Chapter 27 Twenty-Six #2
"Then we die fighting the man who tried to make us weapons." I met Diego's eyes. "Constantine orchestrated everything. Dionysus's death, the Judas coin, sending Rafael after me. He tried to make us aim at each other, and when that didn't work, he sent his fucking eagles to finish the job."
I thought of Eight downstairs, building and destroying her tower. Of the seven other children we'd pulled out, all of them with numbers tattooed on their shoulders. Of Constantine's cold voice over the PA system, hunting us like animals.
"I'm not running from him," I said, and my voice was cold. "I'm ending this."
"You might die in there."
"I know." The rage settled into something colder, harder. "But if I don't fight, Constantine wins. He gets to keep playing puppet master with people's lives. He gets to keep making weapons out of children. I can't let that happen."
Diego nodded slowly. He understood. Maybe he didn't agree, but he understood.
"I wish I could come with you," he said after a moment. "Watch your back in there."
"You have other priorities now."
"Yeah." Diego's expression shifted, something complicated moving across his face.
"I have to look after Jasper and Eight, amigo.
I want to help, but..." He trailed off, running a hand through his hair.
"Jasper needs to step back from this. He's been throwing himself at death for too long.
And Eight, she needs somewhere stable to heal.
The Kalderash can give her that. Give them both that. "
"I know." Diego and Jasper had already done more than I had any right to ask. "Thank you. For everything."
"Don't thank me yet. You're not through this." Diego stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "But when you are—if you are—you know how to find us. Come by if you live. You owe me a drink."
He clapped a hand on my shoulder, then headed for the door. He paused at the threshold.
"The kids are safe, by the way. All eight of them. Florica's cousin runs a Kalderash kumpania in Montana. They'll take them in, help them heal. No questions asked."
I closed my eyes and relaxed a little. "Good."
"Get some rest, amigo. You look like death." Diego's smile was tired but genuine. "Rafael's going to need you when he wakes up. Can't do that if you pass out from blood loss."
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
The room fell quiet except for the rain and Rafael's breathing. I sat there holding his hand, watching his chest rise and fall, and let myself feel the weight of what we'd done. We’d saved those kids, but at what cost?
I looked at the bandages covering half his face, and the guilt threatened to drag me under again. My thumb traced circles on his palm. His skin was still too cold.
"You're an idiot," I told him quietly. "A selfless, reckless idiot. You should have let me handle it." My voice cracked. "But you didn't. You never do."
Rafael's face stayed peaceful, slack with sedation. The bandages were clean white, professionally done. I wondered what was underneath. How bad it really was.
I'd seen the eagle's talon rake across his face from temple to cheekbone. There'd been blood everywhere, his eye just gone in a spray of red. I'd killed Augustus for it, but it didn't matter. The damage was done.
At some point, I fell asleep. My head dropped forward, chin to chest, and the exhaustion finally dragged me under. When I woke, my neck was stiff and my shoulder was sore again. Gray light filtered through the windows. Morning, maybe. Or afternoon. I couldn't tell.
Andrei came in with his medical kit. I let him cut away my shirt, clean my wounds, and check the stitches on my shoulder. He didn't try to make conversation. I was grateful for that too.
Florica brought food, sweet pastries that smelled like honey and cheese and were still warm from the oven.
Flaó, Diego had called them. I ate one because she stood there waiting until I did.
It tasted like nothing. I ate another. Still nothing.
The sweetness that usually made my brain light up was just texture and temperature.
She said something in Spanish, her voice gentle. I didn't understand the words, but I understood the intent. Comfort. Kindness. I nodded, not trusting my voice, and she squeezed my uninjured shoulder before leaving.
I thanked her anyway.
The coffee was bitter and strong, even after I added three spoonfuls of sugar. Then four. Then five. It didn't help. The bitterness coated my tongue and stayed there.
Time moved strangely. The sun set, turning the windows orange and gold through the rain.
Then it rose again, pale and gray through the relentless clouds.
