This time he shuddered, hard. She was about to start calling for help when she felt the change: the sudden pressure of his tongue against the wound in her neck, and a sharp prickle as the clotting agent he secreted went to work.
He unwound his arms from her and raised his head, gasping, and she made herself sit up slowly to avoid passing out, blinking through a wave of sparkles. The change was remarkable, even with only about a pint’s worth in him; the angry redness of his skin was visibly fading, and as she watched several of the smaller blisters simply shrank back into the skin and disappeared.
“Greta,” he said, sounding stricken. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“Hush. You were fine,” she told him. “You needed it. You still do, as a matter of fact. Let me get Cranswell, and then you need to rest. We all need to rest. And shower.”
Ruthven laughed a little, and looked surprised at himself, and then laughed some more; after a moment Greta found herself joining in. It felt surprisingly good, even if she was sore all over; it felt like incontrovertible evidence that she was, in fact, still alive.
She got up, carefully, hanging on to the bedpost until the dizziness passed, and went to tell Cranswell it was his turn; she was glad that only one task remained to her, and that it was one she could perform without moving. It took a little while for her battered mind to dredge up Nadezhda’s number; her own phone had been lost somewhere in the tunnels between Ruthven’s house and the deep-level shelter, but Greta got it right on the second try—and was grateful that it went straight to voice mail. This was not a story she felt capable of recounting at any length just now; nor was she up for answering questions, no matter how well-intentioned. She told Dez’s answering machine about the fire, and asked her to take care of the ghouls, and left it at that. Sufficient unto the day, Varney had said, and that would have to do.
Someone was talking, not very far away. Greta rolled over in bed and buried her head beneath the pillows for a long moment, before it occurred to her to wonder where the hell she was.
Memory came back in shreds and snatches. She emerged from the pillows to find the slant-light of late afternoon falling in a long bar across the bed, and sat up, taking in her surroundings: a gold-and-white hotel room large enough to hold a small board meeting, with a view out over the river. Someone was still talking not very far away. In the next room.
Greta got out of the palatial bed and stifled a string of curses. She was stiff and sore all over; everything hurt. At least she was clean, and wearing a clean hotel bathrobe. She vaguely remembered showering, having to sit down in the shower because she’d been too light-headed to trust herself not to fall; she didn’t remember actually getting into bed.
Hobbling like a mummy, she made her way over to the half-open door, listening.
“‘… and while the investigation is not yet complete, we are confident that the individuals responsible for last night’s multiple cases of arson are no longer a threat.’ Good news there from Scotland Yard this afternoon, Sheri.”
“That’s right, Neil. While the Met is still not sharing many details of their investigation, sources indicate that the rash of arson fires and the Rosary Ripper murders are, in fact, related.”
“But is this the end of the terror? Public opinion of Scotland Yard has been at an all-time low over the past six weeks. Above all, people are asking the question, Is it safe to live in London? We asked residents to share their thoughts on the string of gruesome tragedies, and we’ll have that and more when we return. For BBC News, I’m Neil Davis.”
“You’re a prat,” said the voice of August Cranswell. She pushed the door the rest of the way open and was rewarded by the sight of Cranswell in a matching white terry-cloth robe with SAVOY on the pocket, sitting at a table and consuming room-service bacon and eggs. “Not you,” he clarified, looking over at Greta. “Him. Hairspray and nuclear-white teeth and stupid goddamn questions. How are you feeling?”
“Old,” she said, and came over to join him. “Stiff all over. What about you?”
Cranswell poked vaguely at the square of gauze taped to his throat, stark white against his skin. “Not bad. Still kind of woozy, but it’s getting better.”
“Good,” she said. “Drink lots of fluids, take some vitamins, don’t try to do anything terribly energetic for a week or so. He took more from you than me, I think.” The gauze wasn’t really necessary—the little wounds made by Ruthven’s teeth healed very fast into slightly itchy bumps—but at least it stopped him scratching at them. “What else did the news say?”
“Basically just that,” Cranswell told her. “They don’t know what the hell was going on, but they aren’t going to say so, and it seems to be over.”
“It feels like it’s over,” Greta said. “It feels … ordinary. I didn’t know how much I missed ordinary. It’s been the longest week of my entire life. What time is it, anyway?”
“Just gone half past three,” he said. “They apparently serve breakfast whenever you want it, however, which is useful to know if you ever happen to become disgustingly rich.”
“I’ll remember that. Did anybody call?”
“Yeah, while we were all still asleep,” he said. “There’s a message. I didn’t listen really close, ’cause it was for you, but your friend with the weird name has everything under control, apparently?”
“Oh, thank God,” Greta said, and stole a piece of bacon on her way over to the desk. According to the display, Nadezhda had called a couple of hours ago. On the machine she sounded tired but in decent spirits.
“Greta, I’m assuming you’re still asleep, after what you told me this morning. Everything’s all right—I’m at the clinic. I’ve got Hal Richthorn here to lend a hand, and all but two of the ghouls have been treated and released—burns, smoke inhalation, one broke a leg when a bit of debris fell on her, but they’re mostly in decent shape. I’ve postponed the trip to Scotland, so I’ll be here to help as long as you need. And don’t worry about Anna; they’re letting her out of hospital today and I will make damn sure she doesn’t try to come to work until she’s properly recovered.” Nadezhda paused. “Give me a call when you get a chance, okay? I want to know if you’re all right.”
Greta put the receiver down slowly, the wave of relief making her dizzy all over again. She didn’t deserve friends like this, but she was very, very grateful for them.
“Everything okay?” Cranswell said, looking at her inquiringly. She nodded, straightening up, and realized how hungry she actually was. The last time she’d eaten anything was … good Lord, sometime early the previous evening? And then she’d donated blood. No wonder she felt loopy.
“Apparently so. I’ll call her back when I’ve had something to eat,” she said. “And coffee. Do you want more coffee?”
“Of course I want more coffee,” Cranswell said. “I don’t know when the others are going to be back, they went … shopping.”