Blood saturates Dorian’s shirt, but he’s moving again, fingers diving into his pants pocket. He pulls out a lighter, scrambles to his feet, and flicks it.
A metallic whir. A quiver of light, of heat. Then Dorian tosses the lighter in a gleaming arc.
The flame hits the stick-wolf, and fire roars up, licking across the areas I sprayed. The monster utters a scratchy howl of agony, shuddering and crumpling. Its limbs wobble, and then it collapses, losing form entirely and tumbling into a pile of burning sticks on the concrete.
Dorian steps forward and kicks his lighter away from the flames. He picks it up, blows it off, and tucks it back in his pocket.
“We got lucky,” he says. “Not all pepper spray contains butane as a propellant.”
“Lucky?” I choke on a half sob, covering my mouth with myfingers. “You’re torn to shreds. Just…lie down or something, and I’ll call 911—”
“No!” He catches my wrist as I’m pulling my phone out of my bag. The movement must pain him, because he winces. “Don’t call anyone. I’ll be fine. You live near here, right? We can go there. Just for a bit, so I can get cleaned up.”
“Dorian, you’re in shock. You’re not thinking clearly. You need a hospital—”
“I don’t. And I promise you I’ll explain why, but right now, we need to get moving. I have never seen anything like that creature before, and I’ve seen a shit ton of weird, trust me. Anything that surprises me after this fucking long can’t be good. It’s damn unsettling.”
He’s shaking, which confirms to me that he’s going into shock.
“Sure, okay,” I croon, patting his shoulder. “We’ll go to my place.” Meanwhile I’m surreptitiously pressing my thumb to my phone screen, preparing to dial 911 anyway.
Or I thought it was surreptitious. Dorian’s fingers close around my wrist, and he plucks the phone right out of my hand. “I’ll just hold on to this for now.”
“Asshole!” I grab for it, but he holds it high out of my reach, grimacing as the motion stretches his torn back muscles.
“Walk, Baz. I’ll give it back once you’ve heard what I have to say.”
7
Baz
“Shit,” I mutter as we approach my house. “Mrs. Dunwoody is waiting for me to get back. I don’t want her to see you. She’ll think—”
“That you brought a bloody beautiful man back to your house for sex?” Dorian purrs, his English accent deepening for a moment.
“Oh god.” I roll my eyes. “Just…just walk behind me, and try not to let her see your back. It’s dark. Maybe she won’t notice the blood. At least I left my entry light off.”
“Fortuitous,” mutters Dorian.
“Who says ‘fortuitous,’ weirdo?”
“People of intelligence?”
I shake my head as we turn toward my front door. Mrs. Dunwoody’s balcony light is on, a warm glow outlining her plump frame. She waves, but to my relief, she doesn’t say anything. She’s probably glad to see me back safely…and also judging me for bringing home a man.
I hustle Dorian inside, hissing, “Don’t let the cat out!”
Screwtape makes a dive for freedom anyway, but I manage to block him, get everyone inside, and shut the door against thenight.
I flip a switch, and light flares from the overhead lamp. Screwtape takes one look at Dorian and skitters away to the bedroom.
“My hellcat is scared of you.” I walk forward, turning on the lamp by the sofa. “He’s smarter than I thought. Now, give me back my phone, and let me call you some help.”
“There’s no point. I’m already healed.”
“The fuck you are.” But even as I say it, a true picture of Dorian Gray begins to form in my mind—a suspicion of what he really needs from me. “Come into the bathroom.” I grip a fistful of his shirt front and drag him along. Well, he lets me drag him. I’m strong, but I suspect he’s stronger. Once we’re in the bathroom, I face him. “Take off your shirt.”
“For you? Anytime.” The corner of his mouth starts to curve up, but I shake my head.
