Demon Night

isn’t one.” His voice deepened with something that sounded like weariness. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if the demons were telling them something of the sort, making promises so that the vampires fall in line with their plans.”
    “What plans?”
    “Hell if I know, Charlie.” He lifted his hand like he meant to rub it over his face, to make action match his tone, but he winced and let it drop back to his side. “Are you mad enough to cut me open?”
    “I’d rather punch you, actually.” No, not really. Just punch something . Ethan was simply a convenient target. “I don’t understand why Jane and I got pulled into this. Whatever this is.”
    Ethan nodded. “I owe you some explaining.” He seemed to smile at her snort of agreement, though his lips didn’t move. But she saw it at the corners of his eyes, the slight lift of his brows. “And I’d be much obliged if you’d help me out while I’m doing it. How strong is your stomach?”
    Blinking quickly didn’t make his question make any more sense. “What?”
    “The bullet’s giving me some trouble, and it’s coming out too slow. I can’t protect you like I should if my arm don’t function when I need it. But if the bullet’s out, it’ll heal up quick and clean.”
    It took her two more blinks. “You want me to get the bullet out of your back?”
    “I reckon it’ll hurt like a son of a bitch if I go in through the front,” he drawled, and she closed her eyes, pressed her lips together. “Now, Charlie, don’t you start laughing and lose your mad, because if you’re angry it’ll be easier to use a knife on me. Though I must be all kinds of a fool, hoping you’re riled up before I give it to you.” He paused, and the drawl slipped away. “But only if you feel up to it, Charlie.”
    That was the voice she’d heard from him the night on the roof. Still slow and long, as smooth and warm as a sip of scotch, but without an exaggerated flavor to it. “You’ll tell me who you are? What you are?”
    “Yes. But we’d best do this in the kitchen.”
    Charlie looked down at the pale rug, realized that they were moving to avoid staining it with blood, and wasn’t sure if she was up to it. But Ethan was already walking that way, so she hurried after him. He stopped just inside the kitchen, in front of a security panel. Light flooded the room.
    And maybe her stomach wasn’t all that strong, because it began roiling when he laid a knife on the butcher-block island top and pulled a ladder-back chair in from the breakfast nook. He straddled it, crossing his forearms on the backrest.
    She took a deep breath, stepped up behind him. The hole in his coat centered above his right shoulder blade. Charlie gingerly touched the skin showing through the tear. “Right here?”
    “Yes.” His muscles shifted under her finger, and she looked up to see him tilting a black felt-tip pen her direction. “Mark it, so you won’t have to cut more’n once or twice.” He turned his head in profile to her, his brows drawing together. “That hole pisses me off more than getting shot, Charlie. I don’t have a talent for creating my own clothes, particularly something that fits me this well. You got that marked?”
    “Yes.” She couldn’t say anything else. His jacket, suspenders, and shirt disappeared, leaving his broad shoulders naked and exposing tanned skin over long, rangy muscles. Her fingers itched to run the length of his back, from the short thick hair at his nape to the tight ridges of flesh hugging his spine and narrowing down to his waistband.
    But she didn’t want to touch him like this .
    The knife gleamed wickedly on the countertop.
    “Forgive my blushes, Miss Charlie. I’m so awfully modest and bashful.” He grinned and rested his chin against the top of his shoulder, watching her sidelong. “And you’ll have to pardon any groaning I do. It’s not becoming for a man to cry, so we groan real loud instead.”
    “I know you’re trying to make it better, Ethan, but you’re just freaking me out. Do you want a drink or something first?” She could make a drink, that would be nice and comfortable—
    “I doubt Colin and Savi keep any around—liquor doesn’t do anything for me, in any case. Nor would medicine or painkillers. I’ll talk myself through it.”
    And her, too, she hoped. “How deep is it?”
    He rolled his shoulders, grimaced. “About two or three inches. Just dig in there until you hit lead and then use the tip of