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seeing his injury brought the smell—the nightmare, the adrenald sight—of blood back to me, and I blocked it off again.
    “What I conveyed to him,” the stranger said, undoing the top of his flask, as if resigned to being interrogated for a bit, “is between Chompers and me.” He toasted the pronouncement and took a gulp. When he finished, he closed his eyes, shivering.
    “Chompers,” I said. “Who’s Chompers?”
    “Our flown visitor. That clinking he was making? From some silver-capped teeth strung around his booted ankles. Human teeth, I gather, since animals don’t generally subscribe to that sort of dental work.”
    A chill tumbled down my spine. Even Chaplin began to pant, stressed out by the thought of what kind of creep Stamp employed, if indeed that was who Chompers had been—one of Stamp’s henchmen.
    I reached over to console my dog, but my other hand still held the revolver. In the light of the dwelling’s solar-batteried lamps, I could see that all the stranger’s wounds seemed to be healing quickly.
    What was in that scentless unguent of his?
    “How’d you stalk up behind that man so easily, especially since you could hardly even stand a short time ago?” I asked.
    The stranger shrugged. “I just did it quietly.” He faltered slightly, seeming to lose energy. “Now, if I could . . . ?”
    He gestured to his flask, then swigged another gulp. Again, he quaked in the aftermath, hanging his head to hide his expression.
    Like a genial host, Chaplin trotted over to the stranger and gave him a thankful nudge with his nose. It caused our so-called friend to crash back into his blankets with a grunt.
    “See, here’s someone who understands the beauty of rest,” the stranger said wearily. He closed his eyes.
    “I’m still talking with you.”
    “I’m listening through my eyelids.”
    Chaplin brightly glanced at me, obviously expecting me to enjoy the humor, too. But all I could focus on was my dog’s bright eyes. Had the stranger brought some kind of crazy bug with him and had Chaplin caught it? Outside held all sorts of dangers and disease that might weaken even an Intel Dog.
    But Chaplin had seemed off before the stranger had actually come into our home, so our guest couldn’t have brought on any kind of bug.
    “I’d like just a few more moments of chatter, if you don’t mind,” I said.
    When the stranger answered, the voice that’d been so persuasive outside had turned to an exhausted whisper. “I understand. You want to know who you’ve taken in.”
    Yeah, and who I’d be throwing out just as soon as I could.
    Chaplin sat on his haunches by the stranger’s side, his long fur like dark root tea in the lamplight. His quick affection might be a show of gratitude for what this man had done with Stamp’s guy, and I should be expressing the same, really. But I could ill afford parlor manners beyond what I’d already extended.
    The stranger’s eyes were still closed, his hands clasped on his chest in ease. “For the record, I’m appreciative of your kindness. Truly. But I’d just like to allow my medicines to get on with healing.”
    A beat passed, heavy with my unanswered questions. Heavy with the look I fd myself running over him, too—a look that made me weaken, my bones starting to turn to something like liquid.
    I went back to pacing my breathing. Hell, it wasn’t as if I’d never been near a man before. It’d just been a while. The attack in Dallas had scarred me in a lot of ways, and I wasn’t used to people anymore.
    As if sensing my interest, he opened his eyes, and I saw the gray of them.
    “I suppose, manners-wise, I should at least offer that my name’s Gabriel.”
    I nodded, hoping he’d go on.
    “Not much else to tell,” he said.
    When he smiled—just a slight, pained gesture with those injury-swollen lips—I swallowed. My mouth had become dry, but not the same dry as outside. Not at all.
    The realization brushed over me with shame, with awareness, with