Page 97 of Savannah Royals
The gun goes off a second later. Before I can even open my mouth.
“Paul!” I scream. I push off the deck, swinging wildly into the night. Flames erupt behind me. My feet touch the ground just as the second gunshot fires.
I’m behind the guilty Magpie in a flash, and I snap his neck. Tony is on his knees, his hands checking Paul's stomach, hisbloodystomach. My vision swirls as Tony yanks the shirt off his own back and presses it tight, slowing the flow of red.
I stumble to them as Abe puts down the final Magpie, running him through with a knife. He takes one glance at Paul on the ground and starts giving orders. “Pick him up! Kat, hold the shirt.”
I maintain pressure while Abe and Tony lift. My white gloves stain red immediately.
“I know a place, shut down for Prohibition,” Tony says.
“How far?”
“Three blocks into the city.”
We go, staggering through side streets as quickly and quietly as we can. Tony swings open the door to an abandoned tavern. It’s small. There’s a shanty entryway with coat pegs. We drag Paul into the pub and sling him onto a long table. Tony bends over, panting. I keep my hands pressed tight against Paul’s stomach.
“Paul?” I call out. “Paul?”
“Hey, Kitty-Kat,” he groans. His eyes are closed, face stretched tight in a grimace.
My mind races. We have very little time and even fewer options. There’s nothing for it.
Matthew. I need Matthew.
I look between Abe and Tony’s anxious faces, trying to make a decision. As much as I want Abe here with me, I have to send him. He’s the fastest runner. And Matthew knows him.
“Abe.” I swallow hard. “Go to the hospital and ask for Matthew DaMolin. Tell him…tell him I need him. Right now.”
“Motherfucker,” Paul hisses on the table.
“Kat, I’m not sure—”
“Go!” I bellow. My voice is shrill and unlike my own.“Go!”
Abe takes off without another word.
“Tony.” I turn to him. “How far from the hospital are we?”
“Maybe ten blocks?”
Abe can do that in five minutes. I glance down at Paul’s stomach. I want to look, but I’m afraid to lift the shirt.
“How many times did he get hit?”
“I’m not sure. I think twice.”
“It hurts like a motherfucker,” Paul groans.
“I know. I’m sorry, Paul. I’m so sorry.” I can’t help it, I start to cry. Slow, fat tears cascade down my cheeks.
I try to be brave. Because wolves are brave, right?Right?
I brace myself and lift Tony’s balled-up shirt. It’s not as bad as I feared. Maybe. There’s no rush of bright red blood, not like there was initially.
I cover it with the shirt again. My white gloves are disgustingly blood-soaked, but I leave them on. “Tony, when Matthew gets here, he’ll need to be able to…to do his thing. We need to get Paul’s shirt off.”
Tony pulls out a knife and cuts through the front of Paul’s top, around the sleeves and the neck. Then he lifts him—Paul cries out in pain—while I yank the shirt from underneath. I toss it on the ground, the fabric landing with a wet, bloodyslop. I reach up and rip off my red wig as well, throwing it next to the shirt. I undo the pins securing the braids around my skull, letting them drop.
