The Devil's Wife Read Free Page A

blood coming from the cut on her stomach was still crimson—she was still bleeding.
          I tried to plead with her again. "Let me help you. You're in shock, you need help desperately."
          She stood, finding the wall and using it to pull herself up. "Get the hell away from—"
          She shuddered, her eyes rolling back into her head. She collapsed completely and I was too slow to catch her. Her head hit the pavement and I cursed, feeling along her scalp. As far as I could tell, her head was unharmed.
          I gathered her up into my arms, folding her shirt over her bare chest. The white of the material was stained the same red as my skin while her blood pumped slowly from her body, making my skin sticky as I held her carefully.
          "Hold on," I whispered, releasing my wings again.
          I ran to the end of the alley and leaped into the air, the muscles in my legs and wings straining to get me airborne with her extra weight in my arms. I headed straight upwards, then out of the sleepy city, flapping my way across the George Washington Bridge and following the river home.
    ~ * ~
          I landed carefully on the deck outside my front door, folding my wings in tightly as I opened the door and headed into the kitchen, the woman still in my arms. I cleared off the table in the middle of the kitchen with a single swipe of my right wing, everything skittering across the floor with a mighty crash. My feet were in heavy-duty work boots, so I didn't care about standing on the mess of metal, glass and plastic as I gently laid the brunette on the table.
          I put my wings away as I filled the sink with hot water. With a quick glance at the woman to check her breathing—it was shallow but regular—I headed down the hall to grab a couple of towels and some bandages from the bathroom.
          I re-entered the kitchen to find the woman was awake, examining the stab wound with unfocussed eyes. I put the towels down and gently pushed her back down, catching her head as her strength failed her, and put a towel beneath it to act as a pillow. She watched me through heavy lids as I opened her shirt, ignoring the sight of her breasts bared in the strong light of the kitchen in favor of examining the wound.
          "You're in shock, but I'm going to work on fixing that for you," I explained. "Shock is why you're not screaming at being in the Devil's kitchen." My brows furrowed as I saw the rips in her abdominal muscles, created by her constant movements. "You'll get over that eventually, at which point you'll probably run from the house chattering about God and your immortal soul. Until then, hold still."
          She twitched away from my fingers as I peered into the stab wound, and I frowned at her, meeting her gaze.
          "If you want me to stop the bleeding and help you heal," I said with a hint of reproach in my voice, "you're going to have to lie still. I'm not here to hurt you. If I was, you would already be dead. Try to keep that in mind."
          The woman nodded, her face becoming paler as though the effort took blood from her face.
          "I need you to tell me when it starts to hurt more," I instructed, prodding gently at her wound with my clawed finger.
          She hissed as my claw slipped and brushed against a bruised muscle. I made a tching noise and used her hand to hold a dry towel to the wound. I ducked quickly into the living room, flicking on the light. On the couch was a needle and thread I used for patching myself up. Wounds or infection couldn't kill me, but the ache was uncomfortable, so it paid to help them heal.
          I returned to the kitchen to find that the woman was still holding the towel to her stomach, groaning lightly in pain. I frowned, gently pulling the now-crimson towel from her hand. She looked up at me, taking in all the blood on my body, both hers and mine.
          "You're hurt," she said weakly,