Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Lydia
Ifrown at the ceiling, watching as the cracks in which the crystal has formed slowly widen.
Only by an inch or so, nothing too dramatic.
Stones don’t come tumbling down from the ceiling or anything dangerous like that.
It still freaks me out a bit, mainly because it’s followed by a rolling, rumbling sound, like what you’d hear at the beach when a great wave of water is rushing toward you.
Rock dust sparkles in the light, looking like glitter.
Or snow. I raise a hand to catch some. Unfortunately, they aren’t soft like snow.
They actually feel more like sandpaper, chafing my skin when I close my hand into a fist. I try blowing them away, even as more land on my hair and catch in my eyelashes.
I take a hasty step back, but there’s dust falling from the ceiling everywhere I look and nowhere to shelter.
I cup a hand over my mouth and nose, suddenly thinking about how dust gives me asthma, and I grab my torch in my other hand, intending to beat a hasty exit out of here, right as more movement catches my attention.
There’s something in the darkness, something big. Something…person shaped.
“Killan?” I’m still trying to work out if it’s really him as he comes charging into the circle of my light. I don’t have time to say anything else before he wraps all three arms around me.
My heart leaps into my mouth, and for one wild moment I think he’s going to kiss me again. But his momentum doesn’t slow, and my feet leave the floor as he pushes me backward, slamming us against the cave wall.
The air whooshes out of my lungs with the force, and pain radiates along my back, where the uneven rock digs into my hips. But all that is forgotten as black water erupts from the ceiling.
Killan
Water slams against my back, and I hunch further over, shielding Lydia from the impact. Stalactites are torn from the ceiling, raining down on us as if they too are water, and the stalagmites are crushed under their combined weight.
I shield my head with a hand, clutching Lydia to my chest with my other two.
I think she screams. Or mayhaps I only imagine that she does.
It is impossible to hear anything over the water, as it rushes through the newly expanded crack in the ceiling.
It is already as high as my calves, and then something much harder strikes me, and my knees nearly give way as pain lances through my skull.
I keep upright by sheer force of will, my head spinning and water dragging on my legs like a thousand hands desperate to pull us under.
It stops as fast as it started, and Lydia catches me as I keel over.
She is not strong enough to hold me up, though, and she staggers under my weight.
I tell myself to straighten. I tell myself to step away from her, but nothing happens.
It is as if my thoughts get lost on their way down to my legs.
“Killan? Killan!” Lydia is breathless. Water has glued her pink hairs to the sides of her face and throat. For a second, it looks like blood, but only because my vision is blurry. Was it a stalactite that hit my head, or a stone, finally dislodged from the ceiling by the deluge of water?
“Come on, big guy,” Lydia coaxes, wedging a shoulder under one of my arms as leverage. “Get your feet under you. Come on. Stand up. You’ll drown if you fall over.” She tries using one of her legs to maneuver my feet straight and nearly loses her hold on me.
“It is alright,” I tell her, but I do not think she understands what I say, because her brow wrinkles in confusion.
Did her translator somehow break? That is impossible. Which means…I try talking again, and this time I notice how unmanageable my tongue is. Much too large for my mouth. Or is my mouth much too small for my tongue?
“Come on!” Lydia orders in her I am scudding angry voice. And it is so exactly like Lydia to be angry that I somehow get my legs to start working again until I am standing on my own two feet.
I sway, but catch myself against the cave wall, grabbing at the uneven stone until I find a handhold.
The water is as high as my knees now, which means it is high up Lydia’s thighs. She does little to acknowledge its presence though, studying my face as though trying to memorize every one of my scales.
“Fuck, Killan.” Her shirt is torn at the shoulder. Her cheeks are pale, and her eyes wide. “You’ve got blood—” She uses her hand to wipe it away, and winces, evidently concerned by what she sees.
“I am well,” I attempt to say, speaking slowly and carefully, and this time she must understand me because she lets out a humourless laugh.
“The only reason why I’m not yelling at you for being so fucking reckless is because you’re most certainly not okay.
” She forces a smile. I know it is forced because it reminds me of Roan’s first smiles, when he was trying to replicate the Human emotion.
“We need to get out of here. Do you think you can walk?”
I nod, which is a terrible idea. It sends a fresh wave of pain through my skull. Blood, I think, must be what is blurring my vision. It is dripping down my forehead into my eyes. But head wounds always bleed a lot. That does not mean they are serious.
I would tell Lydia this, if I thought I could say so many words and not jumble them together. In the end, Lydia grabs her light and leaves me standing there, propped against the wall, as she wades through the water, searching for the exit.
Everything looks different, half underwater, half washed away. Only the largest of the stalactites and stalagmites remain, and the once-dry cave looks nearly ready to be seeded with algae.
I do not know how long Lydia is gone. I might have passed out, except that I am still standing when she returns, my forehead resting against the cold rock.
“Come on. The way back is over there.” And she nods to her left, wrapping an arm around my waist, as if intending to help me walk, despite our size difference. Despite the fact that if I were to fall, I could easily drag her under the water with me.
That gets my feet moving, and I follow her directions to the adjoining cave.
