*
Claire disconnected the call, and slid to the floor, shaking so badly she put the phone down before she dropped it.
Simon knelt in front of her, enveloping her hands in his warm, solid grip. “Talk to me.”
“Friends—God above, if Eric can track the phone, then—”
Simon nodded. “Phones off, everyone. Pile them on the kitchen counter.” He kept his gaze on Claire as he held his phone out to Mindy Kay. The concern in those clear green eyes threatened to break her.
“They should not be here. All I can do is get them killed, like I have with Marcus—”
Tears blurred her vision. Horrified, she tried to free herself. Simon merely pulled her in, leaning against the wall as he gathered her into his arms. He was too strong, and she needed the comfort too badly to put up a fight.
“I don’t know why I talked to Annie like that—no, I do. I’m terrified to face her, now that she knows the truth about me. It was easier when she thought I was dead.”
“And that’s a story I’ll want to hear. Later. Right now, we need to take care of another friend—and it’s going to take all of us, because he’s in there fighting every attempt to help him.”
Simon stood and held out his hand. Once Claire was on her feet, he took her arm and moved with her into the bedroom—just in time to see Marcus slap away Lea’s hand.
“Enough.” She pulled out of Simon’s grip and limped forward, angrier with every step. Lowering herself to the bed, she braced her right hand on his chest and leaned in. “What you did back there saved all of us, Marcus—don’t interrupt.” He closed his mouth, studied her with shadowed eyes. No hint of gold edged the jade green, just the pain he could not fight. “Now it’s our turn. And I for one am not giving up on you, simply because you’ve decided to give up on yourself. You should know me better by now.”
“Claire.” She didn’t need power to feel the pain that radiated from him, scraped his sand raw voice to nothing. “Jinn do not survive being pierced by metal. It is—how we are ended.” Swallowing, he closed his eyes. “You will merely prolong what is inevitable—”
“Damn it—” She moved in until their noses all but touched, knowing what she said next could alienate the only people who might be able to save him. “I came back from Hell, and left behind everything I am. I feel like I’ve been pummeled within an inch of my life, and my best friend is most likely going to reject me on sight. What would you say to me if I were spouting the same self-sacrificing drivel?”
Marcus let out a shaky breath, looked up at her. Through the pain, she saw an echo of his amusement. “The same. Not nearly as polite—gods—”
He clutched the already soaked bed sheet. Fresh blood stained the bandage on his shoulder—the third bandage in less than an hour. Claire watched him shudder, fight to breathe, then go limp. Panic shot through her—she searched for a pulse, let out a shaky breath when she found it, slow and thready.
Before she could ask, Simon moved to Marcus’ left side, pulling a knife out of his pocket. With a well-practiced flick he had it open.
“Mindy Kay, hold his arm for me. Hold tight now—he’s strong, and hurting, and this will probably bring him around.” Sitting on the bed, he pushed lank curls off Marcus’ bare shoulder. “I’m rusty with the quick and dirty field medicine, but I’ll do this as fast as I can.”
Claire studied him, pushing aside the questions for later. Every time this man opened his mouth, he revealed another mystery. Then her gaze fell on the knife.
“Wait—you can’t use that.”
“What are you—” Glancing down at the knife, he cursed under his breath. “Steel.” Snapping it closed, he slid it back in his pocket and pushed one hand through his close cut, sun-tipped brown hair. “Mindy Kay, I need your belt.”
Staring down at her wide leather belt, then back at Simon, she obeyed.
Claire closed both hands on Marcus’ wrist, watched Simon roll up the sleeves of his shirt.
“I’m going to have to dig the bullet out by hand. Keep him still—this will hurt him.” He took the belt, wrapped it around Marcus’ arm, just above the bullet wound, and pulled it tight, like a tourniquet. “Brace yourselves, this ain’t going to be pretty.”
Long fingers pushed into the bullet hole—and Marcus bolted awake.
“Gods—”
“It’s all right—don’t fight him.” Claire let go of his hand and wrapped both arms around him, using her weight as an anchor. Sweat slicked his skin, seeped into her sweatshirt. His muscles clenched, like iron bands against her arms. Every breath tore through him, harsh and ragged.