“Bring Wyr doctors,” the white-faced dragon told him. “And Soren, I swear to all the gods, if you try to bargain with me right now, I’ll—”
“I will return as quickly as I can,” said the Djinn, his starlike gaze fixed on Pia. His physical form disappeared.
And then there was blood, so much blood. She cried and wrung her hands, because her shoes were ruined, and she didn’t have time to wash her feet.
That brought the dragon’s attention back to her. Somehow they had arrived in an unfamiliar bedroom. She couldn’t figure out whose house she was in. As she lay stretched out on the bed, he bent over her prone figure and placed a hot hand on her forehead.
“Hush, darling,” he murmured. “Don’t cry so. Everything will be all right.”
Suddenly the dragon vanished, and it was Dragos stroking her forehead, Dragos, who looked stark and on the edge of panic.
She didn’t think she had ever seen Dragos in a panic before. That frightened her more than anything she could have imagined. Don’t go, she said, trying to reach through the cotton wool to take his hand. Don’t leave me.
Strong fingers closed over hers. They were as hot as the hand stroking her hair. “What nonsense are you talking now?” he whispered gently. “I could never leave you. Pia, you’re hallucinating.”
Rousing, she finally managed to get verbal words out of her mouth. “I am not,” she told him in a strong voice. “There is too a dead man in our closet.”
Well, in somebody’s closet. She was pretty sure they weren’t at home. If only she could remember where they were, and why.
“Ssh,” he told her. “None of that matters right now.”
She huffed. Easy for him to say. He’s not the one who raced around like a crazy person all day trying to pull off the most important dinner party of his life.
Dr. Medina appeared in her line of sight, just behind Dragos’s shoulder. Okay, maybe she really was hallucinating, because she hadn’t even called the doctor back yet.
“Get out of my way, Dragos,” the doctor said.
He moved away quickly, and the doctor leaned over to smile at Pia. “Just relax, dear,” she said, showing Pia the glove she wore. The one with five blades on the end of the fingers and thumb. “You won’t feel a thing.”
As she opened her mouth, true darkness rose up to swallow her scream.
Chapter Ten
When she next opened her eyes, she found herself in their bedroom in D.C., tucked underneath the covers. She ached everywhere, like she had the flu or someone had beaten her in every major muscle group.
The room was still a mess, clothes strewn everywhere. The curtains were pulled, with no hint of sunlight along the edges, but the bedside lamp on Dragos’s side of the bed was on, throwing a circle of warm illumination into the room.
Dragos lay stretched out on his back beside her on top of the covers, fully clothed in black jeans and a black silk sweater. He had the fingers of one hand draped over his eyes, while he held her hand with the other.
She could hear several voices in the distance, along with movement, both inside the house and out. Someone slammed a car door outside.
She squeezed Dragos’s fingers, and he erupted upright to bend over her, eyes blazing. He called out, “Medina, she’s awake.”
Almost immediately, the bedroom door opened, and Dr. Medina stepped inside. “I’m here.”
Briefly, Pia considered sitting up, but it seemed like too much effort. “I thought you were a dream,” she told the doctor in a rusty voice.
Dr. Medina smiled at her. “You were pretty confused when I arrived.”
“You fainted,” Dragos told her. Lines of tension scored his face. “Scared centuries off my life when I saw you collapse like a rag doll.”
Contritely, she squeezed his fingers as she thought back. “We were with the president in the library. How long ago was that?”
“Last evening. It’s almost dawn now. Investigators have been here all night.” Dragos touched her face, stroking the curve of her cheek. “How do you feel?”
She admitted, “Achy.”