It has flooded too, but there is a section of ground near the back that is high enough to have remained fairly dry, and it is there that I finally let myself drop to my knees.
I crawl the last few feet and press my back to the wall, cramming my shoulder against a column in an attempt to stop myself from sliding sideways.
Lydia
Killan closes his eyes, and I’m scared he’s passed out.
But he doesn’t slump sideways or fall over, and when I check his temperature, he mumbles something under his breath, too softly for me to hear but proof he’s still awake, at least for the moment.
He doesn’t look good. There’s a cut across his brow that drips blood into his eyes.
But it’s not that which has me worried, since the cut doesn’t look too deep, thanks to the protection of his scales.
It’s the lump on top of his head that I’m concerned about. It’s about half the size of my fist. His scales must have absorbed some of the impact, but they’ve cracked and stretched to accommodate the swelling underneath.
If he were Human, he’d probably be dead.
If he hadn't shielded me from the worst of the deluge, I’d probably be dead.
Fuck. Fuck! I sit back on my heels, glancing around at the mess, trying to comprehend what happened.
This cave isn’t nearly so bad, but most of the floor is flooded, and debris floats on the surface—pieces of rock, broken shards of crystals, snapped and splintered stalactites.
Even some of my clothes, which I make a grab for as they drift by.
In all the chaos, I forgot about my duffle bag. It must have gotten ruined, or maybe I left it unzipped. Either way, my clothes and food are scattered across the waterlogged floor of two caves.
Thank God, I managed to grab the light. Otherwise, we’d be fucked.
I don’t understand what happened. One second, everything was fine. The next was utter madness. And Killan…he risked his life to save me and is suffering the consequences.
His eyes are flickering under his double lids, and I lean closer to listen to his breathing—to see if it’s raspy or waterlogged, but it sounds clear.
In fact, he’s breathing the deep and long breaths of sleep.
Hopefully that’s a good sign—that he didn’t fall unconscious but that he fell asleep.
Sleep is healing. Sleep hopefully means he isn’t in too much pain.
Using the hem of my T-shirt, I cautiously dab at his cut. It’s already clotting, but I don’t have any disinfectant with which to clean it properly. I don’t actually have anything of much use, and the few pieces of spare clothing I’ve managed to capture are too wet to use as towels or bedding.
I spread them out on what little high ground remains clear with the ludicrous hope that they’ll dry. My hands are shaking, and I vaguely wonder if I’m going into shock. But I don’t have the energy to worry about myself, not when Killan nearly got himself killed.
What the hell was he doing down here, anyway?
Following me? Even though I’d told him not to?
Of course he didn’t listen. He never listens.
When he gets an idea, he’s too stubborn to consider the possibility that maybe there’s a better way.
He bosses Sorin and Roan around, expecting them to do whatever he says.
And I bet he thought he could come down here and boss me around too.
“You bloody fool,” I scold, but I keep my voice soft so as not to disturb him. “You should’ve stayed away.”
Or I never should’ve run away.
It’s a sobering thought, and one I don’t linger on.
Instead, I wade back into the water, returning to the scene of the crime—not because I want to risk getting hit by another tsunami, but because I want to see if I can find any sealed food that might be floating in the water.
Killan’s going to need food to help regain his strength for the walk back home.
I’m not strong enough to carry him, and there’s absolutely no way I can haul him up the three-story ladder.
Maybe I could leave him here and run back to the house for Roan and Sorin. But it’s quite a distance, and I don’t want to risk abandoning Killan for any length of time, not when there’s a chance he’s concussed.
Indecision gnaws at my stomach as I hunt through the debris for any of my missing stuff.
As much as I’m being brave (or maybe this is actually called being stupid) I stay clear of the exact location where the water burst through the ceiling.
Where there’d once been several delicate veins of crystal, there’s a gaping hole several feet wide.
And when I stand at the right angle, I can kind of see up into the cave above.
It’s empty of water, and from what little I can glimpse of the rock up there, it’s been worn smooth.
I even find a small piece of crystal in the water, which is pretty enough despite it having recently tried to kill Killan and me, to pocket as…a macabre souvenir? Evidence of our near death? Proof of our survival?
What the hell was that, anyway? A freak accident? A simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? It’s not like caves are collapsing every other day. If they were, the planet would’ve fallen in on itself, and the brothers never would’ve built their farm underground.
Still, guilt is a hard lump in my chest, so large it’s difficult to breathe around. Killan never would’ve gotten hurt if he hadn’t followed me down here.
The thought of something worse happening to him causes the air to stick in my throat, and I’ve got to close my eyes for a moment and force myself to inhale or else I might stop breathing entirely.
It’s not only my hands that are shaking; it’s my entire body.
So I do what I always do when I’m feeling like this—overwhelmed by my extraordinary penchant for selfishness and nearly undone with worry for a man I’m determined not to care for.
I channel my guilt into productivity: rescuing resources, monitoring Killan as he sleeps, and drying my clothes.
When he wakes, I want to be fully prepared.
He’s done so much for me. Now it’s my turn to help him.