was nasty, but at least I knew what to do about it—kind of. Your wing is something else. I have no clue what to do to help it.”

“Bind it to me. Use the cloth strips.” His voice was gravelly. He didn’t look at her and his eyes were still tightly closed.

“Are you sure? Maybe I should just leave it alone.”

“Less pain—if it’s bound,” he said haltingly.

“Well, shit. Okay.” Stevie Rae got to work tearing another towel into long strips, and then knotting them together. “All right. I’m gonna arrange your wing on your back kinda in the same position your other wing’s in. Is that right?”

He nodded once.

She held her breath and picked up his wing. He jerked and gasped. She dropped it and jumped back.

“Shit! I’m sorry! Crap!”

His eyes slitted and he looked up at her. Between panting gasps he said, “Just. Do. It.”

She gritted her teeth, leaned forward and, blocking out his muffled moans of pain, rearranged the shattered wing into a position that vaguely resembled the unwounded wing. Then, with barely a pause for breath, she said, “You’re gonna have to hold yourself up a little so I can get this tied around you.”

Stevie Rae felt his body tense and then he heaved himself up, leaning mostly on his left arm, so that he was in a tilted-over, half-sitting-up position—and his torso was far enough off the floor of the shed for her to quickly wrap the towel strips around him and secure the wing.

“Okay, got it.”

He collapsed. His entire body was trembling.

“I’m wrappin’ your ankle now. I think it’s broken, too.”

He nodded once.

She tore more towel strips and then securely wrapped up his surprisingly human-looking ankle, just like she remembered her volleyball coach wrapping up one of her teammates’ weak ankles back when she was in high school at Henrietta High, home of the Fighting Hens.

Fighting Hens? Okay, her hometown’s mascot had always been silly, but at that moment it struck Stevie Rae as super-funny, and she had to bite her lip to keep a hysterical giggle from bubbling out of it. Thankfully she got herself under control in just a couple breaths, and managed to ask him, “Are you hurt bad anywhere else?”

He shook his head in a short, jerky motion.

“Okay, then I’m gonna stop messin’ with you, ’cause I think I got the worst of it tended.” When he nodded once in agreement, she sat on the floor beside him, wiping her shaking hands on one of the leftover towels. Then she just sat there, looking at him and wondering what the heck she was going to do next. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said aloud, “I hope I never have to tie up another broken wing in my whole dang life.”

His eyes opened, but he didn’t speak.

“Well, it was totally horrible. That wing hurts worse than a regular broken arm or leg, doesn’t it?”

She was talking because she was nervous, and Stevie Rae didn’t expect him to answer, so she was surprised when he said, “It does.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she continued, as if they were two normal people having an ordinary conversation. His voice was still weak, but it seemed easier for him to speak and she guessed immobilizing his wing had really helped his pain level.

“I need more water,” he said.

“Oh, sure.” She grabbed the dipper, glad her hands had stopped shaking. This time he was able to hold himself up and tip back his own head. She only had to pour the water into his mouth, or beak, or whatever the correct word for it was.

Since she was already up, Stevie Rae decided she might as well gather up the bloody pieces of towel, thinking that she should get them away from the shed. The red fledglings’ sense of smell wasn’t as good as hers, but it also wasn’t as undeveloped as regular fledglings. She didn’t want to chance any of them having a reason to sniff around there. A quick search of the shed and she discovered extra-big lawn and garden trash bags, into which she stuffed the rags. There were three towels she hadn’t used, and without really giving it much thought, she unfolded them and spread them out, covering as much of the Raven Mocker as was possible.

“Are you the Red One?”

His voice made her jump. His eyes had been closed and he’d been so quiet while she was cleaning up that she had assumed he was asleep, or maybe passed out. Now those human eyes were open again and trained on her.

“I don’t know how to answer that. I am a red vampyre, if that’s what you mean. The first red vampyre.” She thought briefly about Stark and his completed red tattoos, which made him the second red vampyre, and wondered where he was going to fit in their world, but no way was she going to mention him to the Raven Mocker.

“You are the Red One.”

“Well, okay, I guess I am.”

“My father said the Red One was powerful.”

“I am powerful,” Stevie Rae said with no hesitation. Then she held his gaze and continued, “Your father? You mean Kalona?”

“Yes.”

“He’s gone, ya know.”

“I know.” He looked away from her then. “I should be with him.”

“No offense, but from what I know of your daddy, I think it’s best that you’re here and he’s not. He isn’t exactly a nice guy. Not to mention Neferet has gone completely batshit crazy, and the two of them are like peas in a nasty pod.”

“You talk a lot,” he said and then grimaced painfully.

“Yeah, it’s a habit.” A nervous habit , but she didn’t add that. “Look, you need to rest. I’m gonna go. Plus, the sun started to come up five minutes ago, and that means I need to be inside. The only reason I can walk around at all out there is because the sky’s so full of clouds.” She tied the trash bag closed and scooted the water bucket and dipper within his reach— if he was able to do any reaching. “So, bye. I’ll, um, see ya later.” She started to hurry away, but his voice stopped her.

“What will you do with me?”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet.” She sighed and fidgeted, picking nervously at her fingernails. “Look, I think you’re safe here for at least one day. The storm isn’t letting up and the nuns aren’t going to be messin’ around out here. All of the fledglings will probably stay inside until sunset. By that time I should know what to do with you.”

“I still do not understand why you don’t tell the others about me.”

“Yeah. Well, that makes two of us. Try to rest. I’ll be back.”

Her hand was on the door latch when he spoke again. “My name is Rephaim.”

Stevie Rae smiled over her shoulder at him. “Hi. I’m Stevie Rae. Nice to meet ya, Rephaim.”

Rephaim watched the Red One leave the building. He counted one hundred breaths after the door clicked closed, and then he began shifting his body until he’d forced himself into a sitting position. Now that he was fully conscious he wanted to take inventory of his injuries.

His ankle was not broken. It pained him, but he could move it. His ribs were bruised but, again, he didn’t think any of them were broken. The bullet wound in his chest was serious, but the Red One had cleaned it and packed it with moss. If it didn’t fester and putrefy, he would heal. He could move his right arm, though it was difficult, and it felt unnaturally stiff as well as weak.

Finally, he shifted his attention to his wing. Rephaim closed his eyes and probed with his mind, following sinew and ligaments, muscle and bone, through his back and down the length of his shattered pinion. He gasped, almost unable to breathe, as he truly comprehended the full extent of the damage the bullet, and then the terrible, ripping fall had done.