"How did they get into your apartment?"
The shift in topic didn't surprise her in the least, not when she knew how protective he was. "I don't know. The building's about average in terms of security, but I put in a top-of-the-line system on my door." Even then, she rarely slept all the way through the night.
"Only on the door?"
"Yes. Why - Oh, the windows. I figured being on the eighth floor was enough."
"Not against Psy telekinetics."
"Psy?" She laughed. "Far as I know, teleporting is a major ability. I can't see the Psy wasting that kind of a resource on terrorizing an ordinary human."
"Hardly ordinary," he muttered. "But there are other ways to enter through a window. Any changeling with climbing abilities, or wings, could have done it."
She hadn't considered that and now it appeared a glaring oversight. "The blood hadn't stopped dripping when I arrived." Shivering, she hugged her arms around herself.
"Was it warm?"
"What?"
"The blood."
She almost threw up. "What the hell kind of question is that?"
"If they used fresh - "
"Stop!" she interrupted. "Stop the car!"
He came to a rocking halt.
Sliding back the door, she leaned out and retched. Since the only thing she'd eaten over the past twenty-four hours was that burger with Clay, there was nothing much to throw up. But her stomach didn't know that. It cramped for what felt like hours, flooding her mouth with the ugly taste of bile and tearing her insides apart.
When it stopped at last, she found Clay by her side, one hand in her hair, the other holding a bottle of water. "Drink."
With her throat feeling like someone had taken a hacksaw to it, there was no way she was going to refuse. The water proved ice-cold. "Where?" she rasped.
He understood. "Iced bottles. All of us carry them - changeling soldiers burn a lot of energy. The water's infused with minerals and other stuff."
She nodded and took another delicious gulp. "Tastes good."
He tugged back her head with the hand he had in her hair. "What the hell was that about?"
She couldn't bring herself to tell him the complete truth but she forced herself to tell one. Her deadly little secret didn't need to be revealed. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. "I told you, I hate violence," she reminded him. "You went too far with that talk of warm blood."
His hand clenched in her hair before he released it, a penetrating expression on his face. "You had no trouble with discussing the dead boys."
She clutched at her stomach. "It's psychological." She stood her ground, knowing if she gave even an inch, Clay would walk straight over her. "Can we go? There's..." She nodded at the people peering out the windows of a nearby apartment building.
He ignored her request. "Why didn't the Larkspurs take you to someone who could've helped you get a handle on these things?"
"They did." She swung her legs back into the car and, closing her eyes, leaned her head against the seat. "I'm too screwed up to fix."
The passenger door slid shut and a second later, she felt Clay get back into the driver's seat. "That's a load of crap," he said once he had them moving again. "You never were good at handling blood. You almost passed out that time I cut my knee on a fence."
Her gorge rose at even that harmless memory. Taking another drink, she focused on the piercing sparks of light exploding behind her eyelids. "I got worse. After."
Silence.
Then, "After me or after him?"