Tempted

“Less pain—if it’s bound,” he said haltingly.

“Well, shit. Okay.” Stevie Rae got to work tearing another towel into long strips, and then knotting them together. “All right. I’m go

He nodded once.

She held her breath and picked up his wing. He jerked and gasped. She dropped it and jumped back.

“Shit! I’m sorry! Crap!”

His eyes slitted and he looked up at her. Between panting gasps he said, “Just. Do. It.”

She gritted her teeth, leaned forward and, blocking out his muffled moans of pain, rearranged the shattered wing into a position that vaguely resembled the unwounded wing. Then, with barely a pause for breath, she said, “You’re go

Stevie Rae felt his body tense and then he heaved himself up, leaning mostly on his left arm, so that he was in a tilted-over, half-sitting-up position—and his torso was far enough off the floor of the shed for her to quickly wrap the towel strips around him and secure the wing.

“Okay, got it.”

He collapsed. His entire body was trembling.

“I’m wrappin’ your ankle now. I think it’s broken, too.”

He nodded once.

She tore more towel strips and then securely wrapped up his surprisingly human-looking ankle, just like she remembered her volleyball coach wrapping up one of her teammates’ weak ankles back when she was in high school at Henrietta High, home of the Fighting Hens.

Fighting Hens? Okay, her hometown’s mascot had always been silly, but at that moment it struck Stevie Rae as super-fu

He shook his head in a short, jerky motion.

“Okay, then I’m go

His eyes opened, but he didn’t speak.

“Well, it was totally horrible. That wing hurts worse than a regular broken arm or leg, doesn’t it?”

She was talking because she was nervous, and Stevie Rae didn’t expect him to answer, so she was surprised when he said, “It does.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she continued, as if they were two normal people having an ordinary conversation. His voice was still weak, but it seemed easier for him to speak and she guessed immobilizing his wing had really helped his pain level.

“I need more water,” he said.

“Oh, sure.” She grabbed the dipper, glad her hands had stopped shaking. This time he was able to hold himself up and tip back his own head. She only had to pour the water into his mouth, or beak, or whatever the correct word for it was.

Since she was already up, Stevie Rae decided she might as well gather up the bloody pieces of towel, thinking that she should get them away from the shed. The red fledglings’ sense of smell wasn’t as good as hers, but it also wasn’t as undeveloped as regular fledglings. She didn’t want to chance any of them having a reason to sniff around there. A quick search of the shed and she discovered extra-big lawn and garden trash bags, into which she stuffed the rags. There were three towels she hadn’t used, and without really giving it much thought, she unfolded them and spread them out, covering as much of the Raven Mocker as was possible.

“Are you the Red One?”

His voice made her jump. His eyes had been closed and he’d been so quiet while she was cleaning up that she had assumed he was asleep, or maybe passed out. Now those human eyes were open again and trained on her.

“I don’t know how to answer that. I am a red vampyre, if that’s what you mean. The first red vampyre.” She thought briefly about Stark and his completed red tattoos, which made him the second red vampyre, and wondered where he was going to fit in their world, but no way was she going to mention him to the Raven Mocker.

“You are the Red One.”

“Well, okay, I guess I am.”

“My father said the Red One was powerful.”

“I am powerful,” Stevie Rae said with no hesitation. Then she held his gaze and continued, “Your father? You mean Kalona?”

“Yes.”

“He’s gone, ya know.”

“I know.” He looked away from her then. “I should be with him.”

“No offense, but from what I know of your daddy, I think it’s best that you’re here and he’s not. He isn’t exactly a nice guy. Not to mention Neferet has gone completely batshit crazy, and the two of them are like peas in a nasty pod.”

“You talk a lot,” he said and then grimaced painfully.

“Yeah, it’s a habit.” A nervous habit, but she didn’t add that. “Look, you need to rest. I’m go

“What will you do with me?”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet.” She sighed and fidgeted, picking nervously at her fingernails. “Look, I think you’re safe here for at least one day. The storm isn’t letting up and the nuns aren’t going to be messin’ around out here. All of the fledglings will probably stay inside until sunset. By that time I should know what to do with you.”

“I still do not understand why you don’t tell the others about me.”

“Yeah. Well, that makes two of us. Try to rest. I’ll be back.”

Her hand was on the door latch when he spoke again. “My name is Rephaim.”

Stevie Rae smiled over her shoulder at him. “Hi. I’m Stevie Rae. Nice to meet ya, Rephaim.”

Rephaim watched the Red One leave the building. He counted one hundred breaths after the door clicked closed, and then he began shifting his body until he’d forced himself into a sitting position. Now that he was fully conscious he wanted to take inventory of his injuries.

His ankle was not broken. It pained him, but he could move it. His ribs were bruised but, again, he didn’t think any of them were broken. The bullet wound in his chest was serious, but the Red One had cleaned it and packed it with moss. If it didn’t fester and putrefy, he would heal. He could move his right arm, though it was difficult, and it felt u

Finally, he shifted his attention to his wing. Rephaim closed his eyes and probed with his mind, following sinew and ligaments, muscle and bone, through his back and down the length of his shattered pinion. He gasped, almost unable to breathe, as he truly comprehended the full extent of the damage the bullet, and then the terrible, ripping fall had done.

He would never fly again.

The reality of the thought was so horrible that his mind skittered away from it. He would think of the Red One instead and try to remember everything Father had told him about her powers. Maybe he would find some clue in his memory that would explain her unusual behavior. Why had she not killed him? Perhaps she still would—or at least perhaps she would betray his presence to her friends.

If she did, so be it. Life as he had known it was over for him. He would welcome the chance to die battling anyone who tried to keep him prisoner.

But it hadn’t seemed she’d been imprisoning him. He thought hard, forcing his mind to work through pain and exhaustion and despair. Stevie Rae. That had been the name she’d given him. What was her motive in saving him if not to imprison and use him? Torture. It made sense that she had kept him alive so that she and her allies could force him to tell her all he knew about Father. What other reason could she have for not killing him? He would have done the same had he been lucky enough to have been in her place.