Chapter 13
I don’t so much wake up as I become conscious of a sharp pain arising from the base of my skull and streaking across my temples.
With a whimper, I curl into a protective ball in my bed, even though I know that won’t do anything. I’m too well-acquainted with this hurt to fool myself.
A migraine.
From under the covers, I extend a hand with fingers that shake, reaching for my bedside table. In the top drawer, there should be a bottle of painkillers. Not that they’ll do much. Human medication never seems to work quite right for us magical beings. As if the dosage needs to take our mythical heritage into account.
No, the only thing that truly works is healing magic. My healing magic.
The magic I used up yesterday fixing Sammy’s arm.
At the time, it seemed worth it. The guy’s bone was sticking out and blood was everywhere. I thought my future pain paled in comparison to his immediate suffering.
Okay…fine. The truth is, I didn’t even think about it. Didn’t stop to consider the consequences.
I watched Sammy fall, unable to stop it from happening, then I heard his whimper, and something flicked off in my brain. Or flicked on.
Whatever the case, my actions were instinctual. My hands snatched the first writing implement I could find in my bag and wrote out the healing runes from memory. My lips formed the words of the spell as easy as breathing, and I felt my hidden stores of magic drain into the torn flesh and fractured bone.
All that lust I’d collected over the week injected as pure healing power into Sammy.
There was none left over for my head, where it normally goes.
My fingers find the handle of the drawer and tug it open. Through the ringing pounding in my ears, I can’t hear the rattle of the pill bottle, but I feel the shake as I pick the container up.
After dry swallowing four pills—twice the recommended amount—I concentrate on breathing and willing my thoughts past the razor-filled fog of agony.
Today is Monday.
I work.
There’s no way I can go into my job today. I’m not even sure I can walk out to my car without vomiting.
Still, I need to find a way to call in sick.
I let out another groan, this one part from pain and part from frustration. My job isn’t easy to simply step away from for a day without preparation. Everyone’s schedules will be affected.
Something vibrates against my side, and it takes me a full minute to realize the noise and sensation are coming from my purring cat.
“Breakfast,” I mutter. Kraken needs to eat.
That’s enough of a motivation to have me crawling out of bed, sweaty and disoriented as spears continue to embed themselves in my skull. I always struggle with balance during my episodes, and with weak fingers, I grasp at doorframes and tabletops as I stumble toward the kitchen. Kraken is kind enough not to weave through my ankles as I move, a habit she has that always threatens to trip me.
After dumping more than the necessary amount of food in her bowl because I can’t properly scoop it from the bag, I clutch the kitchen counter and stare at my closed laptop, trying to work up the will to open it and email my colleagues.
A knock at the front door distracts me.
Shit. What time is it?
I try to read the digital numbers on the clock above the stove, but my vision is too blurry to make them out. From the glow around my curtains, I know the sun is up.
How long was I lying in my bed trying to escape the pain? Is it past when I’m expected at work? Did someone come to check on me?
If so, that would be embarrassing but helpful. I could verbally tell them what needs to be done for the day instead of trying to type everything out in a message when I can’t see.
With a bracing breath and shaky limbs, I shuffle toward my front door, needing more strength than normal to flip open the deadbolt. In a movement of self-preservation, I slip on my sunglasses before turning the nob and pulling the door open.
Even with the shades, I wince at the overwhelmingly bright day that adds fuel to my brain spikes. I can’t even see who’s at my front door.
But I can hear them.
“Hey, Ava,” comes Sammy’s smooth voice. “I’m sorry to show up like this. But I wanted to say thank you. For yesterday.”
Goddess. I do not need a reminder of why I feel like shit.
And I definitely don’t need Sammy Reyes witnessing the pain-twisted, sweaty, queasy version of me. The sun is so bright that I have to close my eyes behind my sunglasses. But I still can’t escape the glare.
“You’re mad,” he says, misinterpreting my silence. “I get it. I’ll leave you alone. But I got you this, as a thank you, and didn’t want to leave it in the sun all day. Or have you trip on it.”
I try to figure out what his words mean. He got me something. But that seems much less important than the nauseous churn in my gut that teases at my throat. My skin feels damp and hot, but somehow also cold. The world shifts beneath my feet, and I rock on my heels, thinking I might fall over backwards.
“Ava? Are you okay?”
“I—” The sentence starts with a single word, and it ends with me tilting too far forward and emptying my stomach onto the Squid’s legs.