Page 6 of Vargan

“I’d say you’ve had worse recently. What the hell is this?” It’s angry and red, and the blood seems freshly dried, but the skin has already begun to heal around the wound. I’ve never seen anything like it. “Did you get stabbed?

“It’s nothing.”

Nothing, huh? This guy is a walking bar brawl. The evidence is written all over him.

I grab the clean cotton padding and an elastic bandage from the kit and wrap his ribs, trying to keep my touch clinical. "I think they're bruised, not broken. They’ve swollen pretty badly, though. You should really see a doctor."

"Not an option."

I understand what he isn't saying. I wouldn’t want to explain that stab wound either. Besides, the nearest doctor is in the next town over, and Victor would make sure he never made it there.

“I’ll do the best I can, but I’m not sure how this will all heal up.”

A hint of a smile curves his mouth. "We heal faster than humans. I’ll be fine."

As I work, my gaze skims over half a dozen other healed scars that look deep enough to have been serious injuries. "You must love picking fights."

His expression darkens. "They have a way of finding me."

I secure the end of the bandage and step back, suddenly needing space between us. "Did you win that one? The fight from a few days ago?"

He looks at me, his amber eyes unreadable. "I’m still here, and he isn’t so…"

The words hang in the air between us. I try to push their meaning out of my mind.

"What happened then?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Tried to help someone." His voice is bitter. "Never works out well for my kind."

I don't know if I believe him. I want to. The way he stood up for me, a stranger—that's not the action of someone who hurts people for fun. But I've been wrong before. Catastrophically wrong. Royce is proof of that.

"Look," I say, putting the first aid supplies away, "you're in no shape to travel tonight. You can crash at my place, get your bearings, figure out your next move tomorrow."

He looks surprised. "Why would you do that?"

I think of Victor and Royce, of what they'd do if they found Vargan vulnerable. I think of what they'd make him do—the strong-arming, the threats, the violence against people who've lived here all their lives. Victor wants him as a weapon against the town. That's why he wrecked his bike. To keep him here. I could be wrong in what I overhead, but I can’t take that chance.

"Because you shouldn't be staying in this town," I say honestly. "But you're not going to make it out tonight. So one night, that's it. Then you're gone."

He nods slowly. "One night."

"One night," I repeat, helping him up from the toilet. "I live in the farmhouse across the street. You think you can make it that far?"

Vargan groans but lets me put an arm around him for support. "Do I have a choice?"

I laugh. "Not unless you want to sleep on the diner floor tonight."

"I can make it," he says.

We navigate through the diner, stopping at the door so I can lock up behind us.

Outside, the night has settled fully over Shadow Ridge. The street lamps that still work cast pools of hazy light across the empty road, barely illuminating the white farmhouse across the street. It's a short walk, but with Vargan leaning heavily against me, it feels like miles.

"You live alone?" he asks as we cross the parking lot, his voice strained with the effort of walking.

"With my brother," I answer, then realize I probably shouldn't have told him that. "He's fifteen. Smart. Strong." The implied threat is clear: Don't try anything.

Vargan just nods, his eyes scanning the dark street. "This town is dying."

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