I nodded.
She examined the bump on my forehead. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it hurt when she touched it. She asked me some more questions about my head injury, and then some stupid stuff about the president and the date. Then she sighed. “Well, you’re in shock, and you’ve got a pretty severe concussion. Your blood pressure is dangerously low. You should be in the hospital.”
It wasn’t a direct question, so I didn’t bother to answer. After a while she took a few materials out of her kit and put butterfly tape over the cut on my forehead. She told me it would probably leave a scar, as if that was something I would care about. Then she cut away the sleeve of my ruined tee shirt so she could examine where Arthur Holmwood’s bullet had gone through my arm. “This needs stitches. God, your skin is so cold. All right, that’s it,” she announced. “We’re taking it all off. I have a hospital gown in here somewhere.”
She unbuckled my knife belt and helped me get my arms into the gown. After she tied the back, I had to stand up long enough for her to pull down my jeans. She peeled them off matter-of-factly, taking what was left of my socks too. “Ouch,” she said when she saw my feet.
“Just scrapes.”
“Still.” She put some disinfectant on gauze and used it to clean the scrapes on my feet, which hurt. She rolled some bandages around each foot before covering my feet and legs with an airplane blanket. “Better,” she said, and took some more supplies out of her case. She pulled down the shoulder of my gown and began applying iodine to the bullet wound. I winced at the sting.
“Cliff said that you lost someone tonight,” Sashi said gently, probably trying to distract me. When I didn’t respond, she asked, “Was he human?”
It seemed like a strange question for a second, and then I realized she was probably wondering if she could have done something to save him. “No. A null, like me.”
“I’m so sorry, Scarlett. Were you close?”
I had no idea how to answer that. After a moment I settled on, “He saved my life tonight.”
“So he was a good man.”
“I think . . . he was trying to be.” My voice wobbled. “He was complicated.”
After another moment, Sashi said, “There,” and put down her instruments. I hadn’t even noticed her doing the stitches. She pulled off her surgical gloves with a snap, looking at me directly until I finally met her eyes.
“This world . . . the one in the shadows. It isolates us into these little bubbles,” she said, covering my cold hand with her warmer one. “As a result, we have so little say in who we get to be with.”
“That’s why you don’t want to be with Will?”
She sighed. “I’ve been thinking about that. Say I took your cure, and say Will would even have me. I could move to LA and take a human job at a hospital. But Will’s whole life is in the Old World, and I would no longer have a place in it. How many hours a week do you think he spends dealing with pack business?”
“No idea. A lot.”
“As he should. But me being there would be a constant pull away from what he needs to do. Away from being alpha. It would divide him, force him to choose. Every hour of every day, he would have to pick between me and the pack.” She shook her head. “Even setting aside the good I can do as a witch . . . I think we would eventually tear apart. Or he would ask you to cure him, too, and that would tear him apart.” She reached over and pushed a lock of my hair behind my ear. It was a maternal gesture.
Very, very gently, she said, “Scarlett . . . sometimes it’s not supposed to work out.”
I cried then, for a long time. Sashi held me, smoothing back my hair and just generally making a fuss over me. When I was done, she helped recline the leather chair and then covered my lap and chest with more airplane blankets, which smelled like plastic wrap. The last thing I heard her say was, “I’m going to start some IV fluids, all right?”
I just nodded, already half-asleep. I felt her moving aside the sleeve of my gown to tie the tourniquet, and then I was out.
The next thing I was aware of was the sunshine. Someone had opened the window shades on the plane, and a beam of sunlight was warming the right side of my face. Just as it got uncomfortable, someone crossed in front of the window, cutting off the heat. I opened my eyes . . . and saw a familiar figure in a tee shirt and hoodie.
“Jesse?”
He looked down at me with that thousand-watt grin. “Hey, lazy. Geez, I thought this was a work trip. I wish I got paid to sleep all weekend.”
I burst out laughing, but it quickly turned into more of a sob. “You know me. Shows, spas, and shopping. It’s what I live for.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.” There was a whine from next to Jesse, and I looked down—sort of—to see Shadow. She was sitting politely, but when I sat up and really looked I could see her tail wagging frantically. “Hey, Shadow.”
The bargest took that as permission to put her front paws on my lap and take one long swipe of my face with her tongue. “Ack! All right, fine. I missed you, too.”
Point made, the huge bargest dropped back down to all fours, her nose snuffling over my blankets and the hospital gown. I looked around. The plane was empty except for some of Hayne’s men, in their signature black polo shirts. They were carrying a couple of the airtight sleeping pods out of the plane. “Where are we?”
“Burbank airport. Dashiell called a few hours ago, said you were flying back and you had some minor injuries.” He gave me a skeptical look, but was smart enough not to point out that my injuries didn’t look so minor. “Corry’s waiting in the car.”
People. I was back home, where I had my people. My eyes pricked with tears again. Stupid fucking Las Vegas. “I’m never, ever going back there,” I said to Jesse. “Where’s Cliff?”
“He already left. Said to tell you he’d talk to you later.”
“Okay.” I hit the button to make the seat un-recline. My skin was still stained red, and more red had rubbed off onto the leather seats from when I’d been sitting there in my blood-soaked clothes. Dashiell was going to kill me when he saw it. Actually, scratch that. He’d probably make me come back later and clean it up.
Jesse was watching me again. “Hey, are you aware that you’re covered in a great deal of blood?”
“Yeah, but most of it’s mine. Speaking of which . . .” I peeled off the clear tape holding the needle in place and pulled out the IV.
“Hey!” Jesse protested, but I was already pressing my fingers down on the small spurt of blood. “Seriously, Scar. What the hell happened this weekend?”
“It’s a long story.” I pushed the remaining blankets down, aching in so many places that there was no point in taking inventory. I saw that someone had left my boots set out neatly near the door, which cheered me up a little.
I shivered from the plane’s air conditioning. “Here.” Jesse shrugged out of the hoodie and helped me get it on. I zipped it up gratefully, breathing in his comforting scent of oranges and cologne. The warmth felt amazing. “Is it still Sunday?” I asked.
He gave the bump on my head a very concerned look. “Yes.”
“Take me home?”
“You bet.”
I started to stand up, and felt something tucked between my hip and the armchair. I reached down and pulled out a small paper bag, rolled up. When I held it up, the bottom of the bag began to tear, and tightly bound chunks of money spilled out onto my lap.
Jesse’s eyes got huge. “Whoa. That’s gotta be like . . .”
“Ninety thousand dollars,” I said in a hollow voice. Wyatt had seen me lock the hotel safe. I hadn’t killed him like I’d promised, but maybe he was counting on me doing it when his service to Dashiell was up.
If they’d stopped back at the hotel, my suitcase might be around here somewhere, too, but I’d get it later. Or never. Who fucking cared.
I looked at the money for a long moment. I could feel Jesse practically vibrating with questions, but I just shook my head. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 40