‘Patience.’ Preacher sprayed his hands and forearms with latex then bowed his head in prayer.
‘Freak,’ Doc muttered from his spot at Fi’s shoulders. His thumbs stroked her skin.
How Doc kept Fi corporeal, Mal had no idea. Just like he didn’t understand how the ex Marine could pray without his tongue bursting into flames. Mal walked past Doc and placed his hands on Chrysabelle’s burning skin. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Light from Preacher’s headlamp sparkled off her signum as the man bent over Fiona’s arm and studied her veins. Something between Chrysabelle’s parted lips caught Mal’s eye. Tiny. Pointed. White.
He grabbed Doc’s arm and motioned with his head at her mouth. Doc followed Mal’s gesture. He stared, then looked back at Mal and mouthed the word ‘fangs’ like a question.
Mal shrugged and shut Chrysabelle’s jaw before Preacher noticed. Preacher thought he was helping a human. If he thought she was a vampire, he might not. Mal wasn’t taking the chance. Why would the comarré have fangs? Granted, they looked more like the baby teeth version, but still. Was she human or not?
Preacher lifted his head and twisted his headlamp to focus the beam. He moved to Chrysabelle first, securing a tourniquet of rubber tubing around her arm. Her vein popped up instantly. He repeated the process on Fi, slapping her arm to bring the vein up. Nothing. He shifted her arm to hang off the cot.
‘I may not get a vein on her. Leave her arm like that and I’ll try again when I’m ready.’
Moving back to Chrysabelle, he grabbed another length of tubing, attached the collection bag at one end and a needle at the other. He caught Mal’s eyes. ‘I don’t know how she’ll react, so be ready for anything.’
No kidding. Mal nodded. ‘I’ve been ready. Waiting on you.’
‘Beginning.’ Preacher swabbed the inside of her elbow with alcohol. He slid the needle into Chrysabelle’s protruding vein and let the bag rest on the floor. Blood spurted through the tubing and started filling the bag, thick and violet red. ‘The blood’s not getting oxygenated fast enough. Too much volume. Her body can’t keep up.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure putting this blood into the other one is going to help.’
Doc’s head snapped up. ‘Quit jawing and hurry up. It’s the best chance Fi has.’
‘Your loss.’ Preacher shrugged.
The bag continued to fill. Despite the off-color, Mal’s fangs ached. So much blood. Right in front of him. The angry buzz in his head said the voices were aware of it too. He shifted his gaze to her signum until the gold marks blurred into a shimmery glaze.
‘Done.’ Preacher taped a cotton ball over the puncture site then slid the needle out, carefully holding it higher than the bag, and returned to Fi. He handed the needle and bag to Doc. ‘Keep the needle high.’
He lifted Fi’s arm and slapped it a few more times. ‘All right, drop the bag to the floor and give me the needle.’
Doc handed over the needle and moved to the head of Fi’s cot. His hands went back to her shoulders. Preacher slid the needle into Fi’s vein and lifted the bag to shoulder height. Blood flowed through the tube and vanished into her. For a long minute, nothing happened. Blood fluxed from the bag to Fi. Both girls lay still. Mal watched. Listened. No change. Then another minute went by.
And another.
‘It’s not working.’ Doc’s head dropped to his chest. Anger radiated off him hot and sharp. ‘You son of a—’
‘Oh.’ Fiona’s eyes fluttered open with a gasp. ‘Wow,’ she whispered. ‘I feel … alive.’
Doc let go of her shoulders and grabbed her hand. ‘You are. Sort of.’ He looked at Preacher. ‘Get that thing out of her arm.’
‘Not yet, I need to—’
‘No, now. You don’t know what too much of that blood could do to her.’ Doc yanked the line out and pressed his fingers to the spot on Fi’s arm.
Everything decelerated into frame by frame slow motion. A crimson thread of liquid jetted through the needle. The scent of Chrysabelle’s blood replaced the air in the room. Mal’s head came up at the same time as Preacher’s. Fangs pierced the gaping maw of his mouth. Mal knew his face had gone feral and his eyes silver, a sure reminder to Preacher of the difference between them.
Mal snarled a warning. Her scent alone was enough to intoxicate him, but the smell of her uncontained blood infected him like a virus. Her scent became his blood, his reason, his brain. Every inch of his flesh hummed with the drive to protect. Possess. The voices crammed his cerebrum with a frantic, high-pitched, jet engine whine. Blackness edged his vision, but this was no time to lose control. He shoved his demons back into his brain.
‘Mine,’ Preacher snarled back. ‘I need her.’
‘You need to be put down.’ Strength born of the moment surged through Mal. He landed a fist across Preacher’s jaw, throwing him into the wall. ‘Stay away from her.’
The needle lay on the floor leaking an ever-widening pool across the linoleum. Preacher jumped to his feet, eyes flicking from Mal to Chrysabelle to the blood and back again. Mal vaulted over Chrysabelle and landed squarely between her and Preacher.
Mal clenched his fists and roared, baring his fangs. ‘Back. Off.’
Preacher threw a punch. Mal blocked with his left forearm and rammed his right fist into Preacher’s gut. He retched and went to his knees, bile dripping from his mouth.