Chapter 60 Really Something Else
Really Something Else
It fucking hurt, all over. Even the slight movement of respiration ached unmercifully despite the softness wrapped around him, pulses of warmth at regular intervals stealing into the black void he had become, sinking a little deeper each time despite his fretful, motionless turning-away.
I’ve done enough. Let me rest.
Unfortunately, life seemed to have some sort of hold on his corpse. And that meant the Mad God did, too. Even in the floating darkness, the faintest echo of whispers rose. Temporarily muted by defeat and a Son’s physical weakness—tiny wisps of thought, nothing more.
Or maybe he was simply second-guessing himself, mistrusting his own mind. He’d often wondered if the god rested between neurons, waiting to hijack the spark of a thought. Or if he was somewhere in electricity itself, riding the most intimate of tiny lightnings.
Of course, Father said…
Ignatius. Soupy, half-conscious alarm flowered next to the spiked pain in his chest. He was aware of movement, cloth shifting.
“Easy,” someone said. “Easy, brother. All’s well, battle’s over.”
Except it never was. Not while a Son was breathing, and the sough of air into his abused lungs was cold, knifing tender tissues.
“He’s breathing on his own now, at least.” Another voice, male as the first but essentially different somehow, the Flame’s warmth threading through.
The pulse of the earth didn’t make Dreamers anew, it simply uncovered what was there from the beginning, burnishing hidden beauty. “A determined fellow.”
That was why the uncontrolled Flame turned Sons into barbecued hulks past even a lirai’s miraculous abilities to heal, even with the obedience of a Son’s flesh to the Dreamers. The glow simply showed what lay under a Son’s mask of humanity.
The fury, the twisting, and the corruption.
“I don’t think lack of determination has ever been this man’s problem.” Dry and cool, a Father’s voice. “We’ll wait outside. Call if he starts to thrash.”
No. Ignatius, something about him…
Erik was all but useless. He’d fucked up every way possible, from the very beginning, and now they wouldn’t let him close enough to—
The reminder hit him squarely, flooding every twitching muscle with urgency. He thrashed, his left fist hitting something solid before he was trapped, intangible bindings folding into place.
“Erik.” Calm, sure, and certain, a lirai’s command in a familiar, sweet, husky voice. “Calm down.”
It was her.
Consciousness flooded him as he went paradoxically limp.
Was it relief or blood, the copper against his tongue?
Maybe both, and it would hurt twice as much when they told him he was being posted elsewhere.
A Father would shake his head, a Younger would simply look solemn—don’t make a scene, brother. Spare her that, at least.
“Liv…” A cracked, choked moan.
“I’m here.” The healing pulse came again, startling in its intensity, burrowing past layers of grey shock and into bruised, regenerating flesh.
It settled on his back, high up on the left, sinking through the angry red mark that would show where he’d been stabbed yet again, a spear-tip sliding between ribs to pierce pericardium.
“Lie still, will you? The poison’s out, you’re healing, but the scar’ll tear if you keep moving. ”
He froze, lungs burning, and there was a soft sound of almost-annoyance. Sweet and low, for all its irritation, it still pulled every string in his body taut.
“I didn’t say to stop breathing, Erik.”
Air filtered back into his chest. It wasn’t cold anymore, and he didn’t hurt quite so much. A thin crescent of glare appeared before him, and he was trying to figure out how the god was attacking now when he realized it was his eyelids rising, slowly and painfully.
Liv’s face swam into view. She was still too thin, and shadows of yellow-green bruising lingered on her cheek, up into her hair—pulled back and braided tightly, for once, instead of a wild mess.
He found he liked it both ways.
Erik further found out he wasn’t in the dormitory.
Instead, he was in a lirai’s navy-blue, curtained bed, and shame boiled through him when he realized as much.
Still, Liv leaned anxiously over him, sweet soft mouth turned down at the corners, and he lost his breath for an entirely different set of reasons.
