I choke on my coffee. Then I’m laughing. Then tears are pouring down my cheeks. I look up to find him grinning ear to ear. God, he has a great smile. “That’s pathetic,” I manage.

“Well, you and Emmaline,” he amends, which gets me laughing all over again, even though it’s the opposite of funny.

His face turns solemn. “So, about . . . that thing.”

I set my coffee on the side table and lean my head back. A chill runs down my spine as I flash back to that eyeless face, that glowing aura, those airborne fingernails. “Definitely not human,” I say to the ceiling.

“Check this out.” He pulls a wadded napkin from his pocket. No, it’s a bit of gauze. He unwraps it and spreads it out on the coffee table. In its center are two black slivers.

I bend to get a closer look. They’re slightly larger than human fingernails but a whole lot sharper. The black surface is striated with dark, iridescent blue.

“Did you pull one of these out of my shoulder?” I ask.

He nods. “And the other out of my thigh. Both bled a good bit; they were in deep. The numbing wore off fast, though. A mild neurotoxin, maybe? If one of these lodged in your spine or near your heart, I think you’d be in big trouble.”

“Or if it nicked an artery. Of if you were hit by a bunch at one time.”

“Right. Higher concentration of poison.”

Gingerly, I pick one up and study it. “Maybe this is one reason I slept so soundly through . . . everything.” It’s cool and smooth, pinched between thumb and forefinger, except for a crusty spot of dried brown blood. Is the blood mine or Trey’s?

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask permission before . . . ,” he says. “But you were knocked out cold, and I thought it might be because of that thing in your shoulder, so I was afraid to leave it in, and—”

“You did the right thing. Why did you pull us down behind that gurney?” I ask him. “Why not make a run for it?”

“Lucky guess. It seemed like it was sniffing us. Through its mouth.”

I shudder, remembering the way its mouth gaped open and shimmered oily black. The fireplace pops, startling me.

“It breathed at us,” Trey adds. “Taste and smell are interrelated, you know.”

“You think that body disguised our scent. It was dripping with decomp.”

“Maybe.” His gaze seems focused on the mantel, though I’m fairly certain he sees nothing but the image in his head. “I couldn’t shoot, Paige. I had the rifle in my hand. I had it pointed at that . . . thing. And I couldn’t pull the trigger.”

I chuckle.

His face gets a wounded look. “What’s so funny?”