Page 15 of Inked & Bloodbound
This seems to satisfy her, and she softens a little. She rubs the spot on her throat where he grabbed her and lets out a long breath. Her shoulders drop a few inches, and I hear her heart rate returning to normal. When she shivers again, I don’t think it’s from fear.
“You cold? You want this?” I say, pulling off my leather jacket before she can protest.
She accepts it with a tiny nod as I drape the weight of the heavy, ancient leather across her shoulders. This thing has seen decades of wear, the hide soft and supple from years of use, and it swallows her small frame entirely. The sleeves hang past her fingertips, and she has to push them up to free her hands.
“Be honest with me. Are you telling me the truth aboutrecognizing the tattoo?” she asks. “You really don’t know anything about it?”
I hesitate. Lying to her doesn’t feel good, but I can’t tell her the truth either, so I try deflection instead.
“Why are you looking for that tattoo? Are you looking for somebody?”
“My mom had the same one. At least that’s what I remember. When she died, it was ruled a suicide, but…” She trails off, staring out into the darkness. “There were things about her death that never fit. And tonight I saw that same mark on a dying girl in my ER…” She turns to face me. “I just felt like it was too much of a coincidence.”
I weigh my options as I watch the gears in her head turning in the hazy glow of the porch light.
The smartest thing to do is try to shut this down before she ends up stumbling into a world she isn’t ready for. Soon enough the Sixth Clan will want to know who she is, what she knows, why I protected her.
They’ll come for her whether I’m involved or not.
At least if I guide her through this, I can control what she learns and how fast. Give her just enough truth to keep her from falling into something that’ll get her killed, while keeping the worst of it hidden. It’s damage control, nothing more.
“The truth is,” I say finally, “you’re asking about things that some very dangerous people consider their business. And those people don’t like curious nurses poking around asking questions.” I glance at her, watching her reaction. “But I have a feeling you’re not going to drop this, are you?”
The faintest hint of a smile plays on her lips. “No,” she admits. “Probably not.”
“You mentioned earlier that you’ve been having headaches. Hearing things.” I keep my tone conversational, like we’re discussing the weather. “How long has that been going on?”
She’s quiet for so long I think she’s not going to answer. Then: “A few months. Maybe longer? I don’t know anymore. It’s getting worse every day.”
“What kind of things do you hear?”
“Voices, mostly.” She doesn’t meet my eyes, just pulls her knees up to her chest. “Sometimes they’re asking for help. Sometimes they just say random words or phrases. Last week at the hospital, I could have sworn I heard someone saying ‘thank you’ over and over in the break room, but there was no one else in there.”
“Has this ever happened to you before? When you were younger, maybe?”
Her mouth opens in shock, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression. “How did you—yes. When I was a kid. But it stopped right around the time my mom died. I thought I’d imagined it all.”
“Trauma can suppress abilities like that, but they always have a way of coming back.” I pause, choosing my next words carefully. “I think there might be a way to find out about your mom and stop the headaches, but it’s a little out there.”
“Abilities?” She laughs bitterly. “What are you selling? Whatever it is, I’m not buying.”
The urge to tell her the truth is surprisingly strong. To explain what she is, what she can do. But that would mean revealing what I am too, and I’m not ready to have that conversation. She’s too valuable to push away now.
“I’m interested in this kind of thing,” I say instead. “Alternative therapies, stuff like that. Sometimes ancient problems have ancient solutions.”
“I think alternative therapies are kind of bullshit,” she says, draining the last of her beer. “I see it all the time at the hospital. Someone diagnosed with a treatable cancer ends up dead because some white lady with dreadlocks sold them the promise of a cure in the form of an overpriced crystal and a laxative tea. These people are ghouls. They’re vultures who prey on the weak.”
“This isn’t like that. This is about exploring another option where modern medicine has failed. You work in a hospital—you’ve got every test available to you, and you still don’t have answers. So what’s the harm in trying something new?”
She studies me in the porch light, cynicism warring with curiosityacross her face. “You really know something about this? About what’s happening to me?”
“Let’s just say I might know someone who can help,” I say. “And I think it’s the same person who can help with the stuff about your mom. What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Why? If you’re asking me on a date, you should know that I don’t do that.”
“Neither do I.”
“What exactly are you proposing?”