Fever by Lara Whitmore

all right,” Logan muttered, gazing at the floor. If he hadn’t been such a sleep-deprived, emotional wreck, the blood might have rushed to his ears in embarrassment. It was a stupid idea.
    When he looked up, Vincent had pushed the blankets back. He began to peel away the bandage on his chest.
    “Hey,” Logan snapped, grabbing his wrist to stop him. “I worked hard to stitch those up. You’re going to expose them to infection.”
    Though Vincent didn’t smile, there was a humorous glint in his eye that made Logan feel like he was missing something. He released his wrist.
    When the bandage fell away, he was stunned. The claw marks had healed. Raw, angry scars were in their place. The sutures had been pushed from the skin and now lay in a loose mess. Vincent brushed them off with a wince.
    “D on’t be too impressed,” he said. Logan realized his jaw was slack, and closed it with a snap. “If it weren’t for the silver, I would have healed hours ago. Even now, I don’t feel as strong as I usually do. I’m weak. Tired.”
    “But you’ll live.”
    A nod. “I’ll live.”
    Logan rose to his feet and crossed the room. Somewhere between hour four and five of pacing, he’d unpacked his spare jacket and hung it by the door. Now, he pulled it on. With his car beat to hell, he’d need it if he was going to find Anna.
    Voice laced with the beginnings of sleep, Vincent asked, “Where are you going?”
    “Anna should have been back hours ago. Since you’re out of the woods –” He broke into a smile. “I’m going to find her while you rest up.”
    “ I’ll go with you.” Vincent propped himself up onto his elbows. Before he could sit up, however, Logan strode to his side and pushed him back down. It spoke to how weak he was that he offered little resistance. But his eyes shifted to gold in defiance.
    “I know y ou want back in the action,” he tried to reason with him. “And I understand why. But you’re in no condition to go anywhere, and I can’t just sit here. Anna could be running out of time.”
    Vincent’s eyes softened just a bit.
    “You’re willing to die for her?”
    Logan looked away. He turned to the opposite bed and began gathering weapons, pointedly ignoring the question. It didn’t matter if he was willing to die for her or not. He wasn’t going to die. Not tonight. He was going to find her and bring her back.
    For a moment, he wondered if she even remained in Pinechester, or if she’d simply taken off again, left him. But he dismissed the notion as quickly as it occurred to him. Anna never left her gear behind. The duffel bag he riffled through contained too many of her favorite guns. Even he couldn’t help but admire them fondly before tucking a pistol into the waistband of his jeans.
    The corner of a photo protruded from a case of throwing stars. As he lifted the lid, Logan recognized it immediately. It was taken not too long after they’d met. Back when their pasts hadn’t mattered as much as the present.
    They stood close, but not too close. Stances wary, their shoulders only just touched. The photo was taken at night, and a carousel was illuminated behind them. The stranger who took the photo had insisted he couldn’t see their faces, but they encouraged him to snap it anyway. Blinding halos shone through their hair.
    It was one of his favorit e photos. Hers too. She’d always said it was the only photo to capture their angelic nature.
    “It’s never worth it, kid.”
    Jarred from his memories, Logan hastily stowed the photo away.
    “What isn’t?”
    “Being right.”
    “Yeah, well.” He tossed the duffel onto Vincent’s bed. “I hope you’re not getting soft on me, because those are for you. Don’t touch them unless you need to. They’re bound to be contaminated with traces of silver. I’d line the room with shavings, but I think you’ve had enough exposure to silver for one day. If worse comes to worse…”
    Vincent nodded , closing his eyes. “I can shift.