Abby nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. Big difference.”
“Do you want to take any more pictures for the MEG site?”
She nodded again.
“How about some Chupacabra hair? I bet Stu would be jealous.” When he caught the first hint of a grin, Cole added, “I could pose by that pit for you. It’d make a nice commemorative collage to go along with the other pictures.”
Her full smile arrived after that bit of coaxing, but it was tired. “Maybe just a few more pictures.”
Cole held his trunk open so she could get a clear shot. He considered posing for one of them anyway, but decided against it. There were already enough grainy photos of him in KC. Shooting the old finger pistols next to a dead Chupacabra for the MEG site was pushing it.
“So,” he said while closing the trunk, “we should get together again sometime. And no more running. I’m thinking of a nice, regular dinner somewhere with actual waiters and food that isn’t ladled over white bread.”
She smiled sweetly at him and replied, “I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“I had fun, Cole, don’t get me wrong,” she assured him, albeit unconvincingly. “Next time we’re both available we can get together and see what happens, but as friends, you know?” In response to his slow nod, she added, “I hope you don’t think I asked you to come out here just so I could get these pictures.”
“No, I don’t think that at all.”
She smiled almost to the point of beaming. “Cool.” With that, Abby did the worst thing possible and kissed him on the lips with just enough passion to let him know what he was missing. Some women thought this was a good way to let a man down easy.
Those women were wrong.
Chapter 4
Cole parked in the alley next to the dirty remains of a once average restaurant on South Laramie Avenue. The windows were boarded up, the paint was peeling, and all that remained of a sign were some random letters spelling RASA HILL painted near the front door. He still hadn’t gotten around to looking up the restaurant’s full name, but at this point it didn’t matter. When he was in Chicago, Rasa Hill was home.
He popped the trunk, dug out the smelly plastic bundle, hefted it over one shoulder and carried his spear in his free hand. Standing in front of a metal door that had recently been reinforced, he kicked at it and listened to the echo roll through the building. When he didn’t get an answer, he balanced the Chupe on his shoulder so he could dig out his keys and unlock the door. Before he could take a full step inside, the metallic clack of a shotgun slide filled his ears.
“My day was great,” Cole said cheerfully as he stepped in. “How was yours?”
Even after she saw who was coming inside, Paige didn’t lower her shotgun. “What are you bringing in here?”
“The Chupe.”
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“I heard they were good eatin’.”
Cole used his hip to push the door shut and then walked through a large storeroom. Stopping well before reaching the kitchen, he dropped the plastic bundle and began working the kinks from his arms and legs. “I tried calling you a few times to see if you could use anything from this guy, but you never answered so I just brought the whole thing home.”
The storeroom was illuminated by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, making Paige’s hair look more like an inky mess, while giving her sweatshirt and jeans a dingy quality. Studying her carefully, Cole reached out for the other two light switches on the wall. When the rest of the bulbs came on, he said, “You look like hell.”
Paige not only kept her shotgun against her shoulder, but seemed ready to use it. “And you’re home a day early. Your date must have gone real well.”
Nodding at what seemed like a fair jab in response to his own comment, Cole said, “I scared her away, but it’s not the first time I’ve had that effect on a woman.”
“And it won’t be the last.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry I said you look like hell. We’re even.”
Paige shifted the shotgun to her left hand and let it hang at her side. Now that the bulky weapon was out of the way, Cole could see the paleness of her face. Her black hair didn’t just look like a greasy mess. It was a greasy mess. Normally, she tied it back or wore a Cubs cap to keep it in check, but now it seemed just as worn-out as the rest of her. His eyes were drawn to her right arm, which was wrapped up in bandages and held tight against her torso by a sling. Although she’d been able to grip the shotgun and put her finger on the trigger, her hand remained in that position, like a claw that slowly curled into a fist.
“How’s your arm?” he asked.
“Fucked up. Next question.”
She stormed into the kitchen and Cole followed. “Did Daniels take a look at it?”
“Yes, Cole.”
“Let me see it.”
“No.”
She’d led him through the kitchen and was on her way to her room. Before she could get there and shut her door, Cole ran ahead of her. “Let me see it,” he demanded.
Paige was easily more than a foot shorter, but glared at Cole as if she was about to squash him under her sneakered foot. Eventually she let out a terse breath and shifted so her right side was a little closer to him. Cole was genuinely surprised she’d caved in so quickly.
Reaching out tentatively, he placed one hand on the sling and slipped the other inside it. On the surface, Paige’s arm was smooth and finely toned. Her skin was on the cool side, but wasn’t as clammy as the rest of her body. Considering the heat of any given night in Chicago during the summer, clamminess wasn’t much of a shock. Since she hadn’t budged at his initial moves, he pressed his hand down a bit more.
“Does that hurt?”
“No,” she replied evenly.
Beneath the skin, her arm felt more petrified than stiff. It reminded him of the process that had turned a sapling into the lightweight, almost unbreakable spear that was his now first line of defense against anything supernatural. He gently ran his fingers along her arm, watching her face for any reaction. The source of her injury was a smeared, jagged line that looked as if it had been left by a felt-tip pen. The mass beneath it felt like a thick piece of wire embedded in her flesh.
“Can you move it?” he asked.
“You had your look, Cole. Just give it a rest.”
“You need to move it. And don’t look at me like that!” His fingers probed away from the line that had been tattooed into her skin and quickly found more grisly reminders of their time in Kansas City. The Full Blood’s claws and teeth had left scars that marred her flesh like a key would mar the paint on a car door.
“All right,” she said. “That’s enough.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No. I can barely feel anything.”
“Then move it.” When she tried to pull away, he tightened his grip on her wrist and said, “Can you just move your hand?”
She set her jaw into a firm line, pulled in a deep breath and let it out in a hiss. He could see the pain in her eyes, but didn’t bother asking her about it. Thanks to the healing serums she’d already mixed and administered, Paige could have recovered from wounds bad enough to make the toughest soldier scream in agony. But healing wasn’t enough. Skinners had to chew through regular pain and go in for seconds.
And thirds.
And possibly tenths.
The sheen on Paige’s brow grew into several trickles of sweat as she forced her arm to rise up from where it rested within its sling. Her shirt was already soaked, which told Cole she’d probably been working at this for some time before he arrived. When her arm was about an inch and a half above the bottom of the sling, she bared her teeth and extended her hand like a ponderous mechanism that had been forged from rusted steel and bent at joints dipped in cold glue. While letting out another breath, she lifted her arm some more and uncurled her middle finger.