The oneiros glittered against her blue scoop-neck sweater. Another Son must have knitted the chain back together for her; Erik’s heart gave a funny twitch as if the spear’s point had found it again.
“It’s all right,” she said, finally. The room was utterly silent save for the soundless static of Sons standing guard beyond the baffle.
“Daniel says the hole downstairs is patched up and they won’t be able to get through again.
Ignatius is dead; they’re still trying to figure out if he did actually have a Control or was working alone.
Oh, and they’re looking for Jake. They also say you’re going to wake up worried, so I should reassure you.
” She paused, pale and thoughtful. “Not sure how reassuring I am, really, but there it is.”
He found his voice, cracked and disused. “Safe,” he rasped. “You? Safe?”
“I’m fine, you big lug.” A suspicious glitter filled those lovely dark-blue eyes, and she scrubbed at her lashes with fingertips, irritably.
“Dakshi’s up and moving around. Robert’s still in bed, but I visit him every afternoon.
He keeps apologizing; I keep telling him not to.
The Fathers are really upset it was one of them. ”
She said it as if the most immense betrayal possible wasn’t a big deal. A lirai’s forgiveness, extended without thought.
“Debt’s deep,” Erik husked. “Gets deeper all the time.”
“You’re going to have to explain that.” She sank back onto a chair pulled close to the bed.
“They think I’m crazy sleeping on the couch.
Well, except Sara, she says she’d do the same thing.
I’m running sweeps with Daniel—don’t try to get up, you’ll break all that repair work open, okay? Things are awful quiet now.”
It just means he’s planning something else.
“You’ve got that look,” she continued.
“What look?” The more he used his voice, the easier it left a dry, rasping throat. Pretty soon he’d be able to sing again, if they didn’t mind glass breaking every time he tried.
But if it expressed his gratitude, he’d give it a try.
“Like you’re getting ready to do something dumb and dangerous again.” She outright glared at him, hovering anxiously at the bedside. “Give it a rest, will you? I want you to recover.”
Then I will, beautiful. “Okay.” It was that simple. Sealed or not, he was going to do his best for her. It wouldn’t make up for anything, wouldn’t put a dent in what he owed.
But he was used to losing battles.
“Okay?” She eyed him nervously. The chair had been dragged from the suite’s out room. Liv rested her elbows on her knees, her head cocked, braided hair dangling over her shoulder. Icy winter sunshine filled the window. “Is that all you have to say?”
What else is there? “I’m sorry,” he managed, dismally aware it didn’t matter. “I should have realized it was Ignatius, I should’ve caught on sooner. I didn’t.”
“Oh, for the love of…” She shook her head, the braid bobbing. Obviously dissatisfied with his thickheadedness, next she’d order them to get the useless lump out of her bed and take him somewhere to recover.
Instead, she fixed him with yet another glare that was, he could not deny, immensely cheering to see. “You are really something else, Erik.”
“Is that a compliment?” He was feeling more alert by the moment. In a little while he’d be able to stand. When that was accomplished, he could fight again.
Still, he was hoping for a few minutes before the next crisis. She needed some rest.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” Liv sighed, tension draining from her slender shoulders before she stretched—hovering over a sickbed was hard on the back—and rubbed her palms together.
“We’re going to have to have a talk about this whole sealing thing, you know.
” A faint edge of pink crept into her cheeks, and she was suddenly very interested in the blanket over his chest.
Another pulse went through him; a lirai’s gift, given again. The power worked in a little deeper, and the cold sweat on him was a realization of just how close the sarnaki had been to ridding the world of one more Son of Ymre—and one precious, irreplaceable lirai.
“Uh,” Erik said, logic and coherence both fled. “Um…”
“Unless you don’t want to, in which case I’ll just be embarrassed but that never killed anyone, right?
” His lirai smoothed the edge of the indigo coverlet, velvet rasping sensitive fingertips.
