Stiles awoke in pain, but that was no surprise. He was getting used to it by now. What did surprise him was that it was actually less severe than he’d come to expect. The newest injuries, the burns and contusions, all nagged him to be sure. But they were tolerable at least, and the older hurts seemed to be improving. The broken fingers and rib didn’t ache quite so much now, and the throbbing in his crotch had been replaced with the simple agony of a torn muscle. Lucky again, he sighed. Looks like you’ll pull through after all.

He stretched his sore frame beneath the covers—he was in bed, though not sure whose or how he got there—and in response the mound of warmth curled atop his chest stretched as well and gave him a raspy lick on the nose. He looked up into the slitted eyes of an orange tabby that cooed at him and rubbed against his chin. “Well, hello, puss. Whose cat are you?” He looked around the room for an answer and found his surroundings vaguely familiar. Then it dawned on him: it was the landlady’s bedroom, the first Ida had “sealed” on their frantic tour of the Shady Rest the night before. He even recalled a passing glimpse of the cat, huddled in the covers, waiting for a mistress who wouldn’t return. “Miss her already, don’t you?” he said, scratching the feline’s ear. She purred and gave him another affectionate lick.

How long have I been here? he wondered. A glance at the window told him it was noon or thereabouts. And that bothered him. There was still too much work to be done—even with Danner gone, there were the others to be tracked down and exterminated, and he’d wasted precious hours. Even if he did need the rest.

He eased back the covers, slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and sat there until the queasy feeling subsided. He felt like one big puffy wound and certainly looked the part; he was wrapped like a reject from a grade-B mummy movie, and what flesh wasn’t covered in bandages seemed bruised to a splotchy shade of blue. But he didn’t let that stop him. He stood with a groan, found his clothes on the foot of the bed beneath his cast-off covers, and dressed as quickly as his creaking body would allow. Then he sat back down and rested for a while, and waited until the urge to puke had left him before getting up again. His guns were nowhere in sight, but Hubert’s sheathed sword had been left standing against the bedstand. He leaned on it for support as he draped the fat tabby around his neck like a warm and complacent scarf, then hobbled out into the hall.