Pia Does Hollywood (Elder Races, #8.6)(21)

Dragos growled, “Your people have a discipline problem under pressure, Tatiana. Tell them to put their goddamn weapons up.”

Unhurriedly, she studied him while making no move to do so. “You’re infected.”

“Apparently, yes,” he said between his teeth. “With whatever the f*ck this is.”

Infected.

The word bounced around in Pia’s head. This time, instead of struggling to get to him, she met Quentin’s grim gaze. Her breathing sounded harsh to her own ears.

“Did you get bitten?” Tatiana asked.

“On my arm,” he said tersely.

“What happened to the one who bit you?”

“It was with a group of thirty or so others. I burned them.” Dragos’s gaze switched to Pia. He told her, “Whatever this is, it’s affecting my Power. I can’t telepathize, and I can’t shapeshift either. I had to hot-wire a car and drive here.”

Struggling to sound calm and rational, Pia said, “What the f*ck is happening?” She rounded on Tatiana. “What do you mean, he’s infected?”

Regret filled Tatiana’s expression, along with resolve. The Queen said to Bailey, “Call Shane back to the house. Tell him to hurry.” Then she turned to her guards. “As long as Dragos remains lucid, don’t shoot him.”

* * *

Despite Dragos’s warning to stay away from him, Pia plunged across the lawn. Eva, the sentinels, and Bailey followed her immediately. Uneasily, Dragos took several steps back as they neared.

“You guys have to stop,” Bailey insisted. “He could turn rabid at any time.”

Dragos felt the urge to bare his teeth at her, but he was mindful of the guns still trained in his—and now Pia’s—direction and refrained. Tatiana’s guards were spooked enough. If he showed how he was really feeling, the gods only knew who they might accidentally shoot.

“I’m not turning rabid right at the moment,” he snapped.

Tatiana’s guards weren’t the only ones who were spooked. Bailey gave him a leery glance. She asked, “How long has it been since you got bitten?”

“Over forty minutes ago.” He turned his attention to Pia, who was pacing around him in a wide circle, wearing a fierce scowl.

“We’re not in California five minutes.” She flung up a hand, fingers and thumb splayed. “Five minutes, Dragos, and you managed to get bitten by… by …” She stopped pacing. “What bit you?”

“An infected Light Fae.”

She studied him worriedly. “Show me the wound.”

In answer, he unwrapped the cloth from his forearm and showed it to her. They both regarded the bite mark, which was clearly visible, the tears in his skin dark red.

“It’s negligible,” he said. “Barely more a nuisance. It should have healed within ten minutes. Instead, it’s not healing at all. After I burned the pack, I discovered I wasn’t able to telepathize or shapeshift.”

As he spoke, he was aware that the others were listening as well. Aryal swore softly and raked her hands through her hair, while Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose.

Bailey’s eyes had widened at his story. She said, “Your constitution is very strong. The people we know who were bitten turned within fifteen or twenty minutes. This is very bad news. So far as we knew, only the Light Fae have been affected. We had no idea until now that others of the Elder Races could be infected too.”

He had no intention of mentioning it to anyone, but he could feel the infection from the bite, coursing through his veins like poison, and his Power had roused to combat it. It felt strange and tiring. He was almost never too hot, but now he had broken into a light sweat and felt both hot and cold at once. Was this what a fever felt like?

Pia stood facing him with her feet planted apart, hands fisted at her sides. She looked grim and determined, and ready to do battle. “I want to telepathize with you so badly right now,” she muttered.

He glanced at the others and said to her, “I want to telepathize with you too.”

“It’s going to have to wait,” Bailey told them. “We think the contagion is passed through blood and saliva. Dragos, you’re a walking hazard—you’ve got blood smeared all over you. We have to burn your clothes and get you as disinfected as we can.”

“Privacy is the least of anybody’s concerns right now,” he said. “Let’s do this. Somebody get me something clean to wear. How are you disinfecting people?”

“We’ve been using propyl alcohol, along with an antiseptic detergent.” She turned away. “Follow me.”

He did so, and the others trailed after him several feet behind.

Bailey led them around the far corner of the house, to an area where they had constructed a large structure draped with plastic.

“I see the tour of the grounds you gave me earlier didn’t lead over in this direction,” Pia said to Bailey, her voice bitter.

The other woman looked chagrined. She said to Dragos, “It’s a decontamination chamber. It’s pretty makeshift but it will get the job done. When you step in, leave your clothes and shoes by the outer flap. We’ll get you something else to wear. You’ll find the alcohol and detergent in the shower area. I’m sorry, the shower’s cold—for now, we’re just running water from the sprinkler system.”