Chapter 25
twenty-five
The spirits cradled her. They spoke to her, in reedy little voices, no longer cricketlike but the soft murmur of whispered secrets. They told her things.
We are the majir, they crooned. And you are one of us. Let us heal you.
They drew the hurt out of her body while she rested, unthinking, in a deep black nest. This was a forgiving darkness, not like the small closet in the cellar where—
Don’t think on that, they said. Not yet.
They were right. That was an Unpleasant Thing, and she’d had enough Unpleasant Things to last a lifetime.
But something did nag at her. Something she needed to remember. Something important.
Someone.
Was it Lucy? No, her friend was gone. Her grief leaked free, soaking the pillows, and the voices whispered her into deep restful trance-sleep while they worked, insubstantial fingers plucking at her flesh.
Gradually, other voices became audible. She listened from the darkness.
“She’ll be all right.” Big and gruff, a man, somehow familiar. He smelled of fur and honey, ice and silver light. “Don’t worry. The majir say she’ll be just fine.”
“She’d better be.” Julia, sharp white toothsnap edging every word. “She’s our shaman.”
“Nobody’s disputing that.” Cullen, that was his name. She could see him now, standing near a window, rain-washed winterlight filtering through. The feathers in his hair fluttered; his breath fogged the glass.
Julia was next to a bed where a small pale shape lay. Sophie saw the tangled mop of dark, limp curls, and she knew they were hers. Invisible, her essential self stood at the foot of a single bed, watching the brightly colored quilt covering her body’s slowly rising and falling chest.
The face under the limp, unwashed hair was thin and terribly bruised.
The majir covered the bed-bound body in a fine network of ghostly silver light, their faces turned inward, long insubstantial fingers stroking.
They were coaxing something from inside the body, a kind of light and heat, encouraging the glow to grow across the skin, bind everything together.
A shadow fell across the door, and Julia glanced up, dark rings under her eyes and the pale streak in her hair glaring. “How is he?”
“Hard to tell.” Eric hunched almost-defensively, touching the door frame with two fingers. “He doesn’t shift back, even while tranquilized. It takes two shamans and Brenn to hold him down. Brenn’s the only one he won’t kill.”
“I wish she’d wake up.” Julia sighed. “She could bring him out.”
“I dunno.” Eric peered at the bed, the quilt, Sophie’s slow-breathing body. “I haven’t seen anything go through upir like that since…”
“Since Dad.” Julia’s tone softened. “He still thinks it’s his fault.”
“It’s Zach. Of course he does.” Eric’s gaze rose, touched Cullen’s broad back. “How much longer?”
“As long as it takes.” The other shaman turned away from the window. “She had six broken ribs, a shattered arm, a concussion, skull fractures—should I go on? She’s shaman, so the majir are healing her directly. It takes time.”
“He doesn’t have much left.” Eric sighed, slumping wearily against the doorframe.
Itching spread along Sophie’s not-body. She was standing outside herself, yes, and she realized she should be faintly alarmed by this.
“I know.” Cullen’s broad face set, the feathers in his hair fluttering afresh. “But if it comes down to losing him or losing a shaman…”
“Stop it.” Julia touched Sophie’s slack senseless hand, and the not-Sophie standing at the end of the bed felt a faint tingling warmth in her not-fingers. “Just get better, Sophie. We need you.”
“They’re doing all they can.” Eric turned away, sharply. “I’m going back down. Maybe if I cook something, he’ll eat.”
Sophie watched as the bruising on her colorless, unconscious face retreated, the swelling easing as if by magic.
Maybe it was, she thought, slowly. With werewolves, vampires, spirits, shaman—magic couldn’t be far behind, could it?
Zach. Something had happened to him. She strained to remember, the room going fuzzy and distant.
It was an Unpleasant Thing. She waited for the majir to tell her she didn’t want to see, waited for her own brain to shiver away from a bad memory.
It didn’t happen.
He’d found her somehow. It was funny, the memory kept slipping and sliding inside her, as if it hadn’t found its proper place yet—Zach crouching before the vampires, snarling. It probably hadn’t occurred to him to leave her to Marc’s tender mercies.
No. She knew it hadn’t.
Had he gotten her out of there? How?
Now he was in trouble. Something was wrong with him.
The majir crowded close.
We cannot force you, they said. You can accept our help, and be truly a shaman. We will aid you, and you will hear us. You will be part of the Tribes. There is no going back.
Well, that was a laugh, wasn’t it? There had never been any return, for her. Not since she’d married Marc, thinking he was Prince Charming instead of a beast. Everything followed from that one horrible, inevitable, irreversible mistake.
