Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
“Oh, Jesus.”
A hand beneath his neck, threading into the dirt and hair at his nape.
Of course an angel would have D’Arcy’s face—
“Everard,” the angel breathed. “Everard.”
Their hand blazed, hot as fire. A demon, then. Slightly more accurate.
Everard giggled. It came out as seizes of his chest, with no sound. His heart beat like a trapped bird.
There came an oath: buzzy, chopped-up syllables. Russian? A light source to Everard’s left was abruptly blocked; he felt the impression of great weight upon the earth.
“He is beyond speech?” This voice was softer. “Delirious?”
“Little wonder. Everard, love, look at me.”
Would an angel demand this of him? Surely there was no need.
He tried anyway, but to open his eyelids would be like parting a scar. He shook his head, had no idea if he was successful beyond a dizzy spin of black.
“No, no, it’s all right, shh.”
Wetness touched his parchment for lips, slipped over the rough crags of his tongue, into his seizing throat. It burned like a stab; he choked.
“Enough,” the second voice said. “It will have to come in drips.”
Then he was undoubtedly being lifted; he’d left his stomach behind on the ground and was too tired to pick it up.
Another curse, throaty this time, much closer. “I did not think they’d hurt him. He is skin and bones.”
“He needs the sea, like a selkie.” A hand trailed over the crust of his hair, down.
Everard felt a last rumble go through him, infinitely preferable to the earth’s trembling: Vitaliy’s quiet speech, doubled; vibration and sound against his ear.
“If he dies, Lieutenant, I am turning you in to the Navy.”
“If he dies,” D’Arcy said, “I’ll go myself.”