Page 3 of Bloodbane
CHAPTER THREE
A Plan with Teeth
{ G R A Y S O N }
Split by the steel bars on the window, the late afternoon light slices into the cell, reaching across the wooden floor like fingers aflame, like it hasn’t had its fill of my misery.
I shift furtively on the threadbare mattress covering the metal bunk, edging away until the curved logs that make up the cabin wall halt my retreat. Self-disgust sours my throat. I should have left well enough alone. I’d learned the hard way what comes of interfering, and yet, here I am: locked up and burned up, with more blood on my hands.
Figuratively, at least.
I stare down at my charred hands, stretching out my fingers, taking perverse pleasure in the pain. It’s nothing less than I deserve. The solar burns are finally healing into blistering welts, but the webs of black veins still paint my skin in raised trails. So close to turning to ash, they will be the last to fade. I curl my hands back into fists and allow the long sleeves of my bloodstained shirt to swallow them from view.
It had been reckless surrendering myself to sunlight to save the stranger. And for all the hours I’ve spent in this cell, turning the question of why over in my mind, I’ve not come up with any semblance of an answer.
I pull my legs to my chest and lock trembling arms around them. The movement pulls at the gashes gouged deep into my side and agony bites at me once more—an echo of the teeth that ripped through me this morning. I drop my forehead to my knees.
Wooden chair legs scrape across the floor, and an appraising gaze settles on me like a physical weight. Though superfluous, I pull in a slow breath, lips pressing into a grim line as my lungs fill and displace damaged tissue. It’s pantomime: an exaggerated display to reassure the human assessing me for recognizable, easily quantifiable data. After five more gratuitous breaths, the gaze releases me and I let the game fall away.
A truck door slamming outside reverberates through me, and the thumping of footsteps falling on wooden stairs resounds in my bones. With my increased sensitivities out of control, each noise stabs at me—a sharp note in an already raucous dissonance.
I turn my face just enough to see the newcomer enter the cabin’s front door, emerging from the swirling flurry of white. I don’t need to see her face to know it’s the woman from the lake; I recognize her scent. She had been in a bad way this morning, and seeing her alive unfurls a knot in my stomach I don’t realize exists until it’s gone. The strange feeling grates at the back of my mind, like an itch I shouldn’t have and cannot reach to scratch.
“Sorry it took so long.” Heavy exhaustion tensions each syllable of the woman’s apology as she shoves her gloves into the back pocket of her jeans. “Milo’s waiting for you at the clinic. He’s going to do the autopsies and needs your help with the bod—um, heavy lifting.” Small fingertips bloom white as she presses them to her temple. “And where the hell is the Advil? I need a dozen.”
As she walks out of my field of vision I close my eyes, instead using the auditory input to conjure up her actions: footfalls advancing to the desk at the far right of the cabin, the metallic clang of keys being dropped onto the surface, a drawer being pulled open, and impatient fingers rummaging through the contents, intent on finding their target.
The man who had introduced himself as Deputy Cooper Jones—as I had allowed myself to be half-dragged from the man’s Jeep and bundled into my current accommodation—blows out a low whistle. “You look like shit, Ruby.”
“Oh, well, that’s good,” the woman— Ruby —mumbles as the sound of pills jostling inside a bottle signals her success. “It always sucks to feel like hell but not look it, you know? It’s no good for garnering sympathy.”
“Very funny,” Jones deadpans. “I’m serious. Doc was right, you need to take it easy. I’ll help Milo if you promise to go home and rest.” The deputy’s tone lacks any real hope, like the debate of work versus rest is a familiar one, and he is not often the victor.
Slow steps advance until Ruby is standing with Jones in the middle of the cabin, and I finally crack my eyelids back open. Ruby’s eyes dart to the cell. To me. She shakes her head before wincing. Her hand lifts back to her forehead.
“Don’t give me that shit,” Jones fumes. “You promised.”
“I know I did and I will, but someone needs to stay here. As soon as you’re done at the clinic, I’ll head home.”
After a few seconds of consideration, Jones relents. “Damn straight you will. I’m not above dragging you home and tying you to the bed,” he jokes before lowering his voice to a whisper, and leaning close to Ruby. “Just be careful though, yeah? There’s something off about this dude.”
“Off how ?”
“Just… off . I dunno. Can’t put my finger on it. You’ll see.”
“Has he said anything about what happened at the lake?”
“Dude hasn’t said jack about shit . Not a single word. And he’s barely moved.” Jones darts a glance toward the cell. “The guy looks like he has more blood outside his body than inside it, but he hasn’t even asked for a Tylenol or Band-Aid. That ain’t normal, Rubes. I’m telling you, something’s hinky.”
The deputy is more astute than I initially gave him credit for. He’s not wrong, his only misstep is thinking I can’t hear every whispered word as clearly as the howl of the wind outside, or how his pulse increases as his proximity to Ruby decreases. Not that she seems to notice.
The small cabin falls silent as two sets of eyes weigh on me with open curiosity. I play my part in their game: breathe in, breathe out. In. Out. Finally, Ruby’s voice, now back to normal volume, fills the void.
“So, yeah, when you’re done with Murph, you can take the night shift. I’ll head home and sub you in the morning.”
“Sounds like a plan with teeth.” Jones nods, grabbing the keys from the desk. “I’ll stop and grab dinner for me and our guest on the way back.”
After a few large strides, the deputy disappears outside without a second glance. Without realizing the only meal I’m interested in is the one that he’s just left alone, wounded and defenseless.