Saul’s current host, who was from the same “batch” as Tommy—get shot in the head twice and barely pause long enough to blink. Of course, the general population doesn’t know about the experiments, or the superhosts those experiments produced. And it’s probably better that way.
The teenaged girl was the only pedestrian to make any move to help us in the heat of the moment, but now that it seemed like the shooting was over, we were beginning to draw a crowd. No one seemed to want to get too close—like they were afraid getting shot was contagious—but it was far more attention than I was comfortable with. I don’t know if the bullet Raphael had taken would have killed a normal host, but it certainly would have hurt one very badly.
The teenager closed her phone, though not before surreptitiously snapping a photo. Camera phones have to be the devil’s own invention.
“An ambulance is coming,” she said, leaning over Raphael to get a better look. “Is he gonna die?”
I wanted to tell her to back off, but she had called an ambulance, which made her into something like a Good Samaritan. I try not to bite the heads off Good Samaritans even when my head hurts like a son of a bitch and I have problems up the wazoo.
“He’ll be all right,” I said. “He’s a demon.”
The girl’s eyes widened. She made the sign of the cross, then backed away hastily. I think she was regretting calling the ambulance. I guess when you’re in a heavily Italian neighborhood, you have to expect a lot of Catholics, and the Catholic church would never accept demons as the good guys.
Raphael started sitting up, and now it wasn’t only the girl taking a step back. I bit my lip, wondering where Adam was. I couldn’t figure out whether I hoped he’d caught Foreman or not. At least I hadn’t heard any more gunshots.
“Should you be sitting up yet?” I asked Raphael. It was just beginning to dawn on me that Raphael had maybe saved Adam’s life and had taken a bullet for his efforts. I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around the concept.
“I’m fine,” he said, one arm still pressed tightly to his abdomen. “It’s just a flesh wound.” He managed something that passed for a sickly grin, but I suspect the wound had healed completely already.
I looked at the blood that soaked his shirt and that trailed down the steps. The evidence pointed to far more than a flesh wound. And in broad daylight, with witnesses surrounding us and an ambulance and police on the way, there was no way we could hide anything.
Sirens wailed in the distance, and I would have loved to flee. The police had seen far too much of me since Lugh had come into my life, and my being at the site of yet another violent crime was not going to help my less-than-squeaky-clean image. Where the hell was Adam? I wasn’t doing his reputation much good, either, since he’d been forced to extricate me from a number of delicate situations, but I really hated the idea of talking to the police without him present.
My silent prayers went unanswered, and the emergency vehicles converged before Adam put in an appearance.
sixteen
I DIDN’T MAKE ANY NEW FRIENDS IN THE POLICE department that night.
Despite his showy wound, Raphael managed to avoid being shuffled off to the hospital. He wouldn’t even let the EMTs take a quick look—probably because the wound was already gone, and even a demon should still have some sign of injury left. I have no idea what they would have made of the nonexistent wound, and I was just as happy not to find out.
While Raphael was arguing with the EMTs, one of the officers who’d arrived on the scene took me aside to get my statement. That’s when I started making a nuisance of myself.
Obviously, I couldn’t explain to the police exactly what I was doing here, nor could I offer any theories on why Jonathan Foreman had shot at us. But I’m a lousy liar in the best of times, and with that blacksmith still hammering away at my skull, I just didn’t have the … creativity to come up with a plausible explanation. Just as well, because Raphael’s story and mine wouldn’t gel, seeing as we hadn’t had a chance to consult with each other. So I decided to tell the nice policeman the facts, and only the facts. Adam knocked on the door. Raphael pushed him out of the way, getting shot in the process. And someone, presumably Foreman, had taken off with Adam in hot pursuit.
I refused to say what the three of us were doing on Foreman’s doorstep. I can’t imagine how many red flags my refusal set to waving, but I figured if I couldn’t come up with a plausible story, I was better off saying nothing. I hoped Raphael was doing the same, even though he could probably come up with three plausible-sounding stories without breaking a sweat.
Things were getting pretty tense, and I was afraid they were about to arrest me—for what, I’m not sure—when Adam finally sauntered back onto the scene. Okay, he wasn’t really sauntering, but he couldn’t possibly move fast enough to satisfy me. I hadn’t exactly been watching the time, but it felt like approximately forever since he’d run off after Jonathan Foreman, and I couldn’t imagine what had taken so long. With their demon-enhanced endurance, the two of them could have run to New Jersey and back in the time Adam had been gone!
The cops turned their attention to Adam, who I suppose they felt was a more reliable witness than Raphael and me. We were told in no uncertain terms, however, that we were not to leave the scene. We sat together on the steps—careful to avoid the blood—and didn’t speak to each other. I think we both noticed the cop who was “nonchalantly” hanging out within hearing distance, no doubt hoping he’d get to overhear the real story. He clearly wasn’t cut out for undercover work, though he tried to keep up the illusion that he was busy.
I was overflowing with questions myself by now, but I knew I wasn’t getting answers anytime soon.
What had happened to Jonathan Foreman? Why had he shot at us? He couldn’t possibly know we were after him, could he? And what story was Adam telling his fellow officers that would explain this mess away?
Raphael and I sat in silence for the better part of an hour as twilight fell, then faded to full dark. He kept one arm pressed against his midsection, where the bullet wound should have been, the whole time. Me, I’d have forgotten about it and flashed the healed skin as soon as my concentration waned. Of course, if you’re going to be any good at lying—and Raphael was a master—you’ve got to learn to stick to your cover story.
Finally, the police were done with Adam. They had some stern words for me and Raphael, but said we could go home. Hallelujah!
We’d driven to Foreman’s place in Adam’s unmarked, which was parked around the block. By unspoken agreement, none of us spoke until we were in the car and on our way. I doubt anyone could possibly have overheard us, but you can never be too careful. Raphael even kept up the injured act until he was safely sprawled in the backseat.
“What happened to Foreman?” I asked, as soon as my paranoia thought it was safe to speak.
“If all went well, he’ll be at my place right about now,” Adam said.
I swallowed a laugh. All had most definitely not gone well! “How the hell did he get to your place?
Assuming he did.”
“I caught up with him a few blocks from here. I Tasered him, then called Dom and Saul to come pick him up. That’s why it took me so long to get back to the crime scene—I had to wait for them to show up.”
Raphael stirred in the backseat. “You left him with only Dominic and Saul as guards?” He didn’t sound happy.
Adam glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “I didn’t have a lot of options. But they’ve both got Tasers, and they’re not idiots. They’ll keep him contained.”
“If you get my son killed, I’ll eat your liver,” Raphael said, his voice as calm as if he’d said “I think it’s going to rain tomorrow.” Saul might despise Raphael, but Raphael didn’t seem to hold that against him.