Page 84 of Killaney Blood

When the bag is full enough, I remove the needle from my arm, pressing a gauze pad to the puncture site.

My hands shake as I prime the line for the transfusion. I warm the bag between my palms and connect it to the IV in Declan's arm. I start the drip slowly, watching for any reaction, then gradually increase the flow.

Within minutes, I see a change. The gray cast to his skin begins to fade. His fingers, which had been clenched in pain, slowly relax. His pulse strengthens, becoming more regular.

I'm holding the bag high, trying to get the blood to flow faster, when the room tilts. I stumble, crashing against the table.

Shane grabs my arm before I fall. "You all right?"

"Yes, yes," I lie, blinking hard to clear my vision. "Just from the blood I gave."

"I'll hold it here," Shane says, taking the bag from me. He gestures to another man. "Take a seat."

I want to argue that I'm fine, but I'm already sitting in the chair before I can speak.

The room swims before my eyes. My brain feels wrapped in cotton, thoughts coming slow and disconnected.

Shit, I may be given too much blood, but for what he's done for me, he deserves everything I have.

"Don't," I manage, my tongue thick in my mouth. "Don't stop the pressure. I stitched it up enough for him to recover; I'll fix it when..."

Everything gets fuzzy.

My eyelids droop.

The world goes black.

26

DECLAN

Darkness. That's all there is. Like I'm sinking through heavy, black water. Everything around me is muffled and distant.

I hear voices, but I can't see anyone, I can't move. I try to speak, but my tongue is stone. My body burns. Not a sharp fire, more like a deep, throbbing heat that pulses from my ribs outward.

Heavy. So goddamn heavy.

Flashes come back in bursts. The alley. The ambush. Fire. The sting of the knife. "The Phantom King sends his regards." The business card. SHADOWHARBOR FOUNDATION. The black feathers. So many of them. Blood, my blood, and then, nothing.

I try to speak again, and I manage to groan. Or I think I do. The sound barely registers. But my throat feels like sandpaper.

I try to open my eyes and on the third attempt, I see it.

Light.

Just a flicker at first, but it's too bright. I blink, and the ceiling above me swims into focus.

Oh god, everything's burning. My side. My lungs. My fucking ribs.

I hear a woman's voice, soft, angry maybe. Is that Lyra? Did I make it home?

No, that's not Lyra.

I blink a few more times and slowly, the ceiling comes into focus. Crown molding around the edges. A crystal chandelier hanging overhead. I recognize it.

I'm home.

My head turns in slow motion and I see IV bags suspended from a coat rack someone's dragged next to me. I lift my head slightly, and see I'm lying on my dining room table, medical supplies, coated in red, litter the surface and floor.