Chapter Twenty-Seven
Andrew felt his emotions churn as Isla’s helpless, agonized eyes locked onto his.
Beside him, George shook with the effort. His jaw was locked in concentration, sweat running in rivulets down his temples. The green light blazing from his hands had grown almost blinding.
“Keep holding her,” George gasped as Isla’s body tried to thrash.
The light flared violently. Andrew blinked against it, the brilliance searing afterimages into his vision.
When it faded, Isla’s skin no longer burned with the angry bronze-red of agony.
The wound had changed—her shoulder and arm were now pale and waxen, the texture leathery and stiff.
He swallowed hard. The sight made his heart ache. She had endured so much. Too much.
George’s palm gave one final pulse before the light guttered out. His chest heaved. “She’ll keep her arm and live,” he whispered hoarsely. Then his eyes rolled back and his knees buckled.
“George!” Andrew stood but couldn’t reach his friend, who was on the other side of the bed from him and Edmund. George crumpled sideways, striking his head sharply against the iron bed frame with a sickening crack.
Blood immediately welled along his hairline, a dark line running down his temple.
“Blast it!” Edmund was already moving.
“Get me that chair!” Edmund barked, jerking his chin toward the wheelchair Isla had been brought in. He and the nurse maneuvered George into it, his head lolling, face ashen. The glow that had surrounded him moments before was gone, leaving him looking hollowed out and drained.
“I’ll see to him,” Edmund said firmly, gripping the chair handles. “You stay with her.”
Andrew nodded, still breathing hard, his pulse racing with adrenaline and fear. He looked from George’s slumped form to Isla’s still figure, his heart twisting for both of them.
“Thank you,” he heard Isla murmur quietly. It seemed she was unaware that her healer couldn’t hear her.
“Yes, thank you, both of you,” Andrew said to Edmund, who gave him a short nod before pushing the chair swiftly toward the corridor.
When the door swung shut behind them, the room felt impossibly still. Andrew reached out with a trembling hand, brushing a damp lock of hair from Isla’s forehead. Her skin was cool now, her pulse faint but steady beneath his fingers.
“You’re safe,” he whispered, the words more a prayer than assurance.