The room solidified. The spirits had stilled, their quicksilver smoke hanging over her body, oddly frozen. Bruises retreated visibly, the swelling receded, and the body on the bed stirred.
How strange. I don’t feel that at all.
Odder still to think she could take two steps in some new, barely discernible direction, leave the room. There might be somewhere else, after all. Werewolves, vampires, shamans—why not heaven? Or hell?
She could be done with the whole thing, with a life spent cowering in fear. It didn’t seem so difficult.
But there was Zach. He’d kidnapped her, and saved her life. He’d found her, and it sounded like he’d killed a lot of vampires to do it, too. What else had he done? How had he gotten her out of that cellar? Was he hurt?
Dying, maybe?
She hesitated. The spirits were silent. Just when she’d gotten used to their chirping all the time.
How on earth was she supposed to get back in her body?
Just as she thought it, the majir turned away from the bed.
They streamed toward her; Sophie found herself reaching out with her own insubstantial hands to clasp theirs.
They felt warm and tangible, just like real skin, and for a moment all their faces flushed with warmth, their mouths becoming little Os of surprise.
A moment of soft confusion, heat folding around her like the blooming of an orchid, and she sank into hot darkness full of thudding.
For a moment she panicked, thinking she was back in the cellar again. But her eyelids snapped up, the light striking to the center of her head, and she realized the pounding was her own pulse, a heart working steadily, marking off time.
Her throat burned. Her body ached, her head and ribs most of all. The sheets rasped against her skin like heat on a fresh sunburn. Her scalp crawled; she could smell herself, sick and unwashed under a rush of musk and queer silvery perfume.
Dizziness poured through her. Then someone was there, a gentle arm lifting her shoulders.
A cup hit her lips, liquid filled her mouth, and she was so thirsty she drank until a burning sourness reached her stomach, made her eyes water.
Deep retching coughs pulled at her tender ribs; she flinched and tried to escape the liquid still poured relentlessly past her teeth.
“Easy there,” Cullen rumbled.
“Goddamn.” Julia was the one holding her up, but the bear-man leaned close, kept pouring whatever was in the cup past despite Sophie’s spluttering. “That smells foul.”
It did. And it burned.
“It’s good for you.” Cullen’s eyes twinkled. “Want some?”
“No, thanks.” Julia’s long silken hair brushed Sophie’s face. “Shaman brews. Worse than distemper.”
“What would you know, cub?” The bear-man grinned. “Hello, Sophie. Glad to see you among us again.”
Whatever he had sloshed down her throat burned and smelled like rocket fuel and wet seaweed, with a healthy dose of damp fur and nose-stinging mint. It was like gasoline toothpaste, for God’s sake, and he kept tipping the cup until she spluttered again, splashing the dregs over her face.
“Don’t drown her, you moron!” Julia snatched her away, Sophie’s body limp as a rag doll. Her muscles were all unstrung, the heat of the drink filling her belly and exploding outward. Unsteady warmth, as if a wire had run through the middle of her bones and started glowing.
The girl held her up, hugging her close. She was warm, and her musk-perfume oddly comforting.
Sophie coughed. The majir gathered, watching solemnly. They had done what they could for now.
The rest was up to her.
Her lips were chapped. She licked them, a residue of bitterness coating her tongue. Her mouth tingled, numbness slowly receding.
“You need more.” Cullen straightened reluctantly.
“For Christ’s sake—” Julia didn’t think much of this notion.
“Quiet, cubling.” The bear-man rumbled deep in his chest.
Sophie found her voice. “Z-Zach. Where’s Zach?”
They both went completely still.
“Just relax,” Julia finally said, steadying her. “Shaman-healing’s hard on the body. You were in bad shape.”
“Zach.” It was hard to sound firm instead of querulous. “Where is he?”
“In a safe place.” Cullen set the mug down on the nightstand, then flowed to his full height—but slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. “Where he can’t hurt anyone or himself.”
“Aren’t you going to tell her the rest of it?” Julia didn’t seem even faintly daunted by the big man’s quelling glance. “He can’t shift back. He’s gone into the rage. We have to—”
“That’s enough.” Cullen actually glowered, his forehead wrinkling thunderously. “We have to make sure this shaman doesn’t die of shock and join the earthbound spirits, that’s what we have to do. If you can’t shut your mouth, Carcajou, I’ll—”
“Leave her alone.” Even to herself Sophie sounded tired. “Where’s Zach? I need to see him.”
“You can’t even stand up,” the bear-man pointed out. “The majir have done what they can. You need food, and rest, and—”