Chapter 6 #2
“Not if I have any say about it, Sánge,” she whispered over him.
She slid her hand down his throat and on to his breastbone. She pictured his shoulders, the mangled arms connected to them, and the breadth of his chest with all its whorls of curls resisting the draw of her fingers.
“Shh,” she exhaled softly, cutting off the building protest crawling up Reule’s larynx as his glittering eyes watched her small hand trail almost sensuously over the body of another male.
It was an insane and ridiculous impulse to feel threatened by an unconscious male, especially over the touch of a woman he had no claim on whatsoever!
But the logic failed to settle the territorial raising of his hackles as her fingertips ran down the center of Chayne’s bare belly.
“What’s she doing?” Delano asked in confusion.
“I don’t know!” Reule thought back in a growl of intensity.
One hand became two and Reule had to grit his teeth to keep from growling aloud this time as he watched her stroke her fingertips across to Chayne’s hips and begin moving down his legs.
She didn’t stop until she reached his knees.
Then she grasped his shins just beneath those joints and just above the terrible damage done by spikes and neglect.
The smell was still overpowering in spite of the cleanup job she’d done, and Reule wondered how she could bear being so close to it for so long.
She was a surprising woman, his kébé was.
He could hardly look at her without feeling a sense of wonder.
He still didn’t understand what she was trying to accomplish. She wasn’t even watching what she was doing. Reule relaxed though, feeling better now that she’d settled her hands in a safe, nonsexual place. He sought briefly for Chayne, making sure he was still well asleep.
He only looked back at Mystique when Delano suddenly reached out to grab him by his biceps and shook him hard. He followed his Assassin’s speechless gesture to the small hands of his kébé.
There, right before their astounded eyes, Chayne’s rotting sinew slowly changed from putrid black, brown, and green to the fresh colors of pink, healthy flesh.
Reule looked up at the small, pale face of the stranger he’d brought into his city, into his home, and wondered what star had shined on him that he should find such an extraordinary gift in so incongruous a place as a rotting attic.
“Lord and Lady,” Delano whispered, unable to help himself.
Reule didn’t even look at his Packmate. He could feel Delano’s astounding gratitude.
This toward a female Chayne’s brother had wanted to kill under an hour ago.
Instead, Reule remained focused purely on Mystique’s face.
There was one rule every ’pathically inclined being knew as well as they knew their names: When it came to the use of great psychic power, there was always a great price to be paid.
For himself, it wasn’t so much the telepathy and empathy that demanded a price.
Those were actually very natural, only as taxing as running in short bursts might be.
Eventually it would wear him down if he didn’t rest, but it’d take the equivalent of miles and miles of telepathy before he reached that point.
His emanation power was another story entirely.
It taxed him twice, sometimes thrice as quickly as his other abilities and took as much energy not to use as it did to use.
It burned his candle at both ends, so to speak, and anything outside of the normal daily use he was accustomed to became an exercise in fortitude.
After the unexpected telemetric episode that had taken her over, Mystique was already worn. It was still too soon after her ordeal in the wilderness for this healing to be safe, but he couldn’t call a halt to what was likely the only way to save Chayne’s life.
“A true naturopathic ability,” Delano telepathed in awe. “Reule, there hasn’t been a naturopath in this tribe since before your parents were born. Where in hell did she come from? This is no Sánge woman.”
“No. She has no telepathic ability and no real empathy outside of the usual sensitivity. All Sánge have both. No, she is something else … something I’ve never known in my experience nor heard of in our history.”
Then again, their history had been lost in war. All he had of it was what little remained of their tribal library and the oral stories his parents had handed down to him before their deaths. This was the experience of his Pack-mates as well.
Reule heard a soft squeak and he quickly looked back at Mystique. Had she grown paler in the past few minutes? He took in the lines of white suddenly etched into the corners of her mouth. It was pain. She was in pain.
“Kébé …” He spoke gently, not wishing to startle her.
When she didn’t respond, he carefully reached out to take hold of her shoulder.
Before he touched her, though, he made very certain he’d blocked himself from all of her psychic feedback.
The last thing the Pack needed was to be caught up again in the backlash of her unexpected power.
He grasped her, shook her minutely. To his astonishment, she violently threw him off and shifted her hands up to Chayne’s shoulders without ever once opening her eyes.
It was when she leaned forward that he saw the stain spreading through her skirt.
The silver had darkened with saturation from a fluid he couldn’t identify.
He could only assume Chayne had shed body fluids onto her.
He glanced down at the wounds on the Prime Tracker, which were still open and raw, but completely free of any sign of decay.
And, unless he was hallucinating, the pulverized bones that had left his legs bent and deformed were now lying straight as if they weren’t broken at all.
Reule looked up from the floor when he sensed the rest of his Packmates coming to stand over the unbelievable tableau.
It was a picture of hope, of a future for a fallen comrade they’d all but given up on.
Her telemetric ability had proven that Chayne had given up on himself as well.
They stood and blinked back emotion as the diminutive outlander woman handed them a miracle.
For Mystique, the next few minutes were little more than a haze of red swirling around in her brain.
It swept into her nose every time she breathed in, turning her brain redder and redder.
Her body had long since gone numb and disappeared.
