Sin sank down in a chair and stared blankly into the room where staff was frantically working on Lore. He lay motionless on the gurney, blood pooling on the floor beneath him. A technician was squeezing the contents of an IV bag into him through a line in his left arm. Another was forcing air into his lungs through a mask and bag.
Please, God, let him live. A useless prayer, no doubt, given that he was a demon, but helplessness and terror had her desperate to try anything. Please don’t let me lose another Primori. Because that was her major concern. He was Primori, and if she lost him, she would never get into Heaven and earn her wings.
She was concerned only because he was her Primori.
The lie sat on her chest like an elephant, especially when one of the doctors stepped back to grab some sort of metal tool and she saw Lore’s hand dangling over the edge of the gurney. It was the same one he’d used to touch her. To pleasure her. And now it hung limp and lifeless, streaked with blood.
Idess’s chest constricted. Please don’t die.
His heraldi screamed with pain, as if someone was trying to scoop it out with a dull spoon. The excruciating pangs made her own knife impalement seem like nothing more than an insect sting.
Don’t die! She reached deep for the gift she shouldn’t use, the one that had the power to heal—or kill—and she never knew which it would do. But Lore was going to die anyway, so she could try it and hope for a positive outcome—
Eidolon exploded out of the Harrowgate. Thank God. If anyone could save Lore, it would be him. His hair was mussed and his shirt untucked and only half-buttoned, and he barely glanced her way as he raced into the room. Immediately, his dermoire lit up, and he was barking out orders and calling for an operating room.
Eidolon wheeled Lore out of the room, slowing just long enough to say to Sin, “I’ll keep you posted.”
Fourteen
Sin couldn’t wait. Couldn’t sit around and do nothing but snarl at hospital staff while her brother lay dying on an operating table.
Bile backed up in Sin’s throat, bitter and caustic, because what had happened to Lore wasn’t entirely Idess’s fault. But right now, Sin wasn’t prepared to take any of the blame on herself. Now? Try never, if Lore died.
Venomous pricks of anger stung her skin. She didn’t rage out like Lore did when he didn’t have enough orgasms in a day, but she did get irritable and ill if she didn’t take care of herself, and she had a tendency to fly off the handle with very little provocation. That certainly wouldn’t help her brother, and could possibly make things worse if she pissed off the wrong staff member.
The warning signs were creeping up on her, from her stinging skin to muscles that felt stretched to the point of snapping if she didn’t do something to loosen them up. She could fuck something or kill something, and either way she’d get the release she needed.
She eyed Idess. Killing her would definitely trip Sin’s relief valve. Too bad she couldn’t do it, and not because of the Haven spell. Lore had taken a blade for the wench for some reason, and until Sin found out why, Idess got to keep her head.
So as Idess finally allowed doctors to treat her knife wound, Sin fled, trying to outrun her rage, her fear, her thoughts. She didn’t know where she was going, but anywhere was better than being alone in her own head.
Maybe the hospital had a gym, where she could beat the hell out of a punching bag. Or a pub, where she could beat the hell out of her liver.
She ran faster. Blindly. She had to go somewhere.
Before she got there, she ran into Conall. Literally. He collided with her when he stepped out of a room that, when she peered inside, looked like a dentist’s office. And sure enough, the sign on the door confirmed it. Demon dentists? Her brothers thought of everything, didn’t they?
“Hey.” Conall took her elbow and brought her to a halt. “You okay?”
“Stop it,” she snapped. “Just stop it! I don’t need their concern or yours or anyone’s.”
“Whoa.” Conall held up his hands and stepped back. “Bite my head off.”
She tried to dredge up a kernel of guilt for snapping at him, but she’d trained herself too well to feel that emotion. Well, that wasn’t true. She felt it, but it mostly manifested as physical pain in her killing arm. And this guy was not worth a scar.
Under any other circumstance, however, he’d be worth a healthy leer. Men in uniforms had never done it for her, but something about the way he filled out his paramedic BDUs did it for her far too well. From the black turtleneck beneath the black uniform shirt, to the well-fitting, multipocketed pants and huge combat boots, he was a solid wall of yum. Something told her he was as good at his job as he was at… everything.
“Why are you here?” she asked, not bothering to temper her irritation at all.
Conall cocked a brow. “I work here.”
Well, duh. But he wasn’t exactly upset to see her, as he’d been in the parking lot. “And?”