His hands clamped so fierce on hers Riley imagined bones crushing, but she kept talking. “Intellect versus instinct. It’s a hard call.”
“So says the—fuck me, fuck me—the werewolf.”
“Yeah, so I ought to know. Think about it. You put Mr. Spock against the Hulk.”
Breath labored, body shaking, Sawyer set his teeth. “You’re crossing the streams. Motherfucker!”
“Nearly done,” Bran promised. “It’s washing clean now.”
“Okay. Okay.”
Riley watched Sawyer’s color come back, felt his crushing grip ease.
“Just the balm now.”
As Bran applied it, Sawyer closed his eyes, breathed out. “Oh, yeah, that works. Don’t cry, Anni.” He drew a hand from Riley, stroked it over Annika’s hair. “I’m okay. You let Sasha finish fixing you up now.”
“It’s all right.” Annika raised her head, lifted drenched eyes to Bran.
“It is, I promise you. You’ll use the balm on the wounds every two or three hours for now, and I’ll check again before bed. But it’s clean and already healing. I can tell you it would have been worse, a great deal worse, if that bastard, buggering thing had gone any deeper or dug in any longer.”
“Thanks.”
Doyle jerked a shoulder at Sawyer. “No problem. Beer?”
Sawyer just gave a thumbs-up.
“You’re my heart.” Annika stood, bent down to kiss Sawyer softly. “And you are all my heroes. I have only little hurts now, Sasha. Riley has more.”
“Shit. She’s got a bad one on her shoulder.” Sawyer got, a little shakily, to his feet. “Switch it, pal.”
Resigned, Riley took his seat, yanked off another sweatshirt that would never be the same, and sat in her black tank and jeans while Bran studied the wound.
“I’m happy to tell you it’s not nearly so serious as Sawyer’s, and I won’t need to use the knife to drain it.”
“Yay.”
“Beer?” Sawyer asked her.
“Tequila. Double shot.”
“You got it.”
It hurt, and hurt enough that once she’d knocked back the first shot, she held up the glass. “And again.”
As it eased, she downed the second, sat while Bran treated her lesser cuts and gashes.
“All right now, your turn.” Sasha pointed at Bran. “Now you sit. Anni, let’s heal the healer.”
“Wouldn’t mind a beer myself.”
Doyle pulled out one for Bran. His curse healed him, he thought. The others? They healed each other. He stood there, as separate as he’d been during that horror in the cave. Turning, he headed for the door.
“Nobody leaves,” Riley snapped.
“I want some air.”
“It’ll have to wait.”