Chapter 7
The shopping district in the center of the Toridge territory isn’t huge, flanked by trees tucked away in the northern Ontario woods.
Across the parking lot is a restaurant I’ve never eaten at, and a coffee shop sits next to it.
I come up to Stark’s pickup truck, which is modified to manage for the height needs, like pretty much everyone else’s.
The bottom of the door lines up with my waist. I reach up for the handle to climb, and a sharp pain flares along my side.
“You bitch.”
My ribs scream from another hit.
Fuck.
I try to twist to see who it is, but get slammed into the truck door. Blood pools in my mouth.
“Humans don’t belong here.”
It’s a different man’s voice this time, and rage wreaks through me.
I dealt with the comments and the pranks before I left school, but never this.
A kick buckles my knees, and the cold from the door strikes my head on the way down. I want to kill them, rip their throats out and laugh, but my hands just claw into the rough pavement below me as they kick my side and fire erupts inside me instead.
A tear rolls down my cheek. Pratt has always been here to help calm me.
I hold on, trying to take myself somewhere else—an ice-cold lake—but my face digs into the sharp-edged rocks while the kicks continue. I can’t . . . I can’t cool down. I’m on fire.
I scream as the thermal pain inside is substantially worse than the bones breaking.
The strikes stop in an instant, but I don’t turn to see. A smash rings across the parking lot like a car crashed into something.
Sharp pains from my ribs pierce each breath. I do my best to keep them short and shallow as an arm slips around me, and tension radiates through my skin.
“Aloka, I’m sorry.” It’s not Pratt’s voice, though. It’s deeper. He places me onto the seat inside the truck and I cry out. His eyes go wide and blue. “Just stay still.” The door shuts. An engine starts, then it fades.
“Do we take her to the human hospital?” a voice says. A woman.
“No, she stays here. Just do what you can,” says a man. Stark?
“She needs a doctor. What about a clinic?”
“No, just help her please.” Surprising, I figured he’d prefer me hurt and afraid so I stay put.
I can’t let her die.
Stark’s thoughts are what make me open my eyes. It’s a small room, and Faira stands over me, dabbing a white cloth to my head. There’s no need for any of this.
“We heal over time with sleep and natural remedies, the moon cycles. We don’t know what she needs to get better.” Faira’s concern is written all over her face. “We don’t even know if she will live through this. A human hospital is best.”
I try to shift up onto my arms, but it burns. “Bring . . .” My mouth dries with an attempt to speak.
A smaller girl hands me a glass of water. She must be one of their grandchildren. I wince, nodding to thank her. The crispness relieves my throat. Stark is still out of view. I tilt back onto the sheets.
“Just leave me. Bring me home. Please, Stark.”
No one argues. It’s not like they want to help.
Sitting up, I bite through a scream as more blood pours into my mouth.
Broken ribs are no small thing, and the inner flames that flicker at the wounds might be worse.
Sliding myself to the edge of the bed, Stark stays back like he’s afraid of me now, his head hung low as he leans against the wall by the door.
The young girl comes to my side to help me slide down onto the floor.
My knees give out, but I cling to the table behind me, another thing broken.
Out.
They all eye him and leave the room. He steps over, and I’m suddenly in the air, cradled against his chest. I don’t say thank you because he sure does need to learn boundaries.
I lean in anyway, closing my eyes—his hard chest is a wall against my head.
His heart beats below my ear with an inconsistent thud.
Nerves—why is he nervous? It’s not like Pratt will come at him from the grave.
The outside winter air swirls around my skin briefly, then I’m lying back in a truck seat. He’s going to take me home. Home to die, then he won’t come back. I can go back to my life, though it might look a little different. Maybe no town visits, but I can have a garden like Mom used to.
It feels like seconds go by before he’s opening the door and carrying me again. I must be out of it. When he places me down onto my bed, I open my eyes and take in the smells. His smell is masking everything else, and I realize—he didn’t take me home. He took me to his home.
“Can you do something for me?” I ask.
I can hear his breath still in the room, though he’s not next to the bed. I take the silence for an answer and risk it.
“I need you to leave me alone.”
“Alo, you need medical attention.”
The nickname makes me wince, shooting pain through my ribs. “Just until sunrise, please. You can bring me some bandages if you must help.” I bite through each word.
Why won’t she—Is she that mad with me? I know I screwed up.
I hold it together.
“Please,” I add for extra measure.
