the other Son

Chapter 46

The formerly white bandage was soaked with dark red blood.

Lesza swallowed heavily and met Tristan's guarded eyes. "What happened?"

"I was clumsy."

Lesza scoffed at the dripping irony and peeled back the wet material to assess the full extent of the injury. It had been a long time since he'd seen this much blood and almost felt a bit queasy which he pushed aside though. Kinlaw was supernatural – a powerful one at that considering he held a seat on the tribunal – and likely wouldn't die because of the wound. It was shallow enough to eventually stop bleeding and with a bit of luck he'd avoid an infection. The resulting scar wouldn't be that bad either, something to impress the ladies.

Therefore, technically, Lesza had no reason to worry about him. Tristan was not going to die before he'd revealed the secrets of how to extract the pesky fragment of Guttman's soul from Lesza's head.

Nevertheless he said, "Wound clips won't suffice here."

"No shit, Sherlock." Tristan stepped back and let the sweater cover up his marred flesh. Apparently he'd pulled himself together and didn't let on whether he was in pain or not, walls up too high for anyone to climb.

"It was the killer, wasn't it?"

A curt nod. He stared out into the thick fog, jaw twitching.

"What happened?" Lesza repeated and was determined to get a proper answer this time despite the blazing repudiation carved into every look, every word tossed his way.

"Nothing."

"This is not nothing," he argued, frustrated by the tough-guy act.

Slowly, Tristan turned his head, eyes searching Lesza's face for something, anything. There was always something guarded there, something to keep others at a distance, Lesza noticed. He'd seen it before as well when Tristan had spoken to that female friend. He doubted anyone really got behind that wall, the ingrained defence, and it had to be incredibly lonely.

"Why do you care?" Tristan asked with an air of genuine curiosity.

"I'm a Druid, I help people."

His expression hardened and he turned, gesturing at the envelope with a jerky motion. "Take it."

"What?"

"Fucking take it." Tristan glowered at him. "You can come back another time to fulfil your end of the deal."

Was Kinlaw offended because he was only willing to help him out of a sense of responsibility? Following an unspoken oath? The image in Lesza's mind shifted, razor-sharp edges softening the slightest bit, emotions etched into the hard shell and hinting at the human hidden inside.

He pointedly crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the counter, showing his willingness to go absolutely fucking nowhere. At Tristan's glare he merely grinned.

"You're insufferable, Detective."

"So I've been told."

Tristan huffed out a sharp laugh and winced immediately after. "What do you want? Apart from this?" Another careless flick of his wrist in the direction of the envelope.

"Well, first of all I want you to sit down before you faint."

Tristan threw him a look as if insinuating the possibility of him fainting like a damsel in distress was already a grave insult. Still, he lowered himself onto the chair, expectantly raising his brows at Lesza.

"Do you have anything like a pencil, wooden preferably?"

Clearly wary, Tristan nodded his chin at one of the kitchen drawers. "Chopsticks?"