He was up on his own feet, dressed in soft white pants and a blood soaked bandage wrapped tightly around his chest. With one hand on the wall he was trying to walk—to force himself better. He'd had cold iron poison before. He glanced at the fading scar around his wrist where Oberon had held him in his basement by a single iron shackle. Two weeks passed before he was completely free of the effects—something he'd not told Siobhan when he'd come to her aid. He'd been slowed by the wound and the poison when they'd been attacked in that blood bank, and hadn't really known if what he'd learned was true about his blood. What Oberon had said. So when he'd fallen so easily by their attacker's magic, having her drink his blood was a fool's gamble. And Oberon had been right. He knew he was going to repeat the same mistake again. Too weak to fight, or even defend Siobhan. But she was in trouble—he could feel it. His dreams had told him. "Abyssinian Geld!" He winced when he heard her behind him.
