Dominic glared after her, waiting until she was out of sight before turning to me and saying, darkly, “She controlled the minds of all those people. How can you—?”

“She couldn’t have held them if she was an actual threat. Cuckoos are ambush hunters. That kind of open assault isn’t their style.” That wasn’t entirely true—there were things she could have done, if she could keep concentrating while she was poisoning drinks—but it was true enough for him. I knelt, wincing, to start untying my shoes. “Get your jacket off. Sarah’s going to need to see that arm.”

Wow, you sure did find a sweetheart. Sarah’s mental voice was sour. You should keep this one, Very, he’s a real gem.

Stop eavesdropping if you don’t want to hear it, I chided.

“I’m still not comfortable with this,” said Dominic. Still, he shrugged out of his duster, revealing the thoroughly-shredded sleeve over his right arm. He made a sharp hissing sound as he studied the damage. I was too far away to get much more than an impression of equally-shredded flesh, and I was happy with that. “I take that back. I’m less comfortable with dying of septic shock.”

“It’s always good to know where I rate,” said Sarah, walking back into the room with a standard drugstore first aid kit in one hand and a paring knife in the other. She put both down on the coffee table, extracting a cup from the first aid kit before looking the two of us studiously up and down.

“Worse injuries?” she asked me.

I pointed to Dominic.

“I figured as much. Dominic, could you take off your shirt and come over here?” Sarah picked up the paring knife, shooting me a sour look. I knew what was coming next, and mouthed the word “Sorry” at her. She sighed. “Ah, the joys of alternative biology,” she said, and slashed the knife quickly along the curve of her left bicep. A thick, clear substance started leaking out of the cut. Still wincing, Sarah traded the knife for the cup and began collecting it.

Dominic froze midway through removing his shirt, staring at her. I straightened and planted a hand against his upper back, pushing him forward.

“Trust me,” I said.

Maybe it was the fact that we’d just survived an attack by subterranean lizard-men; maybe he was just too tired to keep fighting with me. Either way, Dominic’s shoulders slumped slightly, signaling his submission even before he finished removing his shirt, crossed to Sarah, and sat down on the couch. I decided to ignore the fact that he was swearing under his breath in Latin. He wasn’t stabbing anybody. That was all I could ask for.

Sarah studied the viscous fluid coating the sides of her cup, nodded, and put it aside, reaching for a gauze pad. “I’ll start on your arm in a second,” she said, unwrapping the gauze. “I’d rather not faint from blood loss while I’m trying to clean out your wounds.”

“That is blood?” asked Dominic, sounding horrified.

“It comes out when you cut me, and it keeps me oxygenated, so yes, it is.” Sarah slapped the gauze over her bicep, taping it down. “Cuckoo biology. Putting a healthy dose of ‘what the fuck’ into your daily life.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

She flashed me a tightly amused smile. “I know.”

Telepaths suck. “Cuckoos bleed sort of a biological antifreeze,” I supplied, moving to sit next to Sarah on the couch. I dug through the first aid kit as I continued, “It’s the best topical antibiotic we’ve ever found, and it doesn’t really have any nasty side effects.”

“If you don’t count me having to bleed, which Very clearly doesn’t,” said Sarah dryly.

“Wait!” Dominic pulled away from her, staring at me. At least he knew who he was supposed to blame. “You expect me to sit here and passively allow her to bleed on me?”

“It’ll prevent infection, it’ll reduce scarring, and it’s that or the hospital, so yes, I sort of do.” I shook my head. “Suck it up and trust me, okay?”

Dominic scowled at me for a moment, and then subsided, sagging into the couch.

“Thank you.”

He muttered something in Italian. It didn’t sound like a compliment.

“Same to you,” I said, and passed Sarah a hand towel from the first aid kit. She folded it over twice, beginning to wipe the worst of the blood from his arm. He hissed in pain. I hissed in surprise.

Four parallel slashes cut across his arm, not quite deep enough to hit the bone, but definitely deep enough to hurt like a bitch. I upgraded my assessment of his pain tolerance. Dominic looked stoically at the wound, and said in a clipped tone, “I’ve had worse.”

“How macho,” said Sarah. Putting the towel aside, she picked up the cup and began carefully dribbling its contents over the wound. “How’s that feel?”

“… soothing,” said Dominic, sounding bemused. “Why?”

“Natural painkiller. Trust me, you’ll be glad,” said Sarah. She put the cup down, looking to me. “Ready, Verity?”

“Ready.” I picked up the suture kit, and smiled apologetically. “Time for your stitches. This may sting a little.”

Dominic blanched.

Fourteen

“First, check your ammunition. Then, check your escape routes. Finally, check your hair.”

–Frances Brown

A semilegal sublet in Greenwich Village, about two hours later

DOMINIC HAD DEFINITELY COME OFF THE WORSE in our fight against the lizard-men. I had some minor cuts, a lot of bruises, and a certain stiffness in my left knee that would work itself out after a couple of days. Dominic had those lacerations down his right arm, another set across his ribs that wasn’t as deep but looked just as bad, and a full complement of minor cuts and bruises. It took Sarah two full cups of blood to clean our wounds, and by the time I finished stitching up his ribs, Dominic looked ready to vomit. He seemed almost grateful when I said we needed to go back to our respective homes, collect our research materials, and regroup. Anything to get away from the crazy girls who kept smearing him with blood that looked more like corn syrup and stabbing him with needles.

The concierge summoned two taxis at Sarah’s request. I got into mine gratefully, letting myself sag into the seat. Pride might have made me insist I was perfectly okay to take my usual overland route home, but if Sarah was offering, well, I couldn’t be rude, now could I? Also, I didn’t particularly want to walk home barefoot, and there was no way I was ever wearing my sewer-soaked running shoes again. Sarah had promised to dispose of them for me. I didn’t want to know any more than that.