Demon Moon

now.
    Her vision blurred, but she kept the gun trained on its forehead as she skirted the living room. Her sword was in the umbrella stand by the front door—knocked over when the wyrmwolf had burst through the wooden door frame.
    A clatter of claws on the outside stairwell had her heart leaping into her throat. Only five rounds left—but her shields were up. Perhaps it wouldn’t get an immediate fix on her location in the room, giving her time to make the best shot.
    A familiar bark sent relief crashing through her, and she finished her circle of the wyrmwolf as Sir Pup appeared on her porch, his black fur glossy in the winter sunlight.
    “You can’t eat it this time,” she said before he could get any ideas. Before she could get any ideas that would be too close to running, too close to avoiding responsibility.
    She tried to wedge the door closed, but it remained open a couple of inches. Shivering, she abandoned it and retrieved her sword. Her silky crimson top with its spaghetti straps and her jeans had been sufficient for inside, but now she felt ridiculously bare. And cold—colder than the sixty-degree day warranted.
    The handle of her sword was icy in her palm. It shouldn’t be this hard. Only one stroke, to an unmoving object.
    She’d have preferred self-defense. Apparently violence of that type came easily to her; she likely had Colin to thank for it. She was going to kiss him senseless, too—as soon as she could find the courage to cut off the wyrmwolf’s head.
    What if it healed enough to strike at her like a supposedly dead creature in a horror film, and she would be too close to get away? But to use the sword, she had to be near it. Within a foot or two. And she couldn’t hold the gun on it and swing the sword at the same time; she wouldn’t have enough strength to make it merciful if she used one hand.
    Her fingers trembled. Both the gun and sword wavered. Oh, god, she was overthinking it, and taking too much time, and it would heal completely and kill her before—
    A band of steel snagged around her waist, turned her, and yanked her up against a solid male chest. She buried her face in the warm curve between his shoulder and neck, squeezed her eyes closed. Cologne—citrus and sandalwood.
    Colin. She didn’t question why or how. It was enough that he was there.
    “Let me do it, Savi.” His voice was rough, gritty. Nothing like his usual smooth baritone.
    She tried to pull back to see him, but he held her fast, his hands splayed across the small of her back and between her shoulder blades. “Quickly, Colin. It’s in pain.”
    His arms tightened. “Then I shall wait a moment longer.”
    She shouldn’t laugh. “Please.”
    His fingers slid down the length of her forearm, and he loosened her sword from her grip. “Don’t look, Savi.”
    She wouldn’t anyway. God, she was such a wimp. The sword whistled through the air; though she faced away from it, she flinched and covered her eyes.
    Taking another cowardly moment, she stepped forward and placed the gun on a table piled high with the guts of several CPUs. “Can Sir Pup put it in his hammerspace—his cache—to take to SI for analysis?” The pocket of space would keep it preserved until he reached the lab.
    His voice was still rough, but darkly amused now. “Stow it away, Pup.” The hellhound gave a disappointed whine, until Colin added, “There will be a bloody mess for you to lick up—but be certain not to clean any of mine the same way.”
    Of his—? Oh, god, he meant bloody literally.
    She turned, and her heart dropped to her knees. Her watery, useless knees. She sank to the floor, saw the red footprints leading from the door. His red, burned skin. The red, raw scrapes on the side of his face and on his knees through the tears in his trousers.
    “What did you do?”
    He watched her with hooded eyes. “It will heal before I wake up again.”
    He was in his undershirt. His feet were bare…bleeding.
    “You came out of your daysleep? Did you run here? During the day ?” Her chest felt hollow. Her heart was in her legs, somewhere. All she knew was that it was missing.
    He nodded tightly, and his jaw clenched. The tendons in his neck stood out as he turned his face away from her. “I need to use your bed. Unless you prefer I sleep at Castleford’s?”
    “No.” She could barely get the denial past her throat. “Use mine.”
    He walked toward her bedroom, his back stiff. He hesitated at the threshold. “Are there any