Page 45 of Art of the Hunt
She barked out a half sob, half laugh, her eyes wet as she blinked rapidly. “Maybe you need to start believing me once in a while.”
He touched his chest. Artemis swallowed the boulder-sized lump in her throat. Glancing down, he noted the blood coating his fingers. “Too bad you razed those ambrosia fields. I could really use a boost of immortality right about now.”
Ambrosia. Gasping, Artemis grabbed the vial hanging from her neck and yanked on the chain. No way was she going to let him die. Not Hunter. Not the man she might be—
The necklace snapped, and she twisted the top. “Here.” She pressed it against his lips. “Drink.”
He turned to the side. “What are you doing?”
“Saving you.”
He glanced at the tiny container of liquid and then lifted his gaze to stare into her eyes. “You…you’re serious?”
“You’re running out of time, Hunter. We can discuss this at length after you’ve drunk. We can discuss it for all of eternity, as a matter of fact.”
He grimaced again and shook his head. “Artemis, I can’t—”
With a shaking hand, she poured the liquid down his throat. He swallowed convulsively; his eyes widened even as they lost focus.
Oh hell. She needed to get him out of here before the ambrosia worked its magic. Zeus would kill her if this entire building full of humans figured out the gods were real.
It was bad enough that she was going to have to explain saving Hunter. But she’d had no other choice.
“Nike,” she called out. Her bestie rushed out from the bullpen. “Everyone else okay?”
“Yep. Shooting your man here freaked the gunman out, and he surrendered before I could even karate-chop him in the chest. Not that I didn’t, mind you.”
“Of course. Now help me. We need to get Hunter out of here.”
Nike stared down at Hunter, canting her head at his wound, which was already starting to sew itself closed. “Holy shit, Artemis, you gave him—how did you? Where did you get ambrosia?”
“I stole some before we destroyed the fields. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it was for this moment. Anyway, let’s make haste, shall we?”
She slid her arms underneath Hunter’s prone body, hugging him to her chest. Nike placed her hands on Artemis’s shoulders, and then, with the blink of an eye, they disappeared from the police station.
Chapter Fifteen
The anticipated pain didn’t transpire. It was weird enough that Hunter had actually survived a shotgun blast to the chest, but to wake up and not feel any soreness?
Bizarre.
Unless he was dead. That would explain a lot of things, actually. Like the ultrasoft bed that wasn’t his own. The log cabin-like surroundings. The view of a mountain out the nearest window.
He glanced down at his chest. Which was bare. And also did not have a gaping hole in it. A patch of skin in the middle was pink, smoother than the rest, and slightly puckered. It itched like that time he’d had to get stitches after slicing his hand on a chain link fence while chasing down a drug dealer.
He touched it and then scratched.
OK, he would not have a healing, itching wound if he were in heaven, so he had, in fact, survived that gunshot.
So where was he? This was no hospital he’d ever experienced. Sure, there were a few that were only one step below a four-star hotel in regards to luxury, but this could not possibly be a sterile environment. There weren’t any beeping machines or nurses coming in every five seconds to take his blood pressure. And where was that plastic instrument with the ball in it that you had to breathe into so they could check to make sure you weren’t developing pneumonia?
How long had he been out, anyway? There were no staples in his chest, and he was clearly well on his way to recovery. Had he just woken from a coma? How come no one was rushing in, all excited, preparing to check his vitals?
Probably because he wasn’t hooked to any equipment that might alert someone he was awake.
He had to piss. Like, if he didn’t find a bathroom in the next thirty seconds, he was in danger of wetting the bed. Yeah, definitely not heaven, because surely God would not expect people to still need to take time out to use the facilities, would he?
Or she.
