Hold Me Closer, Necromancer - Lish McBride [70]
Her brow knitted into a tiny V. The effect was devastating. “Grease trap?”
“It’s the thing that catches the fat, grease, and whatever’s left over on a grill. I always thought it smelled like someone puked in a bag full of pennies. All rotting fat and blood.”
She nodded slightly, thankfully not grossed out at all by what I’d just said. “I see.” She leaned back, palms on the floor, ankles crossed, completely unconcerned with her nakedness. She caught me staring, and I quickly looked away. And smacked my forehead right into a metal bar.
She laughed again. “I’m glad you’re here. You’re very entertaining.”
“Thanks,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “I aim to please.”
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s not nice to laugh at a stranger’s pain.”
“So, if they’re not strangers, they’re fair game in your eyes?”
“Of course. What good are friends if you can’t be honest with them? Pain can be funny. Those home video shows on TV make millions off it.” She leaned forward and dusted off her hands. “Sit up. I’ll look at your back.”
I sat up and ignored my head. I held my back straight and waited. Her fingers were soft as they traced the long lines of scab from my shoulder down. She poked when she needed to without apologizing. When she paused, I thought she was done examining, but then she slid her fingers down the marks again, each tip caressing a separate wound at the same time.
“Who did this?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice held true regret. I’d just met her, but she was taking responsibility for my injury. Strange.
“You didn’t do it.” I stared at my socks, wondering why they’d taken my shoes. Were shoes somehow dangerous?
“No, but I know what did.” She moved in front of me, pulling my chin up with her hand. I noticed how tiny her hands were, and how her lips, when closed, made a firm little bow. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Sam,” I whispered. Between my dry mouth and her soft hands, that was the best I could do.
“Brid,” she said, and she smiled. It sounded like “Bridge” when she said it.
“Is that short for Bridget?” My brain clacked like a broken hamster wheel, and my breaths were too short and shallow.
“Bridin,” she said, “tánaiste of the Blackthorn pack.”
“I wish I knew what that meant.” Then I let my eyes relax so I could take in the real Bridin. She glowed like copper wire wrapped around an emerald core. It was like her soul was on fire.
I swallowed, hard.
“It means that I am next in line to rule my pack,” she said, very matter-of-fact.
“Pack of what?” Few good things come in packs, except inanimate objects, like a pack of cards or a six-pack. Brid was far from inanimate.
“Wolves and hounds, mostly,” she said with a shrug, like it was no big deal. She could just as easily have been talking about the weather.
I stared, and I breathed, and it was all too much. “Look, Bridin, you’re probably the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, and between that and what you’ve just said, I think I’ve blown a circuit.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“On top of all that, you’re naked. And while I’m going to hate myself for this later, could you put on some clothes? At least just for a little while, so I can think. Then you can go right back to being naked. All the time. With my full blessing.”
She gestured around with her free hand. “And what, exactly, would you like me to wear?”
I looked around. Bookshelves crammed with old books, walls of solid concrete, a single expensive-looking wooden chair in the middle of the floor, torture devices, beakers, and a table with restraints that I didn’t like the look of. The floor itself held an unpleasant stain that I didn’t care to think about. The whole thing had the effect of a tidy little dungeon. And the cage we were in was totally empty. “Ah, hell.”
Bridin ended up in my T-shirt and boxers. It seemed only fair since she couldn’t get into my pants. I mean, fit into my pants. Whatever. When I’d taken off my shirt, I noticed something else was missing.