I stammered, trying to say five things at once.

"Right?" "Delk, I—"

He wheeled around and almost slipped in one of the little puddles he'd made.

"Please don't leave! Please, let's talk some more."

He barked an incredulous laugh, staggered for the door, and shoved against it, hard.

Unfortunately, it only moved about a foot before it thudded into something.

"Aagghh!" I heard Jessica say from the other side, then another thud as she fell down. I rushed over, held the door open, and saw her rolling back and forth on the floor, hands cupped around her nose. The blood, it was—it wassheeting down her throat and onto her shirt; the blouse was already wrecked.

Marc was crouched beside her, doing the doctor/mom chant: "No, I won't touch it, just let me look, no, I'm not going to touch, just get your hands down so I can see, let me see."

That was no ordinary nosebleed. It was just—it was everywhere. I whirled upon Delk. "She's sick! And you practically broke her nose—she didn't do anything . And she'ssick , you asshole!"

Before I knew what was happening, I had seized him by the shirt and was holding him right up to my nose. "You thouhd have kept your handth to yourthelf."

"Betsy, don't! It was an accident, come on, it's—" Jessica choked a little from her spot on the floor and spat blood. "It's a swinging door, for heaven's sake. I'm surprised this doesn't happen every week. Come on, put him down."

I threw him away from me. He bounced off the wall (and I'd be lying if I

didn't admit it felt good to watch him fly like a paper airplane, and where had all my sympathy for him gone?) and crumpled to the floor in a heap.

I knelt by my friends. "Jeth, are you all ri—"

"Look out!" she screamed, and I turned just in time to get shot.

I'll bet Marc is sorry he skipped work today, I thought, toppling into

Jessica's bloody face and knocking her down again.

Chapter 20

I woke up just in time to hear Jon's bellow of pain and the instantaneous dull "snap" that came with it.

Get up

I tried to move.

Get up or they'll kill each other. Really kill each other.

My entire chest felt like it had been drenched in kerosene and then lit. And not in a good way, either. I tried to sit up.

"Better not," Marc said, and I realized he and Jessica were both kneeling over me. "I think your heart's busy growing back."

"Help me up," I groaned.

"Bad idea," he said, but he carefully pulled me to my feet. It seemed to take a long time.

"Jess, you okay?"

"I'm fine. Nothing's broken." She looked awful—blood all over her clothes, blood drying across her face—but at least it wasn't fresh blood. "I know this isn't the time or place, but that really squicks me out."

"What?"

"You're licking blood off the back of your hand," Marc murmured.

Yeesh! "Sorry." I made myself stop. Just as well; it hurt to move. Luckily I didn't need to breathe, because I bet that would have hurt like crazy, too. Now where was I? Something important. Like, life or death important. Oh, yeah… "Stop, you guys! Cut it out. Sinclair, let him go."

Not that I could see what was going on, but it wasn't hard to guess.

I limped toward the kitchen door (which had started all the trouble, come to think of it) and pushed it open. Sinclair was just leaning down to pick Jon up off the tiles, ignoring the loaded gun pointed at his nose.

"Ah, you're up and around," Sinclair said, looking over at me. "Splendid."

"Just… stop. Okay? Come on. I got shot, you broke Delk's arm, Jess got a nosebleed. We'll sprain Marc's ankle and make Tina have a haircut and then everybody's even, okay? Please don't," I pleaded, as Sinclair reached for his prey again. "It's so awful right now; please let's not make it worse.

Besides, aren't you dying to rush over here and make sure for yourself that

I'm all right?"

I could see him think about it. The gun might have been made of candy for all he noticed it, but I knew Jon's bullets were hollow points stuffed with holy water. One probably would have killed Sinclair. As usual (happy sigh), when I was concerned, he didn't give much of a shit about his personal safety.

And yup, he was actually wrestling with his lovely desire to check on me.

And his strong male urge to pull Delk's head off his shoulders and use it as a soccer ball.

"Please," I said again, and abruptly Sinclair straightened up, leaving the other man flat on his back and waving his gun at nothing. He crossed the room and grabbed my hands, then held them out so he could stare at my chest. Marc had ripped my shirt open while I was out; luckily, it was a bra day. I looked down; no hole. Just a few trickles of dried blood.

"Areyou all right?"

My Ipex bra would never be the same, but… "Sore as hell."

He shook his head. "You are miraculous. The bullet should have killed you.

At the least, you should not be healing so quickly, especially as you haven't had any blood in—four days?"