Magic Burns(34)

“Awake, my lady fair?” said a familiar voice. Doolittle. The self-proclaimed physician to all things Pack and wild. He sat in a chair by a reading lamp, an ancient, dog-eared paperback on his lap. He hadn’t changed a bit—still the same blue-black skin, the same gray hair, and the same small smile. He had patched me up twice during the Red Point Stalker investigation, and there was no better medmage in Atlanta.

I hugged my pillow. “We meet again, Doctor.”

“Indeed we do.”

“There was a girl with me?”

“She’s downstairs. Being entertained by Derek. I daresay she much enjoys his company.”

Derek of the huge brown eyes and the knockdown smile. Poor Red didn’t stand a chance.

“What was wrong with me?” I didn’t insult him by asking about my bloody clothes. I knew he’d burned them.

“You were poisoned. You do test my skills every time we meet.”

“I’m sorry. Thank you for saving me.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t. You were saved by the flare. The deep magic makes all spells more potent. Including those of your humble medmage.”

Icy claws skittered up my spine. “Was it really that close?”

He nodded.

I had almost died. I could think of a number of times I had almost died, but never before while a child depended on me for protection. Great going, Kate. You just had to stand there with your back to the window. Dumbass.

As soon as I could walk, I had to find a safe place for Julie. The thought of those long claws ripping into her was too much for me.

“Where am I?”

“In the Pack’s Southeast office. There was some thought of bringing you to the Keep, but the consensus was you wouldn’t make it.”

We were repeating the same conversation we’d had ten weeks ago, almost word for word. Except that time I had brought down a crumbling skyscraper on myself and a few hundred vampires.

I grinned. “How did I get here?”

“His Majesty carried you.” He grinned back. That part was the same, also.

“Is he burned to a crisp or sliced in half this time?”

“Neither,” Curran’s voice said. If I had been standing, I would’ve jumped. He stood in the middle of the room. Behind him a young woman carried a platter filled with four bowls. “However he is quite put out at being awakened from his nap to go and rescue a fool who always bites off more than she can chew.”

Doolittle rose hurriedly, bowed, and left. Curran motioned to the table at the foot of the bed, and the woman set the platter on it and left, as well. The door clicked closed, leaving the Beast Lord and me alone in the room.

Oh joy. I hadn’t wanted to meet Curran at all, but if I had to meet him, I wanted to be at my best, because he was a mean, vicious sonovabitch, who enjoyed making me squirm. Instead I ended up helpless, in a bed on the Pack’s grounds, having been rescued by him. I wanted to fade into the sheets. Maybe I could pretend to fall asleep and he’d leave.

Curran examined me. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks. I try.” He, on the other hand, looked good. A couple of inches taller than me, broad shouldered and corded with muscle visible even under his T-shirt, Curran moved with a natural grace particular to the very strong and naturally quick. He gave an impression of coiled power, a contained violence that, if released, would explode with terrifying intensity. The last time I saw him, his blond hair had been cropped too short to grab in a fight, but today he wore it longer, showing the beginning of a wave. I had no idea his hair was wavy.

Curran picked up one of the bowls, looked at it for a second, as if considering a matter of some importance, brought the bowl over, and held it before me. The aroma arising from the bowl was heavenly. Suddenly I was ravenous. I sat up and clamped the bowl with both hands. And let go, shaking my fingers. It was the temperature of molten lava.

“Idiot.” He set the bowl on the blanket before me and handed me a spoon.

There are times in life when there is nothing better than a hot bowl of chicken soup.

“Thanks.” For the soup and for saving my butt again.

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you get the surveys? They were…”

“On the dresser. Shut up and eat your soup.”

Curran took Doolittle’s chair, brought it over by my bed, and sat. If I reached out with my foot, I could touch him with my toes. Entirely too close for comfort. I moved Slayer closer.

Curran watched me eat. Sitting like this, relaxed, he seemed almost ordinary: a man slightly older than me, kind of on the handsome side. Except for the eyes. They always gave him away. They were alpha eyes, the eyes of a killer and protector to whom the life of a Pack mate meant everything and the life of an outsider meant nothing. He wasn’t giving me his hard stare now, merely watching. But I wasn’t fooled. I knew how quickly those eyes could drown in lethal gold. I’ve seen what happens when they do.