Second Grave on the Left

The reverberation of a round thundered past me. And another. They were getting closer. The next one would hit me in the neck, possibly severing my jugular.

I opened my eyes, braced myself for the impact, and watched in astonishment as the world slowed even more. The debris hung in midair like ticker tape frozen in time as a line of bullets pushed slowly through the atmosphere toward me. I studied the one closest. The one that had my name on it. The metal was white hot, the friction of traveling so fast heating the metal instantaneously. Then the world came crashing back as a powerful force threw me to the ground, knocking the breath out of me. The bullets I’d been watching sank into the wall over my head with popping sounds.

And everything darkened, starting with my periphery and closing in around me until I fell into a beautiful black oblivion.

What seemed like seconds later, my eyes fluttered open and I found myself floating toward a crumbling ceiling I didn’t recognize. I looked back at my body, at the pool of blood growing in an arc around my head. Then I looked up at the dark figure lifting me toward the heavens and I ground my teeth together, curled my hands into fists.

Freaking Death. I was so going to kick his ass.

I jerked my arm out of his grip and fell back to Earth. Reyes was in front of me at once, his dark robe undulating around him. But I had already been in full swing and clipped him on the jaw.

“What the hell was that for?” he asked, lowering his hood to reveal his perfect face.

“Oh.” I shrugged sheepishly. “I thought you were Death.”

A grin slid across his face, bringing to light his charming dimples, which in turn caused a shiver to dance along my spine. “That would be you,” he said, eyebrows raised teasingly.

“Right, I’m Death. I knew that.” I looked down at my body sprawled unappealingly across the floor. “So, am I dead?”

“Not hardly.” He inched closer, placed his fingers underneath my chin, and turned my head side to side to check out the damage from Evil Murtaugh. “You should have summoned me earlier.”

“I didn’t even know that I could. I just took a chance.”

His brows furrowed. “Usually you don’t have to. I can feel your emotions before they surface.”

“They drugged me. I was really happy.”

“Oh. Next time summon me earlier.”

I lowered my head, hesitant.

“What?” he asked.

“I was attacked the other night by a guy with a knife, and from what I remember, my emotions were pretty strong then. You weren’t there.”

“Is that what you think?”

I blinked up at him in surprise. “You were?”

“Of course I was there. You were doing just fine by yourself.”

I couldn’t help but snort. “Apparently, you went to some other chick named Charley’s attempted stabbing, ’cause I was almost killed, mister.”

“And you dealt with it. Told you, by the way.”

“Told me what?”

“You’re capable of more than you think.” A most sensual grin tipped the corners of his mouth, and he closed the distance between us. “Much more.”

“Garrett!” I shouted, and woke up an instant later beside him. Back in my body, I scrambled up and looked around for Reyes. Had I dreamt all that? It would be just like me, really. But the gunfire had stopped. “What happened?” I asked Smith.

“The gunman is dead,” he said, helping Mr. Chao. “And the cops are almost here, so we’re leaving.”

“Wait, did you stop him?”

He pulled a groaning Mr. Chao to his feet and wrapped his arm around him. “Not me.”

“Wait, Garrett,” I said as he wrestled his colleague out the door. An SUV pulled up with André the Giant, aka Ulrich their third man, at the wheel.

“The cops are almost here. Apply pressure.”

“Thanks,” I said at his back. Turning to Garrett, I realized the blood I saw in an arc around my head was not mine but his. I sought out the worst of his wounds and, well, applied pressure.

Chapter Sixteen

NATIONAL SARCASM SOCIETY:

LIKE WE NEED YOUR SUPPORT.

—BUMPER STICKER

It was late when I slipped into Garrett’s hospital room. He was still asleep, so I decided to help myself to his tray. I’d been admitted for a concussion and he’d been admitted for three gunshot wounds. So he won. This time.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice gravelly from fatigue and medication.

“I’m eating your ice cream,” I said through a huge mouthful of vanilla delight.

“Why are you eating my ice cream?”

Really, he asked the silliest things. “Because I already ate mine. Duh.”

He laughed then cringed in helpless agony. He’d been in surgery for-like-ever, then in recovery, but they put him in a room because, despite the amount of blood loss, his wounds were no longer life threatening. “You here to get in my pants?” he asked.

“You’re not wearing any pants,” I reminded him. “You’re wearing a girly gown with a built-in ass ventilator.” I was in a similar outfit, but Cookie had brought me a pair of sweats to wear underneath.

My doctor was reluctantly dismissing me after making Ubie and Cookie promise not to let me fall asleep for twelve hours. He was doing the paperwork now. It was late, but really there was no reason for me to sit in a hospital when my computer was clearly in my apartment and I could just as easily sit there. And pass the time looking at pictures of Reyes on the Web.