Nate awoke with a hiss. Healed or not, his body knew it had suffered traumatic injury. He grabbed his gun, pointed it at me, then frowned.
“I took the clip and emptied the chamber, so we can address matters without you shooting me.”
“What the hell are you?”
I handed him a bottle of whiskey and a glass of water. He ignored the latter.
“Your brother, or so we swore.”
“That was before,” he ground out.
“Being a witch is genetic. There’s no cure, no vaccine.”
He ignored the latter. “Oh, there’s a cure.”
The knife struck true and deep.