Free Any Port in a Storm by Emmie Mears Page B

moment, warm fuzzies threaten to well up in my chest under all the drying sweat and still-seeping blood.
    Then I remember the guy's slummoth-soaked bedroom, spattered with almost every bodily fluid.
    I'm just sorry this dude got a taste of my life.

CHAPTER TEN

    I'm one lucky sonofabitch.  
    The gashes across my midsection are just shallow enough not to sever much more than the skin and fat of my stomach. Fit as I am, they don't quite slice into the muscle.  
    Even so, I call Laura at eight in the morning to tell her I'll be taking Thursday and Friday night off. I no longer try and make up root canals and optometrist appointments to cover my injuries and hellkin-related hijinks. Instead I just tell her the truth — that a pack of demons tried to make julienne Ayala.  
    She asks gravely if I'm okay, and I tell her I'll live.
    Laura also exudes relief about that.
    For most people, living is a pretty low bar, but for me it's cause for celebration.  
    Carrick wakes up a couple hours after we get home, spitting mad and about ready to shred the thousand thread count sheets on my guest bed, but I lie down next to him, not touching him, just staring at the ceiling until he shuts the hell up.
    I think about making a crack about his age and me saving his bare ass twice in a week, but I change my mind when I see him sleeping peacefully next to me. His long hair is an auburn tangle, and I wonder how I ended up capable of coexisting with this guy.  
    I manage some telework Thursday and Friday both, and by Friday night, my body itches from sternum to pelvis from the healing scratches. Carrick's back up and about, having scrubbed away the remaining scabs from the slummoth venom and thoroughly ruined my new loofah.
    Gregor checks in on us at around ten, and to my delight he brings dinner. Filet mignon snippets for the recovering demonoid loofah-ruiner and pizza for me. Pizza covered in cooked meat. Just the way I like it.
    Gregor sits down in my black leather easy chair. "I have a confession."
    I'm never a fan of conversations that begin like that.
    "Damn it."
    Carrick gives me an amused look from across the room, where he's skimming titles on my bookshelf. He has a penchant for bodice rippers and kilt flippers. I subscribed him to a monthly book club. He picks one after a beat and returns to the sofa, where Nana promptly hops up beside him, curling into a little ginger ball by his leg. She falls asleep, velveteen ears twitching.
    I stick my tongue out at Carrick and look back to Gregor. "Spill it, Strong Mad."
    Gregor scowls at me, but he starts talking.
    "I was waiting in the woods the whole time the other night," he says. He stretches, the chair squeaking as he leans back. He looks at me as if expectant of some explosive reaction.
    I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that.
    "You and half the older Mediators in Nashville have probably done that for most of my life," I say flippantly. It's more breezy than I feel. An itch gathers between my shoulder blades.
    The older Mediators always observe Mittens and the young Mediators right out of training; something about ensuring they live to get as snarky as me.
    Then it hits me, what he's really saying.
    "So. Did we pass?"
    Gregor's thin lips become a you-got-me grin, and he nods. "You passed. Even Carrick."
    Carrick doesn't budge from where he sits, book open to the blank flyleaf, but the stillness of his body betrays his agitation. By now, I speak shade.
    I pretend to focus on Gregor, but I keep Carrick in my peripheral vision.  
    "So," I say.
    "So," says Gregor.
    A long pause stretches, broken only by a small thump as Nana jumps down from the couch and scurries to her litter box.
    "I have a job for you."
    My left hand goes involuntarily to my stomach, which is still a mass of scabs. It'll be healed to tender scar tissue by tomorrow, but I don't really feature getting all torn up again.
    "What's the job?" Caution makes my question sound hesitant, and I wish I could