treated Ogden on his sofa, barely conscious, but coming around. They “got his vitals” and said he would be okay, as Bronte arrived, a fresh Vampiress, all campy vampy in a red mask and corset over a short black and white striped skirt and slick, bloodred boots.
Zachary gave the spot where her gash should be a double take, then checked the other side of her temple. “Great makeup,” the boy said.
Dragon’s blood, he’d healed Bronte without thought to what anyone else would think, though he’d confessed his magick to her, but, of course, Zachary would be surprised. The boy knew nothing about him.
Not that Zachary and Bronte didn’t have a few secrets of their own to impart. Their aura of mystery was obvious.
Her mask, her shiny red boots, the way she dressed to attract attention— Always in hiding, yet always on display. Who are you, Bronte McBride?
SEVENTEEN
“What the Puck?” His missing bird landed on the round red and blue light of what Darkwyn now knew to be an ambulance. As the medics slid Ogden, flat on a wheeled plank, inside, legs and wheels disappeared, and the bird squawked, “Murder. Murder!”
Weird world.
“Misfortune,” Puck said. “The kind of fortune that never misses.”
Misfortune, also known as Killian , Darkwyn thought.
Puck flew over and landed on his shoulder, bird-blessing a paramedic on the way.
Darkwyn growled low and lowered the cock to his shoulder. “Naughty bird!”
“Cursers!” Puck clicked his beak. “I didn’t poop on the girl .”
Darkwyn apologized to the paramedic and watched the ambulance leave. “What did I tell you?”
“What? Don’t poop on anybody ? That’s part of a bird’s alien rights.”
“ ‘Inalienable,’ ” Bronte said, her lips quirked up on one side, a sight Darkwyn would like to see more often.
“I’m beginning to understand that bartender snapping his towel,” Darkwyn said. Yet he liked the honest, funloving, no-words-barred, bird.
“Ride in a coffin, drink some blood. That means you’re dead, peckerhead.” Squawk. “Run for your life. Die in your bed.”
“Change your tune or you’re a quick-roast. We served bigger birds than you as appetizers where I come from.”
“You know you like me.” Puck ran his beak through Darkwyn’s hair, a sign of affection. “Darkwyn’s got a giirl. Kiss, kiss, kiss.”
“Shut it, bird.”
“Miss,” Puck squawked. “A title with which we brand unmarried women to indicate that they are in the market.”
Bronte crossed her arms. “I am not looking for a husband.”
“He’s got what you want. You’re what he wants. Sounds like a deal to me.”
Bronte bristled. “Darkwyn, can’t you teach this bird manners?”
“I’m trying. No sunflower seeds until you apologize. I’m sending for your cage.”
“Scumduggers and whatthepucks, you can’t cage an American bird.”
Zachary rubbed his chin as if he knew what a beard felt like. “Shouldn’t Ogden have somebody with him at the hospital?”
Bronte nodded. “I’m calling his brother, at Ogden’s request.” She slipped her cell phone from her pocket and made the call.
Darkwyn turned to go inside. Zachary caught up with him. “What happened to Bronte’s temple?”
“You saw the scorch mark on the wall and the shelf hanging by a hinge. I believe the precise weapon was a bronzed cat bookend.”
“It was deep, bloody, and purple around the edges when I left the room.”
“Correct.” Darkwyn now understood the query.
Zachary got in front of him and walked backward so he could see Darkwyn’s face. “You know she’s healed?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Dental records, X-rays, that kind of thing.”
“I don’t understand,” Zachary said, smacking the heels of his shoes against the porch steps, so he tripped and landed sitting.
“Neither did I, but since that worked as an excuse for you and your aunt, regarding hospitals and doctors, I’m using it, too. My way, she doesn’t need to go to a
Zachary gave the spot where her gash should be a double take, then checked the other side of her temple. “Great makeup,” the boy said.
Dragon’s blood, he’d healed Bronte without thought to what anyone else would think, though he’d confessed his magick to her, but, of course, Zachary would be surprised. The boy knew nothing about him.
Not that Zachary and Bronte didn’t have a few secrets of their own to impart. Their aura of mystery was obvious.
Her mask, her shiny red boots, the way she dressed to attract attention— Always in hiding, yet always on display. Who are you, Bronte McBride?
SEVENTEEN
“What the Puck?” His missing bird landed on the round red and blue light of what Darkwyn now knew to be an ambulance. As the medics slid Ogden, flat on a wheeled plank, inside, legs and wheels disappeared, and the bird squawked, “Murder. Murder!”
Weird world.
“Misfortune,” Puck said. “The kind of fortune that never misses.”
Misfortune, also known as Killian , Darkwyn thought.
Puck flew over and landed on his shoulder, bird-blessing a paramedic on the way.
Darkwyn growled low and lowered the cock to his shoulder. “Naughty bird!”
“Cursers!” Puck clicked his beak. “I didn’t poop on the girl .”
Darkwyn apologized to the paramedic and watched the ambulance leave. “What did I tell you?”
“What? Don’t poop on anybody ? That’s part of a bird’s alien rights.”
“ ‘Inalienable,’ ” Bronte said, her lips quirked up on one side, a sight Darkwyn would like to see more often.
“I’m beginning to understand that bartender snapping his towel,” Darkwyn said. Yet he liked the honest, funloving, no-words-barred, bird.
“Ride in a coffin, drink some blood. That means you’re dead, peckerhead.” Squawk. “Run for your life. Die in your bed.”
“Change your tune or you’re a quick-roast. We served bigger birds than you as appetizers where I come from.”
“You know you like me.” Puck ran his beak through Darkwyn’s hair, a sign of affection. “Darkwyn’s got a giirl. Kiss, kiss, kiss.”
“Shut it, bird.”
“Miss,” Puck squawked. “A title with which we brand unmarried women to indicate that they are in the market.”
Bronte crossed her arms. “I am not looking for a husband.”
“He’s got what you want. You’re what he wants. Sounds like a deal to me.”
Bronte bristled. “Darkwyn, can’t you teach this bird manners?”
“I’m trying. No sunflower seeds until you apologize. I’m sending for your cage.”
“Scumduggers and whatthepucks, you can’t cage an American bird.”
Zachary rubbed his chin as if he knew what a beard felt like. “Shouldn’t Ogden have somebody with him at the hospital?”
Bronte nodded. “I’m calling his brother, at Ogden’s request.” She slipped her cell phone from her pocket and made the call.
Darkwyn turned to go inside. Zachary caught up with him. “What happened to Bronte’s temple?”
“You saw the scorch mark on the wall and the shelf hanging by a hinge. I believe the precise weapon was a bronzed cat bookend.”
“It was deep, bloody, and purple around the edges when I left the room.”
“Correct.” Darkwyn now understood the query.
Zachary got in front of him and walked backward so he could see Darkwyn’s face. “You know she’s healed?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Dental records, X-rays, that kind of thing.”
“I don’t understand,” Zachary said, smacking the heels of his shoes against the porch steps, so he tripped and landed sitting.
“Neither did I, but since that worked as an excuse for you and your aunt, regarding hospitals and doctors, I’m using it, too. My way, she doesn’t need to go to a
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