By the following Friday, the world in general had settled into something resembling normalcy. No one made any comment about the mark on my arm. Without other-sight, the mark looked like a very faint, slightly shimmery henna marking, essentially invisible unless you knew it was there. I’d received some quiet congratulations from my rank on my handling of the various cases, but then it was as if they could sense that I didn’t want to hear anything more about it, and the matter was left alone.
I put the last of the paperwork in my captain’s box, more than glad to have it all done and behind me. I was the last one in the office; everyone else had been gone for hours. I locked the door to the silent bureau, then headed
home—mostly because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.
When I pulled into my driveway, Ryan’s car was in front of my house. I parked my car next to his, a tired sensation of dread settling in my stomach. I wasn’t in the mood for any sort of explanation, or justification, or confrontation.
I don’t fucking care what he thinks at this point
, I decided. Strangely, I almost believed it.
He wasn’t in his car, but when I looked around I saw him sitting on the steps of my porch. I’d forgotten to turn the light on before I left, so he was almost hidden in the shadows.
I tugged the strap of my bag over my shoulder and walked up the steps. I was more than prepared to walk right past him if he started anything unpleasant.
“Kara, I need to talk to you,” he said, voice low and rough.
I continued to the door and set my bag down, then flicked on the porch light switch. Ryan stood and came up the stairs to me, light from the bulb over the door catching the reddish glints in his hair. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, frowning. I started to ask him what he was going to say, but he spoke first.
“Kara, I …” He trailed off. I looked at him expectantly, trying not to prompt him in impatience and bracing myself for any number of things that he could be preparing to say.
“I appreciate you,” he finally said, voice quiet.
My stomach did an odd flip and I got a lump in my throat. I’d had a boyfriend once tell me he loved me, and my only emotional reaction had been sort of a mental
wince. This simple admission from Ryan made me feel a thousand times more special.
“Thanks.” I didn’t really know what else to say. Come to think of it, there wasn’t much else that needed to be said, on either side. He’d pretty much nailed it with those three words—had taken care of all the fears and worry that I’d been nursing throughout the past several days. The relief that I hadn’t saved him just to lose him was almost wrenching.
He exhaled softly, as if he was echoing my relief. “Now, give me your damn keys.”
I blinked at him, then warily handed him my keys.
He took them from me and quickly unlocked the front door, then picked my bag up, grabbed my wrist with his other hand, and pulled me inside.
“Ryan, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He kicked the front door closed and dropped my bag on the floor. Then he seized me by my shoulders so that I was facing him. At this point I was so stunned by his bizarre behavior that all I could do was stare at him.
“Kara Gillian, Summoner of Demons,” Ryan said in a low but intense voice.
“Yeah, that would be me,” I said with a scowl. “What the fuck is going on?”
“You’re on the edge, foolish woman. You’re spent and strained, and you look like you’re on the verge of tears every other minute.”
“Well, the past couple of months have sucked
major ass
, y’know?” I said, tears actually springing to my eyes. Then, before I even realized what was happening, I was bawling. Ryan pulled me close, wrapping an arm around me and holding my head against his chest. He didn’t
speak, didn’t murmur anything comforting. All he did was hold me.
After a few minutes of me sobbing into his shirt, he shifted and lifted me in his arms, cradling my head against his shoulder as he walked to my bedroom. I’d never been carried like that before, the way the hero carries the damsel, and it made me cry harder. It wasn’t a pretty crying either—it was full-body racking sobs, with a horribly snotty nose and my eyes swelling up. But Ryan just held me close, silent and
there
. He took me into the bedroom and laid me on the bed, shifting position smoothly to lie down beside me, pushing me to my side and wrapping his arms around me again from behind.
I cried like that, all wrapped up in him, until I fell asleep.
WHEN I WOKE up, I was alone in bed. I felt a brief stab of loss but, at the same time, relief. And then, when I came out to the kitchen and found a box of chocolate donuts on the table, I was even able to laugh.
My cell phone rang while I was making coffee to go with the donuts. I reached over and grabbed it, noting absently that it wasn’t the usual ring tone.
“This is Kara Gillian,” I said as I measured out the grounds.
“Ms. Gillian, this is Rebecca Stanford at Nord du Lac Neuro. Your aunt has woken up and she’s asking for you.”
I felt frozen in time for a thousand heartbeats, though it was surely far less.
It worked. She’s back
. Finally a breathless laugh escaped me. “That’s … amazing.”
The other woman hesitated. “Um, yes. Though I do
want to prepare you; she may not be quite what you expect.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes after long comas, it takes a little while for the brain to work properly again. Patients will say things that don’t seem to make much sense, and it can be quite shocking if you’re not expecting it.”
“What sort of things is she saying?”
I heard the other woman sigh. “She said, ‘Tell my niece that if she thinks I won’t flay her hide for serving a demonic lord, she’s seriously deluded.’”
I burst out laughing. Tessa was definitely back.
Blood of the Demon
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Bantam Books Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2010 by Diana Rowland
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the rooster colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90735-3
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