SIX
KYOL DISAPPEARS INTO a flash of light. By the time I turn back to the living room, he’s behind Lee, taking the gun out of a holster hidden under his shirt and tossing it onto the couch. A second later, he has Lee’s arm twisted behind him and a dagger against his throat.
“Are you hurt?” Kyol asks, not taking his attention away from Lee.
“No,” I tell him. “Just pissed off. He has a vigilante tied up in my bedroom.”
“Christ,” Lee says, flinching when Kyol puts more tension on his arm. “I’m just trying to save Paige’s life.”
“You’re trying to save your own,” I say, walking back to the couch. His knees buckle.
“He’s injured,” Kyol says, lowering Lee to the floor. He pulls up Lee’s shirt, revealing his side. His black shirt and pants hid just how badly he’s hurt. There’s so much blood, I can’t even see his injury. No wonder he’s so pale.
“What happened to you?” I ask, my anger sizzling out as I kneel beside the two men.
Lee’s jaw tightens. “Glazunov got the gun out of my hand. Grazed me with a shot.”
“This is a graze?”
“It’s just bleeding a lot,” he says.
“You need to go to a hospital.”
Kyol glances at me. I don’t meet his eyes, but I know what he’s thinking: I care too much. Here’s a guy who broke into my apartment and threatened me with a gun, and I’m concerned about his well-being.
“Couldn’t take Glaz with me,” he says. He squeezes his eyes shut.
“Do you have bandages?” Kyol asks, sheathing his dagger.
“Yeah.” Ten years of being around the fae has put me in the habit of having a fully stocked first-aid kit on hand. I walk to my tiny kitchen and grab the plastic Tupperware box from under the sink. I take it back to the living room, then hand Kyol a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “This will disinfect the wound.”
Kyol takes it without question, then pours the liquid over a two-inch gash that looks like it was made by a knife, not a gunshot. Lee’s body jerks once, but that’s the only indication of how badly the stuff burns.
“Can he help Paige?” Kyol sets the bottle aside. He knows how much I value my friendship with Paige. For the last ten years, she kept me sane. She never judged me, and I felt like a normal human around her. She’s also saved my ass more than once. The first time was when we were roommates at Bedfont House, a mental institution we tried to sneak out of one night. She took the fall for that, letting me escape the place permanently while she had to stay and endure more counseling. Then, almost a month ago, when the remnants captured me, she gave me the key to my shackles. I wouldn’t have been able to escape without her help.
Lee answers Kyol’s question, giving him a quick summary of what he told me, saying again that Glazunov and Charles Bowman, the other vigilante he wants to abduct, will be able to find a cure.
“It’s not guaranteed,” I say when he finishes. “And why would they want to help you? They could stall and let you and Paige and anyone else who’s been injected with the serum die. Or they might not even be able to find a solution. They’ve probably been trying to fix the serum since they learned it was fatal.”
“We’ll find a way to make them help,” Lee says.
“You won’t be able to trust anything they do.”
“We’ll have to!” Lee sits up straighter, his dark eyes flashing with anger. “I have to fix this. I won’t let her die.”
He’s making this about Paige again. I don’t know if he’s doing that to get my support or if he really is more concerned about her life than his own. Maybe it’s a little of both.
“I’ll take the vigilante to Corrist,” Kyol says, using the bandage I give him to wrap around Lee’s ribs. The gauze and bandage aren’t a permanent solution. Lee needs stitches. He needs a hospital.
“You won’t bring the other vigilante here,” Kyol continues. “You’ll call McKenzie and arrange a place to meet.”
Lee’s jaw clenches. He might not hate the fae, but he admitted he doesn’t trust them. I don’t know if he’ll trust Kyol. Of course, he doesn’t have much of a choice.
“Fine,” he finally says, slouching as the fight whooshes out of him.
I try to talk him into going to the hospital. He says he’ll be okay—he just needs to rest—but I’m half-afraid he won’t wake up if he goes to sleep. He’s lost so much blood, and he seems to be sweating more now. His wound might be infected, or maybe since he’s injured and weak, the serum will take his life early.
After Lee ignores my last plea and drags himself to my couch, Kyol touches my shoulder. “I’m going to the Realm. I won’t be gone long.”
He disappears into his fissure, and immediately I feel like I can breathe again. I didn’t realize how claustrophobic I felt with him in this world. It was like I was trying to contain all of my emotions in a bottle not big enough to hold an ounce of water.
Now that he’s gone, and now that Lee is passed out on my couch, I realize just how tired I am. I need to get some rest. How that’s going to happen, though, I don’t know. I have a vigilante in my bed and a half-dead man sleeping on my couch. Sosch, who’s become accustomed to snoring on my feet at night, doesn’t look too pleased with the arrangements either. He’s on the breakfast table glowering at me.
“Looks like we’re both sleeping on the floor,” I tell him. I need to shower and change clothes first, though, and that means I’m going to have to go into my bedroom. I really don’t want to breathe the same air as the vigilante, but I walk to the door. As I’m turning the knob, I hear the sharp shrrip of a fissure opening behind me.
“That was quick,” I say, turning to face . . . Aren.
The slash of light behind him winks out, leaving him framed in twisting shadows. For once, those shadows don’t capture my attention. Our eyes meet, maybe for just one second, but in that single second, a million emotions crash through me. Even dressed in old, well-worn jaedric, Aren is gorgeous. On anyone else, the armor would look cheap and shoddy, but he makes it look durable and strong. I’ve always been physically attracted to him, a fact that infuriated me when we were enemies, but it’s the deeper part of him that I fell in love with.
It’s the deeper part of him I’m still in love with. I never doubted it these last three weeks, but the strength of that emotion makes me feel vulnerable. He could shatter my heart so easily.
The second of eye contact ends, and suddenly he’s closed the distance between us. I expect some sort of greeting, an embrace, a kiss, a simple hello, but he lifts up my shirt with such urgency I stagger back. I grip his shoulders for balance as he runs his hands over my ribs. His touch isn’t a caress.
“Aren,” I say because I see the fear in his eyes. His right hand moves to my back, up to my shoulders. “Aren, I’m not hurt.”
He’s not listening. He continues searching for an injury I don’t have.
I grab one of his hands. “I’m fine.”
A chaos luster leaps from his skin to mine. The heat of our contact finally shows in his eyes. He meets my gaze again, and his pinched brow wrinkles even more.
“You’re covered in blood,” he says. He reaches up and drags his thumb across my cheek. Whether he’s tracing the path of a chaos luster or touching a smear of dirt or blood, I don’t know. All I know is I’ve missed his touch.
His gaze drops to my lips. He’s breathing hard. I’m not breathing at all.
He swallows. “Taltrayn said you needed a healer.”
“Hmm?”
“He said . . .” He fades off, and something more potent than worry is in his eyes. He closes his mouth, then opens it again as if he’s determined to finish what he started to say, but no words come out.