43. Dark Dawn
43
Dark Dawn
Theron
Even before he awakened, he knew something was wrong. Suffocating, relentless fear seeped into his dreamless sleep.
A clatter beside him jolted him fully awake.
Go wake her up. Now!
The cold, nocturnal voice had Theron sit upright in his chair.
His stone inkpot lay on the floor, its contents pooling like blood.
He blinked, his heart racing, disoriented that he wasn’t in his bed, realizing that he’d fallen asleep on his desk while staring at Calliste’s divorce papers and thinking about their kiss and a hundred other things that happened the previous night.
Still groggy, he glanced at the silver thread wrapped around his hand—the one he had stolen from her—and at the empty glass of Hellenixian wine. Then he frowned at the inkpot on the floor. How did it fall just now? It was out of my reach.
He rose, still wearing the green tunic from the night before, and shook his head in disbelief at his disheveled appearance. “Gods, Theron, look at the state of you,” he scolded himself just before an intense chill swept through the air, as if a wave of frost rolled over his chamber, making his hackles rise.
Wake Calliste. Wake her up. Hurry!
Before he even had time to process the words, a faraway scream echoed down the corridor and he was running—running—running, sword in his hand, whipped by hot, primal fear.
Gaiane never screamed.
The door to Kalias’ room was thrown open.
Theron raced inside and almost collided with Chrysantos.
“I was just about to come get you,” his sentinel stammered, wide-eyed, his armor streaked with blood. “I don’t know what happened—”
“What is this blood?” Theron’s gaze shot to Kalias’ bed.
“It’s not the prince!” Gaiane had a frantic look on her face. “He’s still asleep. He’s fine! It’s Calliste…”
Only then did he see Calliste on the floor. The front of her tunic was a torn, bloodied mess. Her emerald pendant was pale like ash.
He dropped to his knees beside her, the nightmare of another woman bleeding to death because of him throwing him back seven years.
She was still breathing, barely.
In her hand, she clutched her knife, the same one he gave her back last night, its blade still spotless despite all the blood on her.
Her chest. Gods. He swung his head at Chrysantos, but saw only a look full of horrified incomprehension.
“I heard nothing.” Chrysantos’ face was white. “It was just like any other night. I didn’t know until Gaiane came in.”
“Calliste?” Theron leaned in over her face, feeling a thin flutter of breath. “Can you hear me?” Wake her up . He remembered the words. Is she asleep? He straightened, his rational mind emerging. “She’s wounded,” he growled. “Doesn’t matter how right now. She needs help.”
Argyros ran through the door, followed by Lykos.
“Argyros, get Panakeios!” Theron barked. “I don’t care what he’s doing, I want him here immediately!”
Argyros spun on his heel and bolted out of the chamber.
Lykos raced to his side, his eyes widening as he scanned Calliste’s injury. “Stretchers,” he said. “We need stretchers to carry her to where Panakeios can treat her.” Then he stilled as his eyes landed on the torn skin of her chest. “Gods,” he gasped. “This wound. Doesn’t it remind you of…”
Theron fixed him with a glare. “Of what?”
“That girl in Petrakelis Passage.”
Theron stared at the ragged wound. “It looks like someone ripped open her chest. How could they have sneaked in without Chrysantos hearing anything?”
Lykos said something in reply, but his words were muted as the cold, exasperated voice sounded in Theron’s ear again. Wake her up, damn it. Physically. Shake her awake. I cannot do it—my touch is deadly. If you don’t do it, she’ll die.
Theron tensed, then gently shook Calliste, even if it didn’t make any sense to him. “Calliste? Wake.”
She was getting paler. Blood soaked her robe further.
“This is madness,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
Do it. The voice booked no opposition.
“Wake up, Calliste.” Theron patted her cheek. “Come back to me.”
“What are you doing?” Lykos looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “She’s—”
“I know,” he gritted out. “Get those stretchers, will you?”
Lykos rose and backed off, incredulous.
“Gaiane, Chrysantos, go with him,” he said. “Leave us alone. It’s an order.”
After a beat, they all left quietly. He didn’t have to guess their shock, but he didn’t care.
He cast a glance at Kalias, asleep. Gaiane said he was fine. He took a deep breath and slipped his hand under the back of Calliste’s head. “Calliste?” he whispered, shaking her gently. “Please wake up.”
He tried not to look at the wound, nor dwell on the fact that her pendant seemed drained beyond anything he had ever seen before. He refused to cast a longer look at her papery lips and think how only a few hours ago he held her against the wall of flowers like a wild nymph, tasting the kiss that left him torn, intoxicated, and addicted. The kiss that made him question his principles and feel more alive than ever before. “Come back, wherever you are. Please.” He continued rocking her in his arms for what felt like an eternity.
Suddenly, she spasmed, and her eyes flew open in terror.
“Calliste.” He held her tighter to comfort her. “It’s me.”
She coughed and gasped for air, a pained moan escaping her throat. Her hand trembled as it reached for her pendant.
“I’m here,” he blurted out, frantic. “Can you hear me? Who did this?”
She lifted the pendant and watched it for a moment in disbelief. Then she lowered it back against her chest and tried to focus her gaze on him. “Theron?” She pressed her eyes shut, her face contorted in agony.
“Help is on the way,” Theron said, his heart in his throat, teetering on the edge of prayer and then steeling himself against it, knowing that prayers didn’t do anything.
Early morning sun bled through the curtains.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Panakeios burst into the room, surprisingly pristine. He paused for a moment before rushing across the marble floor and dropping to his knees on the other side of Calliste, his incredulous eyes trained on the wound. He rubbed his face. “Gods.”
Their eyes met.
Panakeios had that all too familiar look of fear and worry etched on his face. The same one he had worn the night Amatheia died.
“No,” Theron said firmly. “You cannot fail me again. Fight for her with everything you have. She’ll help you, but you must buy her time. If you ever want to call yourself a physician again…” He was already on his knees, ready to beg for her. So he did. “Please. Save her.”
***