Page 39 of Tested
Chapter Twelve
David
When Trajan falls, I lose my mind.Nonononono. Not Trajan. Not him. Vampires might heal from just about any wound, but he’d been hit square in the center of his chest. If the bullet is silver, he might be dead.
Connor’s yelling “Get down!” so I do. He runs into the house and I crouch next to Trajan, whose skin has gone alabaster white. The wound in his chest is oozing thick rivulets of dark blood over his ribs and down his belly, but oozing’s better than spurting, right? I tell myself it is and look for something to put pressure on the wound.
He’d shucked his clothes on his way to the pool, and his jeans are just a few feet away from where we’re lying. I get up, preparing to make a quick crawl-walk to grab them, but another bullet goes spinning right past my ear.Fuck. Fucking fuck. I belly flop and press my bare palm to Trajan’s chest. That’ll have to do.
Connor steps through the sliding glass door onto the pool deck. He’s carrying a big-ass gun, a black semi-automatic something something, and keeping to the shadows, he sidesteps to the opposite end of the pool. The end the bullets are coming from.
The bleeding from Trajan’s chest wound seems to have stopped and I debate whether I should roll him over to see if there’s an exit wound. I’ve seen his body heal over silver buckshot and had to cut it out. I’ve also seen his body force a silver slug out on its own. Since we don’t know what hit him and whether it’s still in there, I’m not sure I want it to heal over just yet.
Connor tosses something into the space between the end of the pool and the artfully arranged shrubbery that separates our yard from the one next door. It’s some kind of explosive device, although all it does is send up a bright, white light.
There. Between a pair of spikey New Zealand flax, a silhouette with a metallic gleam from a snub-nosed pistol. With something to aim for, Connor comes out shooting. There’s a muffled curse, then the sound of thrashing in the foliage.
And then silence.
The light grenade thing dims, but it’s still bright enough to see that there’s no more movement. From the street, the sound of a motorcycle’s engine cuts through the silence. Connor darts into the house, although the place is big enough that it’s unlikely he’ll get to the driveway before the biker takes off.
Assuming our assailant isn’t bleeding out under the flax.
I need Connor to help me move Trajan. He’s still out and his chest wound truly has started to seal over. I want to check out the area across the pool, to see if the shooter’s still there or if he left any scent, but the need to stay close to Trajan is greater than the desire to investigate.
I’m not a natural private eye. I’d rather dress pretty and act slutty, as long as my fellow sluts are Trajan and Connor. This getting shot shit is for the birds.
The motorcycle’s long gone when Connor comes back. He’s put on a pair of jeans and he throws me a pair of sweatpants.
“Let’s get him in the house,” I say, my hand still on Trajan’s chest.
Connor glares across the pool, then nods. Whatever’s over there will keep. He squats down at Trajan’s head and I scoot over to hold his knees, and between the two of us we wrangle him into the house.
There’s no way we’re managing two flights of stairs to get to the vampire room. The media room on this level will have to do. As we’re laying him down on one of the broad sofas, I tell Connor to check Trajan’s back for an exit wound.
There isn’t one.
The bullet’s still in his chest and he hasn’t regained consciousness. “Will a silver bullet to the heart kill a vampire?” I ask, and I’m not even ashamed about the quaver in my voice.
Connor’s grimace is an answer on its own. “Hang on.” He pulls a cellphone and a business card from somewhere and swipes across the phone’s screen. He glances at the card and punches in a number. “This is Mack. I need Doctor Gray.”
There’s more conversation, though he’s turned away from me as if he doesn’t want me to hear. I decide I don’t want to know what he’s really up to and head outside. I poke through the foliage where the shooter had been hiding. There are dark splashes on the sword-like flax leaves, but the area smells wholly human with maybe a sprinkle of vampire dust.
Relieved that I didn’t stumble over another dead body, I head back into the house. Connor’s off the phone, kneeling by Trajan, murmuring in his ear. “The doctor will be here in a few minutes, Tray. Just hang on.”
Calling in help seemed like the kind of thing a member of the Securitas could do. I have no reason for thinking that other than how Trajan responded when I asked him if he trusted Connor. When I find myself parsing whether a current member of the Elites would have a doctor on speed dial while a former member would have to look the number up, I drop it. The important thing is removing the bullet – silver or otherwise – from Trajan’s chest.
Too close to Trajan’s heart. Trajan’s big heart, big enough to keep a punk werewolf alive, to forgive his not-really-dead ex, to go in on the purchase of a nightclub for his friend to practice her arts in safety.
Sheena.
Shit. My phone’s in my room, so I gallop up the stairs.
Sheena answers on the first ring. “What?”
“It’s Trajan.” My voice cracks and for a second I can’t say anything at all.
“What?” She’s gone full Domme, commanding my answer, which is a good thing.