He stalks out the door, feet heavy on the floor. When he comes back, his arms are loaded with an arsenal of bandages, medicines, and swabs for cleaning wounds.
“Thank—” The words don’t come. I start to choke from the blood pooling in my lung. He lunges forward to help, but I hold a hand out. “Leave.” I cough, and blood fills my mouth.
“I’ll be right out the door. Please yell or anything if you want help . . . or someone else’s.”
I’d want your help if it didn’t put you in danger.
The desire to make him feel better almost wins. He isn’t being rude or calling me weak for once. He still hasn’t retreated.
“Scissors.” I point, and he hands them to me. This time, I avoid contact with his skin.
He keeps a straight face, but his eyes are low.
I need to stand my ground, so I grip the metal handles and aim them at the door, waiting.
He shuts the door behind him, and I start to cut the fabric down my shorts. The scissors have minimal resistance as I move to slide them under the edge of my top and slice it off. Once bare skinned, I push myself off the bed and slide my feet across the floor to the bathroom, each step agonizing.
I shove a towel under the door to help muffle any sound, then turn on the tap. Lifting my leg into the clawfoot tub, my knee gives out, bumping into it.
“Fuck. I should’ve let him help for this part.” The words cost me air, and when I cough, that metallic taste comes back.
I’m naked and this isn’t a good look. My arms and legs are covered in gashes and my entire abdomen is dark purple from blood pooling below the skin. My face isn’t far off either.
I try one more time, switching legs, and let out a small cry.
The coldest setting of water fills the tub up until I’m covered below the neck. This might be the worst I’ve ever felt since this all started, when I got a bit cavalier with it. Experimenting with my own body might have been Pratt’s least favorite time watching me. What a memory.
“Here I go.” Launching myself off the cliff to the rocks below, I knew that if I landed right, I’d maybe break something. If not, then I’d break a few things.
“Alo, fuck.” Pratt’s voice echoed after me as I free-fell.
The wind wrapped my hair across my face in a single euphoric moment of weightlessness, then, well, I guess I miscalculated.
I pull the small washcloth off the edge of the tub and dip it into the running water before turning it down.
I open the drain, a balance of cold coming in and old water going out.
One downfall to Stark being in the house is this is usually a loud process.
I shove the cloth into my mouth and tip my head back.
I let the suppressed magic gates open. Starting at my toes, I breathe in through my nose, shoving the heat down as it builds up my legs, then moves into my torso and leaves through my arms. I let the fieriness build and build until the ice water around me is steaming.
Starting with all the crucial injuries works better as I get weaker.
I bite down harder onto the damp cloth as my right knee begins to burn.
A scream comes up my throat, muffled by the cloth.
Tears drip off onto my neck. I take a short break, then work on my ribs and one lung.
The heat spreads in my chest until it burns, like holding myself on top of a flame.
It grows, worsening each moment until steam rises from the tub yet again.
Tears stream, and I choke. My ribs pulse as the heat of magic pulls the splinters back together.
I slide further down toward the cool water running from the copper faucet.
My cuts are next but easy. I sink my arm under the water and watch as the burning sensation grows less intense than before. My skin goes from bloody, to red, to a light purple remaining over the cuts.
By the time I’m done, the entire bathroom is filled with steam.
The windows have drops of condensation running down them on either side of the tub.
I climb out, and without the energy to shake, I grab a towel and dry off.
Checking in the mirror, I do a sweep to see if I missed any cuts.
All that remains are bright purple and red bruises.
I can’t make the blood that pooled go away, so it’ll be some time until they disappear.
Other than exhaustion from the process and the day, I can move.
My legs don’t buckle as I walk to the bed and pull the huge duvet onto the floor.
Once underneath the thin, cream-colored sheet, I rest my head on the pillow.
My fingers trace over where my broken ribs were, sensing the remnants of magic.
It takes a few days for it to go away, especially from broken bones.
I succumb to the sleep I need. Pratt and I chase each other in my dream.
Mom yells from the house, telling us to hurry up and get inside, as we roll around the yard.
I wish I could go back in time to when it wasn’t just Pratt who felt obligated to keep me safe.
Now, he’s put me in the same situation, except it isn’t the same.
Stark follows orders from the Elders, and he’d never disobey them.
Stark may have tried to help after I got attacked, because surely his plan went too far and he regrets it.
I can only hope he will realize I’m better away at my house, where Mom’s homemade curtains still hang, and Pratt’s room still sits full of his things.
Away from those who hate me, and where I can be me.