Chapter 31 #3
But whatever he intended to say dies with him as his head is lopped cleanly off, as if sliced by an invisible sword.
I gasp, tightening my hand around Chase’s.
“You were not to be harmed nor touched nor scared,” Adric says to me, his voice gentle. “You have my abject apologies.”
I just gape. I’m not upset that Vex is dead, but that was so fast and brutal. And, as far as I can tell, it meant absolutely nothing to Adric, whose attention is now on Chase.
“And now, brother,” he says, his voice light and charming. “Let us see about cleaning your wounds.”
An attendant hurries forward and begins to wheel Chase out. I start to follow, but Adric’s words stop me— “Cora. How did this happen?”
Before I can answer, Kali sidles up. “The pack found them,” she says. “They were trespassing.”
“Trespassing?” My voice rises into a squeak. “That bitch kidnapped my uncle. We came to get him back. And,” I add, “her wolves killed our friend.”
His eyes narrow at Kali. “Is this true?”
She doesn’t flinch. “We needed leverage to ensure the Bride would come. And the wolves patrol the dunes as they have always done. They hunt what trespasses.”
“They killed an innocent man,” I snap.
“They defended the realm,” she says coolly. “From uninvited intruders.”
Adric looks at her, his expression hard. “They are our guests. And the Hunter is my family, estranged though we may be. You know this.”
He turns away from Kali as if she’s yesterday’s news. “Come,” he says to me. “I’ll escort you to the suite. The healer should already be there.” He takes my hand, and I feel that heat curling through me. “We will speak later. There is much to talk about. Now, we will see to my brother.”
He’s not wrong, so I just tilt my head in acknowledgement, then hurry to catch up with the attendant already wheeling Chase away.
We arrive at the same time as the healer, and Adric leaves me at the door with a kiss to my hand.
I almost suggest he come in to check on his brother, but a blissful reunion while Chase is in pain probably isn’t realistic.
I burst through the door alone, not even looking at the interior, though I get the impression that the suite is both massive and freakishly ornate.
I don’t care about any of that. All I care about is Chase, and I follow the voices to the bedroom, to find Chase leaning against an ornate headboard, one leg of his jeans slit to his hip to reveal nasty, festering claw marks.
Ugly. Ragged. Deep. His eyes are half-open, glassy with fever, and he’s shivering despite the sheen of sweat across his skin.
When he sees me, his lips move—my name, maybe—but no sound comes out.
But it’s the skin around the wound that turns my stomach. It’s withering. Dying. Some already sloughing off to reveal sinew and muscle, now starting to decay too.
And as I step closer—as I breathe in the putrid smell of decay—my heart tightens in my chest and fear washes over me in cold, horrible waves. Chase’s hand twitches on the sheet, fingers reaching for mine, and somehow that small, blind gesture is worse than the wound itself.
I shove the terror aside, then hurry to Chase and take his hand. His grip is weak—terrifyingly weak for a man who’s held a sword since the dawn of time.
Only once I’m touching him do I focus on the healer, a petite gray-haired woman with a soothing manner and a no-nonsense attitude as she applies tonics and salves and other medicinal potions that I can only assume are the right things to use to treat the wound.
“He’ll be okay?” I finally ask after she’s stitched him up.
“I have made comfortable,” she says in broken English and an accent I can’t place.
“Comfortable,” I repeat, feeling sick. “You mean…” I trail off, unable to even voice the question.
“I treat pain. Infection. I help him sleep. The venom? This I cannot stop.”
“Then how do we cure him?”
“Oh, child,” she says, her eyes both firm and sad. “We do not cure. We only make last hours comfortable.”
The room seems to tilt, and I sink to my knees, one hand clutching the bedsheets, the other Chase’s limp hand. He’s asleep now. Maybe passed out, and all I can do is hold his hand and hope.
“How long?” My voice doesn’t crack. I count that as a miracle.
“That depends on man,” she says. “On strength of heart and what he refuses to surrender. It will feel first like fever. Then cold. Then nothing.” She sets up a small pharmacy on the bedside table—glass vials, a folded cloth, a tin with a greasy salve that smells like bitter mint.
She holds up a finger, then shows me what to do.
“Change bandage when it weeps. Wash with this. Use salve here and here.”
“There’s nothing else? Nothing else I can do?”
“Is all,” she says. “Is deadly. But you keep him warm. When he wakes, you tell him goodbye. Could be last chance.”
No, I think as she quietly leaves. There is no way in hell I’m saying goodbye. Chase is a fighter. He’s been a fighter since the beginning of time. I’ve seen him fight. Hell, I’ve seen him fight for me.
Now, he can damn well fight for himself.
And somehow—some way—he is going to win.