A Gathering of Angels by Cate Dean Page A

“I’m rusty with the quick and dirty field medicine, but I’ll do this as fast as I can.”
    Claire studied him, pushing aside the questions for later. Every time this man opened his mouth, he revealed another mystery. Then her gaze fell on the knife.
    “Wait—you can’t use that.”
    “What are you—” Glancing down at the knife, he cursed under his breath. “Steel.” Snapping it closed, he slid it back in his pocket and pushed one hand through his close cut, sun-tipped brown hair. “Mindy Kay, I need your belt.”
    Staring down at her wide leather belt, then back at Simon, she obeyed.
    Claire closed both hands on Marcus’ wrist, watched Simon roll up the sleeves of his shirt.
    “I’m going to have to dig the bullet out by hand. Keep him still—this will hurt him.” He took the belt, wrapped it around Marcus’ arm, just above the bullet wound, and pulled it tight, like a tourniquet. “Brace yourselves, this ain’t going to be pretty.”
    Long fingers pushed into the bullet hole—and Marcus bolted awake.
    “Gods—”
    “It’s all right—don’t fight him.” Claire let go of his hand and wrapped both arms around him, using her weight as an anchor. Sweat slicked his skin, seeped into her sweatshirt. His muscles clenched, like iron bands against her arms. Every breath tore through him, harsh and ragged.
    Jaw clenched, Simon dug into the wound. Blood welled around his fingers, an ugly, black-laced red. Cursing, he probed deeper. Marcus arched away from him—or tried to. Three people holding him in place gave him little chance of escape.
    With a final, vicious curse Simon jerked free, the bullet captured between his fingers. Marcus collapsed, his face whiter than the sheet.
    “Son of a bitch—” Simon dropped the bullet on the bedside table and wiped his fingers on a gauze pad. With the blood gone, Claire saw the reason for his cursing—his skin was an angry red. As if he had been burned. “Mindy Kay, hand me the bottle of water.”
    He gripped Marcus’ arm and dumped the contents of the water into his wound.
    Marcus let out a hoarse scream, every muscle in his arm clenched.
    Claire smacked Simon’s hand away, and the bottle flew out of his grip. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    “Flushing it out. His own blood is burning him.” He picked up another bottle, opened it, and kept a constant flow pouring over the arm.
    “I’m sorry—thank you, for what you did. Marcus.” She brushed hair off his forehead, scared by the hot skin under her fingers. “Open your eyes for me.”
    He obeyed, and it took all of her control not to recoil. The once clear, striated green looked muddy, and dark with pain. “Claire—”
    “Hush. Get some rest, and we’ll talk later.” He managed to raise one eyebrow, as if to question whether he would be around later. She leaned in, whispered against his cheek. “You will be here, even if I have to drag you back myself.”
    “Claire.” She lifted her head, met Simon’s gaze. “Go—I’ll bandage him up, make sure he’s comfortable. Go on—you look like hell.”
    She pushed shaking fingers through her hair, flinched when they caught on the tangles. That needed to be taken care of. Later, when she could think straight.
    Lea stepped away from the wall, offering Claire her hand.
    “Food, drink, and a comb for that hair. You’ll feel better in no—”
    The front door slammed open. Simon leapt past them and put himself between them and the intruder, an ugly gun in his hand, aimed at the open doorway.
    “—not going to do anything until I—” The intruder came into sight, and froze, all nearly six feet of nervous energy and wild blonde curls. The man with her caught her arm and pulled her behind him, blue eyes narrowed as he faced Simon, a small pistol in his hand and aimed at the floor.
    “We’re friends,” he said, his low voice quiet. “There is someone here who is expecting . . .”
    His voice faded when Claire stepped out from behind