"By the bloodlords," the Brucolac rasped. For a moment his features twisted out from the tooth-gritted grimace he'd marshalled them into; he blinked, looked distressed, younger than he was, and then the expression vanished again. "Here."

He left her bedside again, flitted back. Unscrewing the cap of a flask. The scent of blood filled the air. "Cold, I'm sorry." One arm crooked behind her head, he leveraged her up to drink. It was human, but it had the bitter tang of anti-coagulant. His emergency stores. "I'm." Shit. Start apologising and it was so hard to stop. He growled faintly, shook his head, shook away the countless sorrys stuck in his throat. "There a way to knock you out? I can get the arrowheads out. Done it before." Groping in gore. That time, his kin hadn't survived. No matter. The situation had been different. Paloma would live through this. He was almost sure. "Or I can call a medic."