Page 46 of Just One Little Bargain

“On what?”

“Just . . . give me a second.”

“This is your proof? Standing in a parking lot making faces?”

The mortal form slips, and my small, curved horns emerge first. Cool air hits them, and I resist the impulse to cover them with my hand.

“Okay.” I angle my head. “Look.”

Her gaze lifts.

“Is that . . .” She unfolds her arms and edges closer, squinting in the sunlight. “Is that a prosthetic?”

“No.”

“Then an implant. People get those. I’ve seen subdermal horn implants online. It’s a body-modification thing.”

“Touch it.”

She recoils. “I’m not touching your horn.”

“Just do it.”

“No!”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t go around grasping strange men’s head protrusions in parking lots! That’s not a thing normal people do!”

“Okay, fine, don’t touch it. But at least look at it properly.”

She does, studying the base of each horn for seams, glue, anything that would make them fake.

“This is insane.” Evie backs away, her voice unsteady. “You have . . . things . . . on your head, and there’s a reasonable explanation. I will figure it out, and when I do, I’m going to feel stupid for even entertaining—”

Her right foot comes down on the uneven lip where the lot meets a drainage ditch, and her ankle rolls sideways. Her weight follows before she can catch herself.

The sound she makes is awful, sharp and involuntary, cut short when her knee hits the gravel.

I force my mortal form back into place and drop to my knees beside her. She’s curled forward, both hands wrapped around her right ankle, her face frighteningly pale. When she looks up at me, her eyes are glassy.

“I’m fine,” she says through gritted teeth, and attempts to rotate her foot. A strangled whimper slips out. One tear spills over, cutting a path through the dust on her cheek. When she wipes at it, she only smears the dirt.

Her ankle is already swelling inside her sneaker, the skin above her sock flushing an angry crimson.

“There’s a clinic,” she whispers. “Around the corner.”

Before she can protest, insist she’s fine again, or do any of the stubborn things I’m learning are quintessentially Evie, I scoop her up.

“What are you doing?” Her voice pitches higher.

“Taking you to the clinic.”

“I can walk!”

“Your ankle disagrees.”

She glares at me through the pain, but she doesn’t struggle to get down, which tells me exactly how badly her ankle hurts.