Chapter 5

The gash over her eyebrow wasn't too bad, although it bled for ten minutes. Jamie staunched the flood as best he could and taped a gauze pad over it. Her pulse was steady and strong, her breathing even. As best he could tell, she was just exhausted. He left her in the bathroom while he went out to the kitchen and put the teakettle on the stove. He stripped off his gloves and coat, feeling numb and bemused.

A girl he hardly knew had opened a patch of snow-drifted night and spilled both of them into the warmth and light of his apartment. She had trusted him, he realized now, not to run and scream, not to send her back to whatever she was running away from. He pulled two mugs from the cabinet and set them on the counter, then went and cleared the clutter of sheet music and magazines from his couch.

She was too light, even for her height. He could lift her easily, carry her like a child, all tangled hair and curled body, out of the bathroom and to the living room. He lay her down on the couch and covered her with a chenille throw blanket, tucking the soft fabric around her body. He straightened slowly, feeling a warning pull in his chest. He was chilled to the bone, and the familiar pain was starting to raise its ugly head.

He turned the flame down under the teakettle and went back to the bathroom. A quick, hot shower helped with the warming process, and two of the little pills from the medicine cabinet got rid of the pain. He stared at his reflection in the mirror over the sink, trying to see what Celeste had seen to give him her trust. Nothing he could see gave him an insight, so he turned a critical eye on his appearance instead.

An aging rocker with too-long hair and the etchings of life starting to take over his face stared back. His hair was still thick and full, although the deep, rich black of youth had given way to snowy silver. Combed back into its usual shoulder-length ponytail it was still his best feature. Dark eyes, with laugh lines at the corners. He'd been vain as a younger man, proud of the sharply chiseled planes and angles of his face, the aesthetic intelligence worked into the bones.

He still wasn't bad-looking, but age was beginning to crack the flawless mirror of youth. He glanced down at his body and allowed himself a small measure of well-earned vanity. He was still in good shape, thanks to a high metabolism and a life-long devotion to the gym. Some rock stars drank or did drugs-- he worked out. At least I'll make a pretty corpse, he thought ironically.

He dressed efficiently in the dim glow of his bedside lamp, underwear and socks, faded jeans and a favored cashmere sweater. Padding back out to the kitchen, he stopped to check on his strange refugee, her face in shadow, the blanket moving with the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing. While tea steeped he made a plate of sandwiches, and after a second thought, a couple packages of instant soup.

He carried a tray into the living room and set it down on the coffee table before perching on the edge of the couch and gently shaking her shoulder. It took a few moments of coaxing, but her eyes opened finally, dazed and sleep-laden until they focused on his face.

"Hey," he said softly. "You passed out."

"I always do," she said wearily, struggling free on the blanket and sitting up. She put a hand to her head and winced. "Although it's gotten better than it was when I was a child. Ow. What happened to my head?"

"You banged it on the sink, I think. You feel up to eating something?"

"I suppose so," Celeste said. She looked marginally better, a stain of color on her cheeks, her skin warming to a more normal pink. He handed her a cup of soup and steadied her while she sipped the hot liquid. She offered him a weak smile and a nod, and he put a sandwich in her hands, reaching for his own tea mug.

She ate in small, careful bites, her restless gaze flitting through the room, resting on his face momentarily and then darting away. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but he just kept silently urging her to eat. The memory of how thin and fragile she'd felt in his arms was haunting him.

Finally, she pushed away the food he kept offering her. Cradling her tea mug, she edged herself into the corner of the couch, looking at him through wary eyes. He moved away from her, giving her space, and sipped his own cooling drink.

"So."

She lifted a shoulder, her lips trying to curve upwards. "So. Now you know... something. That I'm some sort of freak, or miracle, or... something."

"Not a freak," he hurriedly assured her. "Something. That about covers it. I'm assuming that... whatever it was you did is why you're running away?"