Abe leapt to his feet in a blur of motion and staggered toward the exit, blood and steam bubbling between his fingers.
She rose on her elbows, trying out one of her new seductive smiles. “For such a little thing, it’s got a hell of a bite.”
“Bitch,” he spat before flinging open the door and disappearing into the hall.
Chapter 24
Ursula lay on her back and stared at the eggshell-white ceiling, trying to will herself to move.
But the first step was peeling herself off the bathroom floor. Her legs tingled with pins and needles, and she almost cried with relief when she moved her toes. She pushed herself up, onto her hands and knees. She crawled closer to Zee, panting. Hadn’t Abe said the opera was the perfect place to put aside one’s anxieties? Wanker.
She crouched next to Zee, her heart tightening at the sight of her. The fae girl’s chest hardly moved. Blood stained her dress and matted her hair, though Ursula was pretty sure that belonged to Abe.
She reached out, feeling for a pulse on Zee’s neck. It was faint, but blood flowed gently beneath her translucent skin. If she could only get her outside, there was a Bentley waiting for them by the Met’s entrance.
Thank God Abe hadn’t killed her, but she wasn’t about to walk out of here. How the hell do I wake her up?
Once, she’d seen someone come back from the dead. Braden, a boy in her first foster home, had a nut allergy, and he’d chowed through a packet of almond macaroons without realizing. He’d passed out in less than five minutes, but an EpiPen had completely revived him.
That was what epinephrine did, right? It sent hormones racing through your veins. She just needed to get her hands on one. Her pulse raced. This was not a good situation.
She panted, still trying to catch her breath, her knees pressed into the cold tile. Maybe this was a good time to call Kester.
As she glanced around for her purse, she heard the door creak open. She lifted her head, bracing for another fight—not that she could fight at this point. A silver-haired opera patron, dressed in a beige suit, stood in the doorframe. Ursula blinked through the fog of exhaustion, trying to make sense of this new player in the game.
Half-conscious, her first thought was What sort of knob wears a cravat? And her second was He’s going to call the police.
For a moment, his eyes locked on hers, and she recognized the horror in his face. “Good god!” He shouted. “What did you do?”
With a tremendous effort, Ursula sat up. Her eyes flicked to Zee, whose jaw hung open like a corpse’s. Of course the man was panicking. He’d just discovered two women on the bathroom floor covered in fresh blood, one of them apparently dead. It was a small mercy he couldn’t see Hugo’s corpse slumped over the toilet in the stall.
She imagined how the next twenty minutes would go down. First, Silver-Hair would alert security and call the police. They’d find Hugo’s carcass. None of the authorities would believe her when she described Abe’s death kiss, and as the only conscious person in the room, she could find herself accused of the pop star’s murder, as well as some sort of assault on Zee. Her heart thrummed.
“I’ll get the police,” he stammered. “Security.”
So much for staying in the bloody shadows. I’m getting sent straight to the inferno when Emerazel learns of this. In a few minutes the bathroom would be full of security guards. If she’d had any energy, she’d have lit the place on fire to give herself enough time to escape, but she could feel her embers dulled.
“Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. She couldn’t let him leave.
There were two options: she could create a diversion using hellfire, or she could find some way to attack the man and get out of here with Zee. Only, she couldn’t manage either of those things without energy.
Shit. What would a normal woman do in this situation? Probably not thinking about lighting things on fire and stabbing people, for one thing.
A normal person would cry.
“Wait,” she repeated. She let her eyes fill with tears, and pouted, choking out a sob. “She wasn’t feeling well,” she sniffed, letting the strap of her gown drop again. “I told her not to order the salad. She didn’t have her EpiPen. Or her inhaler. And I tried to take her to the women’s room, but she said she couldn’t make it. So we came in here. And then she slipped on the tile and cracked her head. She’s my dearest friend. Please help us.” She let a tear roll down her cheek. Please, please, please, convince him.
“Oh. That’s awful.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No!” she shouted, before letting her face soften again. “It will take too long for them to get here. If she doesn’t get an EpiPen now, she’ll die.”
His face blanched. “Where do I get an EpiPen?”
“There are three thousand people in here. One of them is bound to have an allergy.”