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“You need help?”

“This just isn’t right.”

The patient’s eyes opened, and it was obvious he knew exactly what she was thinking: Vampire.

Without looking at Red Sox, she said, “Will you get me the surgical scissors and the grips in that duffel? Oh, and bring me the topical antibiotic spray.”

As she heard rustling from across the room, she whispered, “What are you?”

“Alive,” the patient replied. “Thanks to you.”

“Here you go.”

Jane jumped like a puppet. Red Sox was holding out two stainless-steel implements, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember why she’d asked for them.

“The staples,” she murmured.

“What?” Red Sox asked.

“I’m taking out the staples.” She took the scissors and the grips and hit the patient’s chest with a mist of antibiotic.

In spite of the fact that her brain was doing the twist in her skull, she managed to cut and remove each of the twenty or so metal clips, dropping them in the wastepaper basket next to the bed. When she was finished she swabbed up the tears of blood that welled at each entrance and exit hole, then hit his chest with some more antibacterial spray.

As she met his brilliant eyes, she knew for sure he was not human. She had seen the insides of too many bodies and witnessed the struggle to heal too many times to think otherwise. What she wasn’t sure of was where that left her. Or the rest of the human race.

How was this possible? That there was another species with so many human characteristics? Then again, that was probably how they stayed hidden.

Jane covered the center of his chest with a light layer of gauze, which she then taped in place. As she finished up the patient grimaced, and his hand, the one with the glove, went to his stomach.

“You all right?” Jane asked as his face drained of color.

“Queasy.” A line of sweat broke out over his upper lip.

She looked at Red Sox. “I think you’re going to want to take off.”

“Why?”

“He’s about to be sick.”

“I’m fine,” the patient muttered, closing his eyes.

Jane headed for the duffels for a bedpan and talked at Red Sox. “Go on, now. Let me see to him. We aren’t going to need an audience for this.”

Goddamn Demerol. It worked great on pain, but sometimes the side effects were a real problem for patients.

Red Sox hesitated until the patient groaned and started to swallow compulsively. “Umm, okay. Listen, before I go, can I get you something fresh to eat? Anything in particular you want?”

“You’re kidding me, right? Like I’m supposed to forget the abduction and the mortal threat and give you a drive-thru order?”

“No reason not to eat while you’re here.” He picked up the tray.

God, that voice of his…that rough, hoarse voice with the Boston accent. “I know you. I definitely know you from somewhere. Take the hat off. I want to see your face.”

The guy went across the room with the wilted food. “I’ll bring you something else to eat.”

As the door shut and locked she had a childish urge to run at the thing and pound on it.

The patient moaned and she looked at him. “You going to stop fighting the urge to throw up now?”

“Fuck…me…” Curling over on his side, the patient began retching.

No bedpan was needed, because he didn’t have anything in his stomach, so Jane hauled herself into the bathroom, brought back a towel, and put it to his mouth. While he gagged miserably, he held on to the center of his chest as if he didn’t want to pop his wound open.

“It’s okay,” she said as she put her hand on his smooth back. “You’re healed up enough. You’re not going to tear that scar open.”

“Feels…like…I…Fuck—”

God, he was suffering, his face strained and red, sweat all over him, body heaving. “It’s okay, just let it roll through you. The less you fight it, the easier it will be. Yeah…there you go…breathe between them. Okay, now…”

She stroked his spine and held the towel and couldn’t help but keep murmuring to him. When it was over, the patient lay still, breathing through his mouth, his hand with the glove clenched around a tangle of sheets.

“That was so not fun,” he rasped.

“We’ll find you another painkiller,