Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal by Gregg Taylor

Author:Gregg Taylor [Taylor, Gregg]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2012-05-02T07:00:00+00:00

Sixteen

The Red Panda’s eyes opened slowly. He struggled to focus on the unfamiliar ceiling for a moment, to recall just why he–

He sat up with a start and immediately wished he hadn’t. His head throbbed and he felt a hot rush of blood to his cheeks. He felt a sharp pain in his side that made him gasp a little for breath and a rush of nausea set in. He steadied himself with his hand against the mattress beneath him and pushed himself further up. He had to try and remember what had happened, where he was…

He stopped suddenly as his eyes focused on Kit, sitting in a hard wooden chair at the end of the bed. Her feet were propped up on the end of his cot and she looked for all the world like she had been in the same position for hours, which he supposed she probably had. Her chin was resting in the palm of her left hand, which covered most of her mouth, but not enough to hide the crooked half-smile that played about her face as he rose. She was wearing an oversized black sweater, rolled up at the sleeves. Her large, brown eyes seemed to look straight through him, unblinking. Her hair was piled atop her head in a shape something not unlike a red mop. It was a phenomenon she called “cowl-head,” and it happened whenever she’d had the costume on for a long while. She did her best to keep him from ever seeing it, mostly because she didn’t have a clue how appealing he found it.

At last she blinked slowly. “You’re looking at my cowl-head, aren’t you?”

He sighed and fell back onto the hard cot without a word.

“This is the thanks I get,” she smiled.

He stared at the ceiling, hoping quietly that it would stop spinning soon, and began to quiz her, rapid-fire.

“Where are we?”

“One of the safe houses.”

“Which one?”

“Above the Black Horse.”

“How long was I out?”

“About seven hours. Feel fresh as a daisy?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“One of those monsters knocked me out.”

“I noticed that.”

“How did I–”

“I carried you. And you might want to think about ditching some of the anvils in your pockets if we try that again. I’d look lousy in a truss. It’d mess up the lines of the suit.”

He groaned a little. “Did you sleep?”

She still hadn’t budged. “Me? Like a baby.”

“Really?”

She looked at him like he was a small, dim child of whom she was inordinately fond.

“No,” she said at last and got to her feet.

“You hungry?” she said, padding off to the other room.

“Coffee,” he said out of need more than enthusiasm.

“No coffee,” she called. “Doctor Carlson said you might be dehydrated.”

“Doctor Carlson was here?” he seemed surprised.

Her head popped back around the doorway. “Have you ever noticed me sneaking away to medical school in my many leisure hours?” she said, batting her eyelashes.

“Not as such, no.”

“Then can we assume for the moment that I called the Doctor?”

His hand felt for the bare skin of his face, more by instinct than conscious worry.

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