Amber leaned around him and tried to suppress a gasp. More slashes ran along his stomach and rib cage. His shirt was now more red than blue, the front soaked through, the viscous liquid seeping into his jeans. “Oh, Quentin.” She tried to raise his shirt, but he didn’t let her.
He covered his stomach with an arm and struggled to his feet.
“Wait, Quentin, wait.” She stood, as well. When he looked down at her, she put a hand on his chest. “We have to bandage this.” There was so much more blood this time. They had to get him to a hospital.
He shook his head and signed, “I’m okay. We have to get out of here.”
“I’m all for that.” The faster they got out, the quicker she could get him to an emergency room. The closest was probably Santa Fe. “You had a plan?”
He stepped around her, and she saw how he’d drawn the black salt on the floor. He’d created an outer circle around the entire house, then, at the back door, he’d drawn two straight lines, the width of the door, that connected the inner circle they stood in, to the outer loop around the house. The circle that had been around the table. The table now sat upended on the other side of the small kitchen, but the salt ring had miraculously remained unbroken.
He stepped to the part of the circle with the two lines drawn out from it and glanced at her over his shoulder.
Dora made the sign of the cross again and clasped her hands together.
Kyle hugged his clipboard.
Amber stood too close to both of them. Their emotions mixed with hers, and she didn’t know if terror actually filled her or if it came from her two friends. Probably a little of both. Without her sweater and with her tank now soaked with Quentin’s blood, she started to shiver. It wasn’t cold out, but it was just chilly enough to cause gooseflesh to sprout over her skin. Then again, that could’ve been the terror.
Quentin grabbed the dagger that had fallen just across the circle, drew in a deep breath, and broke the line by swiping his boot through it.
They waited, all four of them looking up, listening intently for any rustling sounds.
When all remained quiet, Quentin stepped into the little corridor he’d created to the outer salt line that ran parallel to the door. He turned to her. “This should contain the demon inside that part,” he signed and spoke simultaneously, pointing to the new enclosure he’d created. Again, his voice was so soft and deep, he was hard to understand, and Amber was beginning to believe he did it on purpose. As if he were embarrassed by the way he talked.
He unsheathed the dagger, dipped the toe of his boot into the salt near the door and then dragged it across, breaking the line.
They waited again. Nothing. And Amber released a breath. “The door?”
He tried it. The knob turned, and he slowly cracked it open. Dora and Kyle rushed through, not waiting. Amber could hardly blame them. But she and Quentin couldn’t get out of the crack he’d created.
The door pushed the salt along the floor as it opened, and he was careful not to break the barrier he’d created for the demon by widening it ever so slowly. When he opened it enough for them to squeeze through, he stepped back through the short corridor and gestured for her to go ahead.
“Oh. Right. Like last time?” She planted her fists on her hips. “You get to sacrifice yourself while I get away?”
A rustling came from upstairs, and she tore out of the house at the speed of light. If he wanted to sacrifice himself, fine. She was not waiting around. But she did stop, turn around, and watch as he grabbed the satchel that he’d brought in. It required him to step into the bad part, and Amber lunged at him when darkness entered the kitchen.
She grabbed Quentin’s arm and pulled.
He was right there with her. He rushed through the door, dragging her with him, then turned back and closed it.
Amber clung to him as if her life depended on it. Then, realizing her mistake, she jumped back from him and hugged herself. “Are you okay?”
He put the dagger back into the satchel and draped it carefully over his shoulder. “I’m okay,” he signed, suddenly unwilling to look at her. “We need to get cleaned up.”
“We need to get you to a hospital.”
“No. I can’t risk losing this one. I’ve been tracking it for a month. It’s been all over the place. I won’t get another opportunity like this.” He started walking toward the main road, clutching his stomach.
It was still early enough that only a few people were out. Oddly enough, they didn’t notice a bloody man with an Indiana Jones-style satchel, walking along the highway toward a dusty black Ford Raptor. Strange, that.
“Quentin, we look like we just walked out of a horror movie.”
He kept walking, unfazed.
“Quentin Rutherford. I know you can hear me. What do you mean?” Amber hurried to catch up. “How have you been tracking a demon for a month? How do you track a demon at all?”
“Later. I need to change and get back in there.”
“What?” she screeched, the sound not unlike a barn owl.
They’d reached the black truck parked just off the main road. Hopefully, it was his since he opened the back door and was rummaging through a duffle bag inside. “I need food. It will help me heal.” Instead, he grabbed a handful of painkillers, unscrewed the top of a whisky bottle, and downed them. Amber’s stomach hurt just watching it.
“So now you’re Superman? You have super healing?”
He put the whisky away and pulled out another long-sleeved T-shirt, this one a faded salmon color, one of her favorites. “Something like that.”
Holy cow. She hadn’t been dreaming. Or hit on the head. Well, yes, she’d been hit on the head, but it hadn’t caused a hallucination. His eyes had really turned black. Her knees weakened, and she leaned against the door for support. “Does your healing have anything to do with what’s inside you?”
He stopped, his jaw flexing in annoyance. “Something like that.”
She slammed her lids shut, every scenario imaginable running rampant through her mind. When she opened her eyes again, she looked around and saw Kyle and Dora standing close by, their expressions worried as though unsure of what to do.
Quentin opened a first-aid kit, found a roll of bandages, and gingerly lifted his shirt over his head.
Another wave of lightheadedness washed over her. The slashes on his back were so much deeper than she’d thought they were.
He took the bandage roll and started to wrap it around his torso without a single drop of Neosporin.
“Stop.” She took the gauze out of his hands and stepped around him to look in his kit. She found antiseptic spray. It wouldn’t feel good, but he seemed perfectly able to work past the pain.
She turned to him and finally saw his stomach. His rock-hard abs, the muscles ripped. But she could’ve sworn she saw a rib peeking out of his side.
The world spun. She fought off the wave, took a towel and a bottle of water, and started cleaning the blood off him, readying to apply the spray.
He sucked in a sharp breath when the cold water hit him, then signed, “I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time. This must be disinfected, at the very least.” She could only pray he hadn’t been lying about his ability to heal quickly. Charley had been like that. The last time Amber had seen Quentin, he had been nowhere near Charley’s caliber of being. Clearly, a lot had changed.