“Call Adrik,” he orders. “Tell him to meet you here.” I give a low laugh that sprays more blood across my lap. “Adrik wouldn’t answer my call, let alone come here to save me. I burned down his lab, stole his product, and I’ve been doing my damndest to run his business into the ground. You’re doing him a favor beating the shit out of me.” Another look passes between Zakharov and Cujo, as Zakharov tries to ascertain the validity of what I’m saying.
