Page 114 of 1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Forty-Two

“Wait, we need to stop the bleeding.”

“We need to get to my truck.”

“Why?”

“I have a gun there. Will that thing inside her come back?”

“I don’t know. Either way, a gun won’t help.”

He’d figured as much. Because that would be too easy.“Fucking leeches.”

“Leeches?” she asked.

“Those demon fucks who take overhumans’ bodies. There’s nothing worse.”

“Oh.”

Even in his state of agonizing pain, he didn’t miss the factthat she’d dropped her gaze as though suddenly self-conscious. Yet anotherpuzzle to solve. But for now, they needed to get to a motel. Not a hotel, but amotor inn where they could park right at their door. He didn’t want to explaina suspicious trail of blood to a night clerk eking out a living at theDoubleTree.

“Right,” she said. “Leeches. Those are the worst.”

“So, maybe a little help?”

She snapped back to him. “Wait, what about that woman? We...we killed her.”

“Nah. I’m pretty sure she’s been dead for a while now.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I now have to wash thealluring scent of embalming fluid out of my hair. That’s how.”

The doc crinkled her nose, and it was too adorable—or itwould have been if he did adorable.

An hour later, Donovan could hardly see clearly, much lesswalk straight. The pain that ripped through his midsection like red-hot pokersrepeatedly doubled him over as he stumbled to the door of the motel room thedoc had rented. He had to stop and wonder if the shotgun shells had been filledwith some kind of magic fairy dust that caused extra agony to the receiver. Didthe supernatural realm have such things?

Donovan did know one thing for certain, though. The doc hada lot of explaining to do.

“Seriously?” he said, ignoring the whine in his voice. “Youcouldn’t get a room on the first floor?”

“Serves you right.” Her voice was strained as she did herbest to heft him up the concrete steps. “You shouldn’t have followed me.”

They’d had to leave his truck by the cabin and come intoRuidoso for a motel room. It was a sore spot. Another one. He loved his truck.Not as much as his Harley, but still. His other sore spot—or series ofthem—throbbed with a pain he never knew existed. But he had a short attentionspan. He could’ve forgotten.

The salve to the agony pulsing through his body was the doc.She felt amazing. Soft curves and that silken red hair he would kill to touch.Not to mention the fact that she smelled incredible.

Five minutes and several near-catastrophes later, he lay ona mattress harder than Teacup’s glare and decided to ask the doc to perform last rights.

She said no.

“Please.”

“I’m not a priest.”

“I’m not a Catholic.”

“Your jacket is incredible. It stopped almost all of the rock salt.”

“Still burns like a Charley Davidson comeback.”