“I mean, I figure it’s best if it’s you, and besides, being held down on an altar and almost stabbed makes a girl think, you know?
It’s probably trauma bonding but there’s a lot of that in this place.
Sara really needs a therapist, and my certification’s rusty but…
” She snuck a tiny glance at his face, and it struck him that, ridiculous as it might sound, his impossible, stubborn, beautiful lirai somehow thought he’d turn her down.
“Um,” he repeated. “It’s, ah, up to you. But I… I like you, Liv.” What did civilian males say in this situation? Of course, a normal wouldn’t find himself in a lirai’s bed after being stabbed with a sarnaki spear. “I mean, I like you. As… as a person.”
The flush mounted in her cheeks, and Erik was kicking himself for saying the absolute stupidest, most banal thing possible.
She cleared her throat, softly. “It’s not just that I’m, you know, a lirai? Because if it’s—”
“Is that what you think?” Erik sagged into the mattress. He wouldn’t mind getting free eventually; the damn thing was too soft. But at the moment, it cradled him nicely. “I think I was a goner the moment I knocked you out of your shoes, Liv.”
She searched his expression for a long, excruciating moment, as the hot blush in her cheeks faded.
Finally, she nodded; the oneiros flashed, a signal fire from a faraway hill.
The silence between them turned almost companionable, and for the first time he caught a glimpse of what she might look like when she truly relaxed.
It almost robbed him of breath yet again. Erik stared, memorizing her face, the slim column of her throat, the tender hollow at her temple and vulnerable notch between her collarbones, the curve of her wrist when she brushed at her forehead even though her hair was strictly confined.
“Well. Glad that’s sorted out. Oh, I have a question.
” His lirai straightened, her chin lifting, and her smile held all the forgiveness in the world.
“Can you get them not to haul me around like a sack of groceries? My ankle’s a lot better, but the Youngers keep trying to carry me everywhere.
That’s partly why I want you to get better.
I might be able to argue you into letting me walk. ”
“You can try.” Erik’s mouth answered independent of his brain, but it didn’t look like she minded.
In fact, she grinned, eyes sparkling, and the pounding of his almost-cracked heart was both terrifying and achingly sweet.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a list of reasons why I should, and another list of demands. ”
She didn’t glare or snap at him. Instead, his lirai looked relieved. “There you are,” she said, softly. “Good to have you back. Also, can I please go for a bit without being kidnapped again? Like, say, a whole week?”
He wondered how long he’d been out, decided that was a question better left for later along with all the others he didn’t have energy for at the moment. “Depends on how much you like getting kidnapped, beautiful.”
Then he was afraid he’d said the wrong thing, because she sobered again, watching him carefully. “I don’t mind if it’s you.” Quiet and matter-of-fact. “How funny is that?”
“Hilarious.” I don’t deserve to be anywhere near you, Liv.
But I’m glad you disagree. His eyelids decided he’d had enough, began to creep downward.
“Give me a couple hours to get back up to speed.” The god’s venomous whisper retreated, probably because Erik’s lirai sent another tidal flood of power, this one reaching all the way down to his skeleton and surging outward again.
Reshaping him, he hoped. Making him somehow, in some way, a little better. A little less damned.
“Take it slow.” The chair creaked slightly as she moved, and her fingers threaded warm and soft between his bigger, callus-rasping ones. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
If it was a lie, it was a kind one. Even the ghost of the whispers retreated, barred by her presence as Erik’s eyes closed.
The Mad God never ceased planning, though, and his hatred for all Dreamers would be sharpened afresh. The god would return, creeping through cracks, sending his minions, corrupting and claiming.
When it did, Erik would be ready.
“After all,” she continued, “we still have to go on a real date. Getting tied up and stabbed doesn’t count.”
“Glad to hear it.” His eyes simply wouldn’t stay open any longer, so he closed them and settled a little deeper in the mattress, willing his body to heal. “How about dinner instead?”
finis