Re-forming, he got out his cell and dialed Ehric.
One ring. Two. Three.
“She is just fine,” his cousin said by way of greeting. “She has eaten and had some water. And she is anxious to see you.”
Assail sagged in his own skin. “Well done. I am where we agreed.”
“Did you accomplish all and sundry?”
“Indeed. Is there anyone upon you?”
“Neither in front nor behind, and we are but two miles from you.”
“I shall wait here.”
Hanging up, he stared at his cellular device. His first instinct was to get her to his home, but she was going to require medical attention—and she would want to be cleaned up and clothed before her grandmother saw her.
Assail’s next call was to his own home, and when the heavily accented female voice answered, he found himself blinking away tears.
“Madam,” he said roughly. “She—”
“Not dead,” the old woman moaned. “Meu Deus, tell me she—”
“She is alive. I have her.”
“What? You say again, please.”
“Alive.” Although he wasn’t sure about any kind of “well” part. “She is alive and within my care.”
Frantic speech now, in the mother tongue. And though Assail knew none of the words, the meaning was not only clear, but something he agreed with.
Thank you, Scribe Virgin, he thought, even though he was not religious.
“We are far from Caldwell,” he told her. “We may not make it before dawn, in which case we shall be home after sunfall.”
“Speak to her? May I?”
“Of course, madam.” Up ahead, a pair of headlights mounted a rise on the highway and came down toward him, paring off on the exit ramp. “I need but a moment, and I shall put her on.”
The Range Rover piloted directly over to him, taillights flaring as Ehric slowed.
“Here she is, madam,” he said as he opened the rear door.
Marisol was wrapped in that sleeping bag, and her color was better—at least until she looked at him and what little blush she retained in her cheeks immediately disappeared.
As Assail felt confusion, Ehric twisted around, glanced at him—and recoiled. With a quick circle, he indicated his own face.
Oh, shit. Assail must have blood all over his mouth.
“Your grandmother,” he blurted, shoving the phone at Marisol.
Sure enough, that did the trick to redirect his female’s attention—and as she reached out like he was offering her a lifeline, he reshut the door.
Wheeling around, he headed to the public facility behind him at a dead run, located the men’s room portion and entered the lineup of urinals and toilet stalls.
Over at one of the sinks, he looked into the flat panel of stainless steel that served as a mirror.
“Fuck.”
Not what any female wanted to see, especially after she had been subjected to a capture: His face was indeed covered with blood, his jaw and lips marked with the stain—and his fangs … the tips of his fangs showed.
Hopefully the gore of his visage had been what she’d reacted to.
Bending down, he attempted to turn on the water and cup his hands, but the faucets were the kind one had to hold in place to make operational. The process took him too long, filling a single palm and bringing it to his face over and over again. And then there was nothing to dry himself off with.
Sloughing his hand down his features, he assessed his hair, which thanks to Paul Mitchell had retained some semblance of attractiveness—
Was he honestly trying to better his looks in this situation? How ridiculous.
As he strode back to the Range Rover, he knew he was going to have to make a third phone call when his Marisol was done with her grandmother: his female was going to need medical treatment.
Where to go, though? In the Old Country, there had been no physicians of the race available for him and his cousins. Fortunately, however, he and his relations had been able to rely on a human or two who would come after hours and ask no questions.
He did not have such arrangements in the New World.
Accordingly, there was only one person he could contact—and hopefully there would be a solution that was up to his standards.
Marisol deserved the best. And he would settle for nothing less.
TWENTY
Sitting in the back of the Mercedes, John Matthew watched through the windshield as his sister hesitated on the threshold of their father’s house. The mansion’s double-size door was wide-open, and he’d gone inside and turned on the front hall light for her.
Her silhouette cut through the glow that spilled out into the night, the black shape like a shadow thrown.
Jesus … if she had a child, it was going to be the future King or queen. And didn’t that add another facet to the should-we-or-shouldn’t-we stuff.