“But we could go at it from the contract level,” Jean said. “If it’s a contract between the humans and demons, Ryder should be able to see that, right? Might be able to tell what demon is involved?”
“Probably,” I said. “Because Mithra’s the god of contracts.”
“Is he still in Coos Bay?” Myra asked.
“I think so,” I said around a yawn.
“Let’s get you in the shower,” Myra said. “I want to see how badly you’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” I repeated for the millionth time. “I’ll call Ryder.”
“Jean, call Ryder and see when he’s going to be back,” Myra said, ignoring me.
“On it.” She pulled out her phone and dialed.
Frigg stood. “I’ll make us all some tea. You do have tea, right?”
“Probably? We have coffee and cocoa for sure.”
“I’ll investigate.”
“Come on.” Myra stood and offered her hand.
“But I just got comfy. With a dog. And dragon-pig.” Dragon-pig growled, and Spud thumped his big fuzzy tail on the floor.
“Don’t be a baby,” she said. “We’ll be back in a minute.”
Dragon-pig stood and watched us walk up the stairs. Spud hopped up and curled on the seat where I’d just been sitting, but the dragon-pig didn’t look away from Myra and me until we were out of sight.
That intense focus from dragon-pig was new. I wondered what was going through that dragon head.
I sat on the toilet lid, pulled off my shoes, then socks. Getting out of my jeans wasn’t too bad, but pulling off my shirt and undershirt made my ribs twinge again.
“Okay,” Myra said quietly, her eyes assessing my ribs, shoulders, arms and thighs. “You are going to be a variety of colors for the next couple days. I don’t see any deep cuts that need stitches.”
“I would have noticed deep cuts,” I said dryly. “You know, there would have been blood.”
Her blue eyes, lighter than mine, flicked up, unamused. “How about you stand in front of the mirror and take a look at yourself? I’m going to poke at the back of your head to check that hit you took.”
I sighed and closed the door so I could get a look in the mirror hung on the back of it.
Okay. Maybe I was a little more banged up than I thought.
My arms were scratched and bloody—rose thorns—and a paint pail splash of blue and black bruised my ribs and down one hip. My chin and cheek were scraped from going face down in the sand and rocks, and one of my eyes was swelling just a little.
“Turn,” she said.
I did and caught glimpses of the back of my thighs—bruised, like someone with really boney knees had body slammed me—and more bruises spread up my back.
“How bad is the headache?” she asked.
“Pounding.”
“Your eyes are dilating correctly. I’ll get you some painkiller.”
I turned on the water, then unlatched my bra and stepped out of my underwear. I moved into the shower, closing the sliding door behind me.
When I ducked my head under the spray, grit from my hair washed to the tiles beneath me, creating a slight traction under my feet.
