“Give me the painkillers and I will.” Connor almost managed to hide his smirk—almost. He knew Elliot was fighting a losing battle; if stubbornness were an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold medalist.

“Right.” Elliot sighed. “We wait.”

I glared. “That was supposed to make you give me the pills.”

“I know.” He bared his teeth in a humorless grin. “I’d just rather have you mad at me than Gordan.”

“Why?” Quentin asked.

“I’m pretty sure I could outrun you at the moment, but Gordan knows where I sleep.”

“You sleep?” I said dubiously. “When?”

Elliot shrugged. “Popular opinion holds that’s the reason I have a house.”

“Right,” I said, fighting back a wave of dizziness. I let myself lean backward, into Connor. Sleep sounded like an excellent idea. I would have liked it better if I was certain I’d wake up. “I guess that’s understandable.”

“Did they . . .” Elliot glanced at the circle again. “. . . come?”

“The night-haunts?”

Elliot nodded, expression telling me he didn’t really want to know.

I answered anyway. “Yes.” In retrospect, I hadn’t wanted them to. There’s that damn hindsight again.

“This can wait until everyone else gets here,” said Connor firmly.

I offered a wan smile, sending a silent thanks to whoever might be listening. “Good idea. I don’t want to go through all this more than once, anyway.”

“Fine,” Elliot said disgruntledly and turned to watch the door. I sighed. I was too tired to deal with clashing personalities and sulking locals. All I wanted to do was curl into a ball and sleep until the pain went away.

“Elliot . . .” I began, only to be saved from further discussion by the door swinging open. Gordan stepped into the room, first aid kit in her hand and a scowl on her face, closely followed by an anxious-eyed Jan. Oh, root and branch. How could I tell her what was going on when I still didn’t understand myself?

Gordan gaped at the bloody mess that was my left hand, planted her own hand on her hip, and demanded, “What have you done to yourself now?” The cafeteria’s acoustics caught her voice, bouncing it off the walls until it became an invasive presence. My headache announced its displeasure, leaving me even dizzier.

“Please stop shouting,” I moaned. I wanted to yell, but I didn’t dare. My head might explode.

Quentin stood, moving to stand a half step in front of me. Even through the pain, I was amused; he was learning how to be protective. “Shut up!”

“Oh, the pretty boy thinks he’s gonna be a big man now, does he?” Gordan said. “If you’re so tough, why is it her blood I keep having to mop up? You too good to bleed?”

“You little—”