She opened the door.
Cold wind rushed in immediately. The man took one step closer, his eyes wild in a face otherwise carved from stone.
“Please,” he said, voice rough. “My daughter has a fever. We were attacked six blocks from here. The driver’s down. My phone is broken. I saw your light.”
Grace didn’t waste time asking the kind of questions a sensible woman should have asked. Who are you? What happened? Why is there blood on your sleeve? Why should I trust you?
The child shivered hard in his arms. Her breathing was shallow and fast.
“Bring her in,” Grace said. “Now.”
He ducked into the apartment, instantly making the tiny place feel smaller. Up close he looked even more dangerous—broad shoulders, hard jaw, eyes like cold steel—but the terror in those eyes wasn’t for himself. It was for the child.
“Put her on the couch.”
He obeyed at once.
Grace moved on instinct. She ran to the bathroom for a basin and towels, to the medicine cabinet for the bottle of children’s fever reducer she had saved for emergencies, then back to the living room where the girl lay shaking atop the threadbare cushions.
Grace pressed a hand to the child’s forehead.
Fire.
Her training clicked into place the way it always had. She checked breathing, pulse, responsiveness. Dry lips. Glassy eyes. Hot skin, cold hands. The fever was high enough to frighten her.
“How long has she been like this?”
“About two hours.” The man hovered so close beside the couch he might have climbed into it with his daughter if she asked. “She was fine at dinner. Then she got quiet. Then she started shaking. I thought I could get her home, but—”
He cut himself off.
Grace unscrewed the medicine bottle. “What’s her name?”
The man blinked as if the question surprised him. “Mia.”
Grace softened her voice. “Mia, sweetheart, can you hear me?”
The girl’s eyelids fluttered. Brown eyes opened just enough to reveal fever-glazed confusion.
“Mom?” she whispered.
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