Trinket eased Booker onto the settee before she ran to fetch his medical bag. The shadows were still haunting her, but their numbers had decreased, even in the dark laboratory all alone. Thankfully, the voices had disappeared altogether. Her hands shook as she searched for the bag. When she found it beneath Booker's desk, she grabbed it and rushed back up the stairs.

Daphne was with him in the parlour, and as Trinket entered, she looked to her for answers.

"Ambush," Trinket said. "The Mice. He got shot. In the arm, I think."

Booker was leaning forward, his elbows propped against his knees and his fingers twisted in his hair. His teeth were clenched, and she wasn't sure if it was because of the pain or his frustration.

Daphne motioned to the hallway and disappeared. Trinket sat beside Booker and opened up the bag. She recognized a few of the tools, but she had no idea what to do with them.

"You're going to have to talk me through this, Booker," she said.

Sitting up, he glanced into the bag and nodded at a pair of scissors. "You need to cut the sleeve off."

As she picked up the scissors, Booker removed his coat and tossed it onto the floor along with his suit jacket until he was down to his white button-up shirt. Carefully, she cut the seam at the shoulder. The fabric stuck to the bleeding wound, but he helped her gently remove it.

"Rip that up and tie it above the bullet hole," he said as he handed her the fabric she had cut away.

She did as he told her and tied it tight.

"Tighter."

She pulled again.

"Tighter."

Her fingers were white as she pulled at the fabric until he was satisfied. She then knotted it and let him inspect it.

"Should be some alcohol in there to clean it," he said as he nodded at the bag and examined his upper arm.

Dousing some on a rag, she dabbed at the wound. Booker winced, and she paused before offering the bottle to him.

"Need to take the edge off?"

He shook his head. "Not a drinker."

"I think it's more for the pain than the pleasure."

He gave a wry smile. "Just keep going."

She continued to apply alcohol to the wound until she could see where the bullet had embedded itself.

"Take it out with the forceps," Booker said.

She fished out the tool and held it above the wound, hesitating. She had never done this before. What if she hurt him? Or what if she hit something inside of him that was important and he bled out?

"Trinket, it's fine," he said, his voice gentle but firm.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to grasp the bullet with the awkward tool. It took several tries, and though Booker gritted his teeth as she hit the tender sides of his wound with each failed attempt, he did not cry out. Finally, she grasped the projectile and pulled it out, tossing both it and the forceps onto the table.

"All right, you're going to need to sew it up." He smiled. "This I know you can do."

As she threaded the needle, she recalled the last time she had sewn him up. Granted, this wound was far less serious than the Wolf bite had been, but her heart still beat in her throat when she made the first stitch.

"What happened back there?" she asked as she maneuvered the thread through his flesh.

"I think the Mice are after Benedict's abilities."

"No, I know that. I mean with the note."

The note the urchin girl gave him had been tossed aside on the settee amidst their chaotic entrance. Booker reached for it and held it out to her. She paused her stitching to take it.

I'm afraid this is not the part where we meet, old friend. But well done on getting this far. I suspect you will continue to exceed my expectations in the next round.

B.H.

P.S.: That's not your Resurrectionist friend.

The handwriting was neat and minimal. There were no flourishes, and though it was likely written in a rush based on its contents, the lines were straight and unhurried. Someone with exceptional control had written these words.

"'B.H.'?" Trinket said.

Booker sighed. "Benedict Hawk."

She placed the note back on the settee and returned to her stitching. "So this is how it's going to continue? He's going to keep setting up gruesome clues for you to find until one of you dies?"

"No one is going to die."

"We came close to it tonight."

Booker was silent. She glanced up at him. His gaze was distant as he wet his lips and swallowed. Sensing her attention, he turned to her, his eyes warm and tender. "I won't let you die, Trinket."

Finishing her final suture, she knotted the thread and cut it with the scissors. Not nearly as neat as Booker's work, but she was getting better. How many more times would she need to stitch him up? How many more times would she almost lose him?

