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My heart thundering hard enough that I can feel fresh blood pooling to the surface of my wound, I stand and creep to the door. I throw away the bloodied paper towels and take a deep breath, putting my purse back over my chest.

Unlocking the door, I tense, ready for another attack. The woman is petite, barely five feet tall, and waif thin, with long black hair and a serious expression.

She pushes into the bathroom then closes and locks the door, her gaze raking me up and down. She turns to the sink and puts a case on the counter next to it. "Take off your shirt," she says.

I don't move as she opens the bag and begins to pull out instruments in sterile packaging.She comes prepared.

Throwing a look over her shoulder, she says it again. “Take off your shirt."

This time I start to move, gingerly unbuttoning the blouse and hissing as I pull it off my shoulder, keeping my purse strap over my body. The woman points for me to sit down on the toilet.

I sit, exhaustion beginning to take over my limbs. She stands in front of me, wearing latex gloves, and starts to clean the wound. "I'm going to stitch you up," she says.

"I need stitches?” I ask stupidly.Obviously I need stitches.

"Yes."

"My…boyfriend will notice," I say.

Her eyes meet mine. "You shouldn't have a boyfriend." She says it simply, matter of factly.

My mouth opens a little in surprise. "Excuse me?" I say, pulling on my cloak of queendom.

"You wouldn't have to explain this to him if you didn't have him in your life."

I don't argue with her, just narrow my eyes.I can have my boyfriend and eat my cake too, lady.

She pulls out a hypodermic syringe and, without even athis will only pinch for a secondwarning, stabs me in the shoulder. I wince, but it's over quickly, and a wonderful numbness spreads from the injection point. She begins to stitch me up.

My phone buzzes again.Everything okay?Julian writes.They’re boarding our flight.

Yes, out in a few,I write back.

The woman ties off the stitches and cleans around the wound before putting a bandage on it. "There," she says, turning back to her bag. "Anything else?”

"My ankle hurts," I say. She steps back and I raise it up. She holds my sneaker in her hand and examines the ankle. It's only slightly swollen. Feeling it with deft fingers she nods to herself.

"Just a mild sprain. You'll be fine."

She turns back to her bag and pulls out a black cashmere sweater. It will look great with my jeans. I can tell Julian that the woman in the bathroom got sick on me.

I pull the sweater over my head, feeling the stitches pull.How the hell am I going to explain the puncture wound in my shoulder?

"Go," the woman says. "You can't miss your flight."

"What about…the person who attacked me?”

She meets my gaze, her expression calm, but bright. “Everything will be arranged.”

A shiver runs over me, and I sense that I am in a small, rickety rowboat—the water looks calm, but underneath me, beasts battle.

The airplane doorsclose right after we settle into our individual pods. I sink into the seat and take a deep breath. Julian leans across the aisle. "You okay?" he asks again.

I nod. "Yes, I'm fine," I give him a tired smile, like I’m a Good Samaritan who just had to help an ailing traveler, not a secret agent who just killed someone in the ladies room. "I feel bad for the woman."

Julian nods, brow serious—he’s concerned for her too. “I hate stomach bugs.”

An image of Red pushed into the closet, her broken face and unseeing eyes tilted toward her chin, sends a wave of disgust over me.One more harmless nightmare? Like Vlad convulsing on the dance floor and Jack’s teeth on my breasts…