Gisila—wearing a trendy black cocktail dress—smiled at me. “Good evening, Jade.”
Ahh yes. She figured out who I am—probably from the staff. She’s telling me that she knows who I am—that she can easily find me again.
“Lady Gisila,” I said, my usual social anxiety entirely gone as my slayer senses flooded my aching body, preparing to fight.
Gisila smiled pleasantly. “I have something of yours.” She held up my slayer mask. “The hospital staff kindly let me in so I could return it to you.”
That explains why they told her who I was.I knew from experience hospitals were usually sticklers about privacy, but supernaturals usually excited even the most rule-abiding humans. Plus, thanks to the Cloisters efforts to paint supernaturals as harmless and loving, they’d have no reason to assume a dragon shifter in possession of my mask might have it for nefarious reasons.
“Thank you,” I said—good manners drilled into me even in current circumstances. “You shouldn’t have bothered. I have extras.”
Gisila’s smile turned cruel, and she pushed her fingers through the right eye hole and mouth hole of my mask and clenched her hand. The right half of the mask warped then crumbled, the fragments falling to the hospital floor before the surviving left half of the mask fell. “Too bad. You won’t be needing them anymore.”
She wants me dead. Because I saw her with the mercenaries?
Gisila stepped closer to my bed, her smirk growing.
I watched her, waiting for my optimal chance. “Why are you trying to break into Tutu’s?” I asked on a whim, hopeful she might answer if she really thought she was going to off me.
Gisila shook her head, her beautiful purple hair swirling around her. “Don’t trouble yourself, slayer.”
Looks like she’s not narcissistic enough to answer any questions. Maybe if I get her mad? That tactic frequently works on vampires and werewolves.
She stretched out her hand. Her nails—manicured and painted with a marbled purple and black pattern—were extra-long and filed to points.
I waited until she was at my bedside—which put me in a disadvantageous position as I was lower than her. Her smile widened as she reached for my throat, and I struck.
I flung the plastic remote that controlled my bed, hitting her under the chin so her head snapped back. Ideally, I’d go for her throat, but since I was sitting on my bed it was out of reach, and I couldn’t risk letting go of my only weapon.
Instead, I stabbed her in the side. The blade—designed for stabbing—cut through her dress and dug into the muscle.
Gisila uttered a roar of pain and staggered backwards.
I clutched my dagger so the blade slid free as she backed away, and she started bleeding profusely.
“Youworm,” Gisila growled, her voice losing all its polish.
She darted forward, evading my attempt to stab her gut, and backhanded me with enough force to almost make me collapse backwards and fall into my bed.
I caught myself—bracing with my core—but before I could recover Gisila wrapped her hand around my throat and squeezed.
I’d held my breath in preparation, so I was ready for the attack. But her nails still hurt as she dug them into the delicate skin of my neck.
Regroup!
I shifted my grip on Considine’s dagger, intending to stab her in the ribs this time, when a shadow broke off from the wall and gathered behind Gisila.
Considine.
I thought he’d warn her first—maybe make a few threatening statements like Gisila had.
Instead, he grabbed her by the shoulder, yanked her backwards, and then flung her to the ground with so much strength all the air expelled from her body in a large croaking gasp.
Checking my throat for blood—worry over my poisonous blood broiled in the back of my mind for Connor, until I remembered he was Considine—I leaned over the side of the bed.
Considine placed his foot on Gisila’s throat and stepped down.
Gisila squirmed, clawing at his boot as her face turned colors from the lack of air. “C-Considine?” she managed to squeeze out, her eyes wide with shock as she peered up at his shadowed face.
