deciding there was nothing to lose by the effort. “Let’s give it a try.”
With odd reluctance, he turned around, presenting his back once more. As I laid my palm over the second bullet wound, the muscles in his back and arms bunched and tightened. “Think of pulling it out,” he said in a voice that sounded terse and strained. “Call it into your hand.”
“Relax,” I muttered. “You seem even more nervous about this than I am.” Focusing on that part of myself, I felt my palm begin to thrum, felt it stroke his surface skin and start to reach deeper into his injured flesh. I stopped it there, holding the power, keeping it leashed close to its origin.
Not in , I told myself. Don’t go in to it. Make it come out to you.
I concentrated and fought against the pulling need of the power to seep down and in, mapping out the injury as it had before. Visualizing the hole made through his flesh, I fixed the image of the silver bullet in my mind, and the mole in my palm heated, grew physically hot against his skin.
Without warning, Dante yanked away and swung around to face me, his pale eyes glittering, his face damp with perspiration, chest moving in deep breaths.
“Did I hurt you?” I asked, worried.
“No,” he said, but he looked totally spooked. “I felt your palm grow hot.” Snatching up the knife, he slapped it into my hand. “Here, use this. It’ll be faster.”
“And much more painful. Not to mention gory and bloody. I think I almost had it. Let me try again—”
“No!”
The loudness of his voice startled me.
“No,” he repeated in a more restrained tone. “Please, just do it this way. Cut it out. Do it fast.”
Too late. The sound of a car turning off the highway. “There’s a car coming.”
“Get in the car,” Dante said, grabbing his shirt. “Drive!”
The car peeled out, spewing dirt and gravel behind us. “Is it Roberto?”
“You tell me. My senses are crap with that silver slug still inside me.”
I quieted my pounding heart and listened. Words spoken in Spanish. A voice that sounded like Roberto’s. A heartbeat that was slower than the others, like mine.
“Yeah, it’s Roberto with some of his men.”
“Shit, they’re closing in on us,” Dante said, glancing behind. “Speed up.”
“I’m already going past the speed limit.”
“Doesn’t matter. Floor it.”
Twisting awkwardly, he positioned the knife behind him, blindly probing his back with the other hand.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I zipped around slower-moving cars. Settling onto an open stretch of road, I pushed the gas down until it hit the floor. Until we were going over a hundred miles per hour.
“I’m getting the bullet out of my back. Keep it nice and steady for a minute.”
A minute, at this speed, was a very long time. With a quick, horrified glance, I saw him stab the knife deep into his back. When he pulled the blade out, fresh blood gushed out.
“What did you just do?”
He scooted over and presented his bleeding back to me. “Stick your finger in and fish out the bullet.”
“You’re crazy, absolutely crazy! You could have killed yourself!”
“I can’t die, Mona Lisa. I’m Monère. We only die in certain ways: if you cut off the head or rip out the heart, poison us with silver, or expose us to the sun for several hours. But you and Roberto are part human—you’re probably easier to kill.”
“Good to know,” I said tightly. “I still say you’re crazy!”
“Dig the bullet out before they catch up to us.”
“It’s unbelievable what you’re asking me to do! Completely unbelievable.”
“Do it—please. Trust me.”
With a curse, I eased up on the gas pedal.
“You’re slowing down.”
“Yes, I know,” I snapped back. “If you want me to grope around in your back for a bullet, I’m not doing it while going a hundred and ten miles per hour. I’m not Wonder Woman, you know.”
Amazingly, he turned his head and grinned. “You’re better than
With odd reluctance, he turned around, presenting his back once more. As I laid my palm over the second bullet wound, the muscles in his back and arms bunched and tightened. “Think of pulling it out,” he said in a voice that sounded terse and strained. “Call it into your hand.”
“Relax,” I muttered. “You seem even more nervous about this than I am.” Focusing on that part of myself, I felt my palm begin to thrum, felt it stroke his surface skin and start to reach deeper into his injured flesh. I stopped it there, holding the power, keeping it leashed close to its origin.
Not in , I told myself. Don’t go in to it. Make it come out to you.
I concentrated and fought against the pulling need of the power to seep down and in, mapping out the injury as it had before. Visualizing the hole made through his flesh, I fixed the image of the silver bullet in my mind, and the mole in my palm heated, grew physically hot against his skin.
Without warning, Dante yanked away and swung around to face me, his pale eyes glittering, his face damp with perspiration, chest moving in deep breaths.
“Did I hurt you?” I asked, worried.
“No,” he said, but he looked totally spooked. “I felt your palm grow hot.” Snatching up the knife, he slapped it into my hand. “Here, use this. It’ll be faster.”
“And much more painful. Not to mention gory and bloody. I think I almost had it. Let me try again—”
“No!”
The loudness of his voice startled me.
“No,” he repeated in a more restrained tone. “Please, just do it this way. Cut it out. Do it fast.”
Too late. The sound of a car turning off the highway. “There’s a car coming.”
“Get in the car,” Dante said, grabbing his shirt. “Drive!”
The car peeled out, spewing dirt and gravel behind us. “Is it Roberto?”
“You tell me. My senses are crap with that silver slug still inside me.”
I quieted my pounding heart and listened. Words spoken in Spanish. A voice that sounded like Roberto’s. A heartbeat that was slower than the others, like mine.
“Yeah, it’s Roberto with some of his men.”
“Shit, they’re closing in on us,” Dante said, glancing behind. “Speed up.”
“I’m already going past the speed limit.”
“Doesn’t matter. Floor it.”
Twisting awkwardly, he positioned the knife behind him, blindly probing his back with the other hand.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I zipped around slower-moving cars. Settling onto an open stretch of road, I pushed the gas down until it hit the floor. Until we were going over a hundred miles per hour.
“I’m getting the bullet out of my back. Keep it nice and steady for a minute.”
A minute, at this speed, was a very long time. With a quick, horrified glance, I saw him stab the knife deep into his back. When he pulled the blade out, fresh blood gushed out.
“What did you just do?”
He scooted over and presented his bleeding back to me. “Stick your finger in and fish out the bullet.”
“You’re crazy, absolutely crazy! You could have killed yourself!”
“I can’t die, Mona Lisa. I’m Monère. We only die in certain ways: if you cut off the head or rip out the heart, poison us with silver, or expose us to the sun for several hours. But you and Roberto are part human—you’re probably easier to kill.”
“Good to know,” I said tightly. “I still say you’re crazy!”
“Dig the bullet out before they catch up to us.”
“It’s unbelievable what you’re asking me to do! Completely unbelievable.”
“Do it—please. Trust me.”
With a curse, I eased up on the gas pedal.
“You’re slowing down.”
“Yes, I know,” I snapped back. “If you want me to grope around in your back for a bullet, I’m not doing it while going a hundred and ten miles per hour. I’m not Wonder Woman, you know.”
Amazingly, he turned his head and grinned. “You’re better than
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