The rain never stopped. It hammered the roof, streamed down the glass, drummed against the gutters in a rhythm that should have been soothing but just made the house feel smaller. More isolated.
I never left Rafael's side.
Florica came and went, bringing fresh coffee I didn't drink and food I forced down because she wouldn't leave until I did.
Andrei checked Rafael's vitals, changed his IV bag, and adjusted the bandages.
He told me Rafael's fever was down, that his body was fighting off infection, that these were good signs.
I nodded without asking questions and just watched Rafael breathe.
Diego stopped by once. Told me Eight was learning to share food, that Jasper had griped about having to smoke American cigarettes. Then he left too.
The door opened again. I expected Florica, but the footsteps were wrong. Too light. Too careful.
Eight appeared in the doorway.
I went still. She'd barely looked at me since we'd pulled her from that facility, had spent all her time building and destroying those towers. Now she stood there studying Rafael like he was a puzzle to solve.
She crossed to Rafael's side of the bed, moving with the kind of control that made my skin crawl.
I knew that control. Had learned it the same way she had—through pain and repetition until every movement was economical, precise.
She examined Rafael's bandaged face, followed the line of the IV, then turned toward the wall where icons and crosses hung.
Then she reached up and took down a small wooden cross, walked back, and pressed the cross into Rafael’s hand, curling his fingers around the wood one by one.
She never made eye contact. Never acknowledged me. The door clicked shut behind her, and she was gone.
I stared at the cross now resting in Rafael's palm, at his fingers curved around it the way Eight had arranged them.
This was what Constantine's system did. Took children and stripped away everything human until all that was left was pattern recognition and execution.
Eight had seen a priest and retrieved the appropriate symbol because that's what she'd been trained to do.
Not out of compassion. Not out of caring. Out of conditioning.
She was a weapon identifying its target.
Just like I'd been.
I wondered what the icons on the wall would think of me trying to become something more than a killer.
Sometime in the middle of the second night, his fingers twitched against mine.
I sat up straighter, my heart jumping. "Rafael?"
Nothing. Just his steady breathing, the rain against the windows, the IV drip counting seconds.
Then his hand moved again. A small shift, his fingers curling slightly around mine.
"Rafael." I leaned closer, squeezing his hand. "Can you hear me?"
His lips moved. No sound came out at first, just the shape of something trying to form. Then, barely audible: "Lorenzo."
My name. He'd said my name.
Relief hit me so hard I couldn't breathe. My throat closed up, eyes burning. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
His fingers tightened around mine, weak but deliberate. His breathing changed, becoming less deep, not quite waking up but closer to the surface and fighting his way back.
"That's it," I said quietly. "Come back to me."
But he didn't wake. His hand stayed wrapped around mine, his breathing evened out again, and he slipped back under. The sedative was still working.
I sat there for a long time, just holding his hand and watching him breathe. The icons kept watching. The house creaked and settled around us.
Then I stood, careful not to let go of his hand, and looked at the narrow bed. It wasn't big enough for two people, barely big enough for Rafael, but I didn't care.
I kicked off my boots and climbed in beside him, moving slowly so I wouldn't jostle him or disturb the IV line. The mattress dipped under my weight. I settled on my side, my back against the wall, and carefully pulled Rafael closer.
His head fit against my chest. His bandaged face pressed into my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around him, holding him as gently as I could, and finally let myself breathe.
He was alive. Damaged, hurt, missing an eye because of me, but alive.
My hand moved to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands. They were clean. Someone had washed the blood out while I'd been downstairs spiraling. Florica, probably. Or one of her daughters.
“I heard what you said," I whispered into his hair. "In Alaska, when you thought you were dying. I heard you and I wanted you to know…" My throat was suddenly too tight and I had to pause to swallow. “I love you too, Rafael.”
Outside, the rain fell. Inside, Rafael's breathing was warm against my chest, steady and real. I closed my eyes and let the exhaustion take me.
For the first time in two days, I slept.