All there was now was Chayne’s body. It had been through five days of utter hell, but other than that it was a good body, a strong one fortified with healthy muscle and unbelievable determination.
He’d fought her at first, demanding release and comfort instead of help.
She’d spent precious time and energy explaining something to him she barely understood herself.
He made her swear he wouldn’t be left half a man.
She had sworn. Now he called her an angel, sent by the Lord and Lady, and at last lent his spirit to his own healing instead of fighting her.
“Angel?”
“Yes, Chayne?”
“Who sent you?”
“Your Prime sent me. He loves you very much. He refused to fail you.”
“Angel, what did I do to deserve this miracle?”
“You survived, Chayne, when others wouldn’t have.”
“Reule would have survived.”
“Yes. He is extraordinary, your Prime.”
“You have feelings for him. How does a man earn the fondness of an angel?”
“Hush, Chayne. Focus on your healing. Your loved ones anxiously await your recovery.”
Mystique concentrated on the connection of her hands to his skin.
She’d learned while healing his legs that it was best to envision a pair of tubes, one in the seat of each palm, and each was used to draw the putrescence and fever into herself and away from the raw wounds.
She took it all, as best she could, drawing it off and away.
She knew it worked by instinct alone, and knew when she couldn’t push herself an inch further before she had to switch tasks.
Mending came next. His bones were ground to splintered shards, and she was amazed none had found a way into his blood system to shoot like a knife into his heart or brain.
He’d been luckier than he might ever know.
She shook her head as the redness within began to burn, as though she was looking too long at the brightness of the sun.
Her face, arms, and legs were burning. But she’d sworn to Chayne he’d be whole again, and she’d at least see him mended to a point that he could carry on for himself.
Nothing would be perfect. His bones wouldn’t be fully healed and his wounds wouldn’t be closed, but she’d leave his skeleton positioned for healing and she’d instructed Reule and Delano on dressing the wounds.
It would be enough until she could find the strength to return to him.
As for right now, her strength was …
Gone.
Reule had already gotten up and moved to the opposite side of Chayne, so he was on his knees braced behind Mystique with his hands hovering close in case she should need him.
This time he opened himself to her in increments and very carefully tried to feel his way into the strange confusion of her thoughts.
It was as though she’d put herself into a dream state, and to his frustration all he could see and feel of her was a bright red haze of interference.
“Reule!”
Reule jerked free of his search in order to attend the alert of his Prime Blade.
He glanced at Rye and then followed his eyes down to Mystique.
Reule watched for a moment of incomprehension as that sickly fluid began to drip onto the floor near his knee.
Puzzled, he traced it back to the sleeve of her dress.
To her elbow. To her forearm. She began to sway just as he realized the fluid was being generated by her body, not Chayne’s.
In fact, right before his eyes, he saw two wounds spiral open in her flesh, spitting out more of the evil sickness until they were weeping freely.
Understanding struck him like lightning, and he grabbed her seconds before she fell back.
All he could take in at that moment was the image of her saturated skirt.
He cradled her limp body in a single arm and grabbed her skirts, jerking them back until he could see the horror of his suspicions realized on her shins.
Two ugly sores almost as wide and as long as the bones themselves had appeared.
These oozed as well, and Reule felt a moment of horror unlike anything he’d known since the moment he’d discovered the bodies of his beloved parents.
She’d been kneeling all this time, his mind cried out.
She’d made that sound of pain, he’d heard it, and so she felt every single moment spent kneeling on the terrible wounds.
She’d done it so she could move on and take even more pain into herself.
Now she was like a lifeless doll in his arms, her breath rasping in and out heavily and her skin pale and clammy.
Her beautifully dressed hair was a touch of perfection on a body now riddled with sickness.
Reule gathered her close, lending her his warmth just as he’d done when they’d first met.
Why had he allowed this? Would she die now, having taken the poison of Chayne’s body into her own?
Had he sat by and willingly allowed her to trade the value of her life away …
because he’d valued the life of another above her?
“By the Lady, I pray not,” he whispered against her wan cheek.
“My Prime,” Amando said very quietly, reaching to lay a hand of support carefully on Reule’s shoulder.
“Don’t despair. If she is a naturopath, she will heal very quickly.
She needs only to rest. My grandmother was one of the last naturopaths in Sánge history.
I grew up on stories about her ability. They heal, but their bodies and minds have a safety valve that shuts them down if they try to do too much.
Naturopaths cannot hurt themselves healing.
It would be a contradiction in nature’s intentions. ”
“You call this not hurting?” Reule hissed, indicating her punctured arms and legs and the filth of poison they were shedding.
“It’s called mimicking, Reule,” Amando said carefully. “The healer’s body mimics the patient’s wounds to provide an exit point or points through which all the absorbed toxins are released. It’s a good thing. If it didn’t happen, the toxins would stay inside her and kill her.”
“Enough!” Reule surged to his feet, his small burden cradled in his arms. “I’m taking her to my bath. The rest of you can see to Chayne.”
“Shall I send Para to you?” Rye asked as Reule strode toward the exit. His. Prime stopped and shot a glare over his shoulder.
“What in hell for?” he demanded.
“Oh … uh … nothing. My mistake,” Rye said quickly, holding up his palms submissively.
Reule grunted and stormed out of the door.