"I'm a werewolf," I murmured. "We're naturally lean."
But when even speaking hurt, I really was in trouble. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead somewhat gingerly. There was a low-grade throbbing deep inside my skull, and I knew it was a result of doing too much on too little sleep and food.
"Werewolves are lean, granted," Elga commented. "But you, my dear, are positively scrawny. You obviously need someone to sit you down and make you eat regular meals."
Is this one of those occasions where an "I told you so" would be appropriate? came Azriel's silent thought.
Probably. But I wouldn't suggest it because I might get nasty.
And that is supposed to scare me? The dry amusement in his tone swirled through me, sending warmth fluttering.
It would scare most men.
I am not a man.
True. You, reaper, are frustration personified.
Not unexpectedly, he made no reply. Rhoan came back carrying a large bottle of Coke and two chocolate-covered protein bars. I carefully hitched myself upright, but the room still spun around me. Elga was right—I couldn't keep risking the astral plane feeling like this. Not when we were hunting someone who was obviously very familiar with it, and also very dangerous on it.
Elga frowned. "Coffee would be better—"
"Trust me, it's not coffee that refuels her, but Coke. She was born with the stuff running through her veins, I think." He squatted beside the bed and handed me the Coke. "I know I'm rushing you, and I'm sorry, but we really do need to know what happened."
I took several gulps, felt the delicious fizz work its magic all the way down to my belly, then filled him in on all that had happened.
"Why in the hell would he want to play a cat-and-mouse game like this?" He tore open a protein bar and handed it to me.
"I don't think he's actually playing with a full deck, so who really knows."