"So what next?" she asked, returning the scissors to his bag and snapping it closed. "Do we just wait around for another dead body to surface?"

Chuckling softly, he examined her work. "Something like that."

She set the bag beside the bloody forceps and bullet on the table. Turning to face Booker, she released a sigh. "I'm sorry we didn't find him."

Tearing his eyes away from the wound, he shrugged. "I should have known this was too simple. Benedict wouldn't let me win that easily."

"You were so hopeful, though."

"Yes, well, I do wish to see him again. But I'm willing to wait. I've waited five years, what's a little while longer?"

He said it with a smile, but there was sadness in his eyes. It stung her heart to see it. She looked at the stitches and recalled the utter panic she had felt at seeing him injured. It was different from before. Before, it had been the normal fear of seeing someone attacked in front of her very eyes. Now, the fear went far deeper. It penetrated her bones, her very being. Even as she sat beside him, knowing he was safe, there was a trembling in her core.

All those complicated emotions from before started up again, but this time they wouldn't be ignored.

Booker sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I shouldn't have put you in danger, though."

"Please, Booker, I'm well aware that working for you brings about some risks. It's fine."

"No, it's not fine. You could've been hurt. I could . . ."

Trinket looked up at him as he hesitated. He turned to her, his eyes wandering. Setting his jaw, he let out a long breath. "I could have lost you," he said softly.

"I'm your assistant, Booker. It's my job to help you out in these dangerous situations. Even if I might get hurt. Or lost."

One side of his mouth lifted in a sad smile. "Trinket, you're so much more than an assistant."

Her heart skittered at the tenderness in his voice. His warm, intense gaze pinned her to the settee, and she found she very much enjoyed being the subject of his concentration.

And then it became clear to her. All those feelings she had been pushing aside. The growing attachment, the admiration, the frustration, the desire to see him succeed, her need to keep him from becoming a heartless monster. This relationship had slowly developed into more than that of an employer and an employee.

Her chest swelled, her heart fluttered, and her stomach twisted deliciously. But then that heavy stone sank in her stomach as the memory of the last person she had cared this much about surfaced in her mind.

Blood gushing from his chest.

Cries of pain.

And her, with a knife in her trembling hand.

Merrill.

Murderer, murderer, murderer.

No. That wouldn't happen again. Booker was different. Booker understood her condition. He put himself in the path of danger on the regular. He reveled in the bizarre and macabre. He had taken her on as his assistant, fully aware of her mental condition.

But as she looked into his eyes, she saw Merrill's face reflected in them. Swallowing hard, she tried to will the memory away.

That was in the past. It wouldn't happen again. It wouldn't.

It couldn't.

Murrrrrdererrrrrrr.

And yet she knew it could.

The front bell began to ring. Booker craned his neck to look out into the hallway and Trinket turned away. Merrill's face was burned into her mind. The memory was still as fresh as the wound in Booker's arm. Perhaps she had not inflicted this particular wound, but she was painfully aware of the scar on his arm. She had hurt him once before.

She could do it again.

Daphne came into the parlour with an older man in tow. He was rubbing his neck and had a wild look in his eyes.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked Booker, his eyes flickering to Trinket momentarily before returning to his guest.

"I've been attacked," the old man wheezed.

Sighing, Booker nodded and reached for his bag. "Who attacked you and with what?"

The old man lowered his hand, and Trinket noticed something strange. There were two small holes in the side of his neck with tiny trails of blood trickling down towards his shoulder.

"It wasn't a who, sir. It was a what."

Booker furrowed his brow. "Pardon?"

The old man widened his eyes and swallowed hard. "I done got bit by a vampire."

Booker slowly turned to Trinket, his eyebrows raised and a smile playing on his lips. The troubling memories of her past and her growing feelings for him were pushed aside as she took a deep breath and returned his excited expression. They rose to their feet and faced the old man.

"Have a seat, my good sir," Booker said as he motioned to the settee, "and tell us all about this vampire."