Drink Deep - Chloe Neill [20]
Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one bleeding. The nymphs were slicing one another with French-manicured nails and expensive heels, and each cut put nymph blood—astringent and cinna-mony and full of magic—into the air. Like I had only the control of a still-pink vampire, I felt my fangs descend, and guessed my eyes—normally blue—had silvered from bloodlust.
I was debating whether to crawl out to safety or stand up again and make another attempt at separating the cloud of bodies when a shrill whistle split the air.
All fighting stopped. The nymphs dropped their holds on one another and turned toward the noise.
Jeff Christopher walked into the fracas like James Bond, all cool swagger and unfailing confidence, and he had the attention of every last one of them.
I wasn’t sure if it was because he was a shifter, or because he was Jeff, but this was the second time I’d seen him play the nymphs like a Stradivarius, and it wasn’t any less impressive the second time around. Jeff spent a lot of his time playing Catcher’s young, skinny, geeky sidekick, but there was no mistaking the man he was becoming.
Jeff reached out a hand and helped pull me to my feet, wincing at what felt like a pretty good gash. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,” I confirmed, swiping the back of my hand at the trickle of blood. “They were ganging up on the redhead. I stepped in to get her out, and that was the end of that. I’m tapping out. You’re in.”
“You go take care of yourself,” he said, his voice an octave deeper than usual as he played macho peacemaker. “I’ll take this one.”
Perfectly content to let him do that, I moved out of the way and stood still while Jonah pressed a cotton handkerchief to my forehead. But I kept my eyes trained on Jeff and the nymphs, as there was no way I was going to miss watching him work his mojo.
I wasn’t the only one interested in the floor show. Catcher walked across the grass with my grandfather in tow. Catcher, by all accounts, had been born with a gruff attitude, although the muscles and green eyes—and the fact that he loved and respected my best friend in the world—usually made up for it. In his usual style, Catcher wore a snug T-shirt with LAMESAUCE written across it in capital letters, and dark jeans over boots. The thick, black Buddy Holly–style glasses he’d paired with them were a relatively new twist, but he pulled them off.
My grandfather was dressed in typically grandfatherly attire—cotton trousers and a button-up plaid shirt under a comfy-looking jacket with elastic at the sleeves and waist. His face scrunched in concern when he saw me, but I waved it off.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I am now that the uncaped crusader has arrived.” I gestured at Jeff, who had crossed his arms over his chest and was staring down each of the nymphs in turn. They looked rumpled and chagrined—as if embarrassed both because he’d seen them fight and because they didn’t look their best. A few of them fluffed their hair and straightened their hems, apparently unaware that Jeff was thoroughly taken by Fallon, a female shifter with an attitude and the skills to back it up.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to get too close?”
I glanced over at Catcher, who was regarding me with a typical mix of amusement and irritation, and stuck my tongue out at him. “I tried to help. They were ganging up on one of the girls. I got hit in the head.”
“With a stiletto,” Jonah helpfully threw in. “She got hit in the head with a stiletto.”
I smiled tightly. “Oh, and this is Jonah,” I told my grandfather. “Captain of Grey House’s guards. Since we’re short-staffed, he volunteered for a ride-along. Jonah, my grandfather and the Ombudsman, Chuck Merit, and Catcher Bell.” They knew of each other, but I made the formal introductions just in case.
Jonah and Catcher shared one of those manly, “It’s nice to meet you, but I’m going to barely acknowledge