Mr. Cortez assured me a doctor was on the way from a nearby satellite office.
FOURTEEN
The guards carried Marsten back to my house and returned to clear the scene. They weren’t even out of the backyard when the doctor arrived. He did a double take when he saw his patient in wolf form, but got Marsten’s wound cleaned and covered, left antibiotics and painkillers, and told me to call if his condition worsened.
The two guards stopped back at the house to let me know everything was cleaned up. They brought something for me, too: my purse, left by Tristan in the van. My bracelet was still in there, as was my wallet. Everything back in order, just as Mr. Cortez had promised.
Marsten was in the living room, on a blanket. I found a second blanket and laid it over him. Yes, he looked kind of ridiculous, a huge wolf on my living room floor with a pink and white knit afghan tucked in around his muzzle. At least I didn’t get him a pillow … though I did consider it.
I stretched out on the sofa above him, intending to keep watch until he woke, but within minutes I was asleep.
I awoke to the sound of running water. I looked down at the floor. Marsten was gone.
“Up here,” he said when I called for him.
I climbed the stairs. He was in the bathroom, with the door open a crack.
I stopped a few paces from the door. “Let me grab your clothes.”
“Found and on. What’s left of them, anyway. Now, if I can just—” He growled. “This bandage fit me better as a wolf.”
“Here, I can—”
I started pushing the door open and stopped, realizing he might not want the help. He kicked it open the rest of the way as he quickly shrugged on his shirt.
“Didn’t peg you as the shy type.” I gestured at the shirt. “I can’t fix your shoulder like that.”
He hesitated, and let the shirt fall off. His chest and upper arms were a loose patchwork of scars. He tensed, as if waiting for me to comment. I grabbed bandages and iodine from the closet and set to work.
“The Cabal sent a doctor over,” I said. “I’m not sure he did a very good job. He didn’t seem to know much about werewolves.”
“No matter. I know someone who does.” He glanced at me. “So I didn’t imagine that, then. You contacted Benicio Cortez.”
I nodded. “That’s all it took. Tristan’s dead, you’re alive, the mess is cleaned up, and Mr. Cortez has promised to look after any fallout. Which, of course, led me to wonder, if you had that number, why didn’t you use it right away. I think I know the answer, but I’m hoping I’m wrong.”
“Probably not,” he murmured.
I looked up at him. “As nice as Mr. Cortez was, I’m guessing he didn’t get where he is by playing Santa Claus. Cleaning this up for us wasn’t a free gift, was it?”
“We owe him. He wouldn’t say that, because it would have been crass, but it’s a chit.” He rubbed his shoulder and adjusted the bandage. “When I turned down Tristan’s offer, Benicio came to me and made one personally. He was much more persuasive—”
“He threatened you?”
Marsten smiled. “Benicio Cortez does not threaten. He knows a lollipop is a better motivator than a swat on the behind. He made me a lucrative offer, and when I respectfully declined, he let it go but gave me that card, in case I ever ‘needed help.’”
“And now I’ve accepted it on your behalf, putting you in his debt.”
“If I hadn’t wanted you to use it, I wouldn’t have told you to. Given the choice between being dead and owing Benicio Cortez, I’ll take the latter, as uncomfortable as it may be. He will eventually call in the chit, but in the meantime, you can go back to your life, including your job at the paper, assuming that’s what you want.”
“It is.” I sat on the edge of the counter. “I’d like to—well, maybe I’m kidding myself thinking I could do anything on my own.”
“You could still monitor and report problems. To the real council this time. They have someone doing something similar, another journalist, and I know she’d love the help.”
When I hesitated, Marsten stepped in front of me, a hand on each side, balancing against the counter. “Take it slow and start there. The only drawback, I’m afraid, would be the pay … or lack of it. The real council isn’t a group of white-haired supernatural philanthropists. Most of the delegates aren’t much older than you, meaning it’s a no-budget operation.”
“That doesn’t matter. I never even wanted Tristan to pay me. I get paid well enough.” I stopped and shrugged. “Well, you know …”
“In chaos dollars.”
My cheeks heated. “I know that sounds awful, helping others because I get something out of it.”
He put his hands on my hips. “You need an outlet. Do you think I don’t understand that?” He reached into his pocket and took out the jewels. “This is mine. A way to get a regular adrenaline shot without ripping apart strangers in alleyways. And with you, it isn’t all about the chaos. You have balance. The good impulses with the bad. Me?” He smiled. “A little more inclined to the latter.” His eyes glinted. “Though not irredeemably so.”
I laughed. “Something tells me that would be a fun but futile challenge.”
“Challenge is good.”
I shook my head. “If you’re happy with what you are, then anyone who wants you would need to accept that.”
He ran his fingertips along my jawline. “Wouldn’t be easy, I’m sure.”
“No, but if you look hard enough, I’m sure you’d find someone willing to try. You know, my mom’s great at finding dates—”
He growled and kissed me. When he pulled back, he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, as if sampling the kiss.
“The immunity is breaking down,” he murmured. “But still has a ways to go.” He leaned toward me again. “I’d ask if I should stay, but I suspect the answer would be no. So instead I’ll ask whether I can come back.”
I smiled. “Yes, you can come back.”
“Good. Better, actually.”
“Better?”
“Much.”
I laughed and shook my head.
Marsten stepped back. “I should go. I have a doctor to visit and goods to dispose of … not necessarily in that order. And I will make those calls for you, ensure the termination from your old job and the start of your new one proceed smoothly.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” I caught his hand and met his gaze. “I really do, Karl.”
He leaned over for a kiss, little more than a brushing of the lips, but very … nice. He backed up to the door and then stopped.
“I’m too old for you.”
“Too old for what? To come back for a visit?”
A dramatic sigh. He shook his head, and walked out of the bathroom. From the hall I heard a murmured, “I’m going to make a fool of myself.”
“It’ll look good on you,” I called after him.
He chuckled. I smiled and listened to his footsteps recede down the stairs, across the floor, and finally disappear out the back door. Then I took a deep breath. One life gone. Time to reinvent myself—again. Was I up for it?
God, I hoped so.
AMITYVILLE HORRIBLE
ONE
“You know how you said you’d never do another reality ghost show?” Mike’s voice bounced off my dressing room walls.