Chapter 21
It took several hours for the Nomad’s crew to comply with Lars’s wishes—well, demands, really.
Lars had sat cross-legged on a stool while the Nomad’s crew set up a laboratory to his liking in a previously empty storage room on the ship.
Now that it’s been declared acceptable, the Nomad and I wait for the eccentric scientist to reenter the room after muttering something about needing to check on his larvae, which the crew members had refused to unload from a crate in the adjoining room.
“I’ll be certain to make sure he washes his hands before examining you,” the Nomad had said as soon as Lars had been out of earshot.
Thanks, I had written on a sheet of paper.
That was minutes ago, but the Nomad now glances down at it for the second time, chuckling to himself.
What? I write.
“It’s just that, when you’re frustrated, you write like you would talk. Short, I mean. And not just that the words are short or the sentences are short. Even your handwriting—see, the letters are closer together. It looks rather sloppy, you know.”
That’s because I don’t care to waste much effort on communicating with you.
Something strange flickers across the Nomad’s face. “Did I do something?”
Between hunting me down, imprisoning me on your ship, refusing to help me when those imbeciles attacked me in the tavern, and coercing me into helping you lift whatever it is you’re looking for in the Sister’s lair?
“I meant since then. Have I done something since then to offend you?” If I didn’t know better, I’d think the Nomad sounded sincere.
No, I write.
He’s right, my letters are closer together. Sloppy.
“Oh, really? Because it seems that I’ve offended you.”
Well, let’s see, you’ve murdered me every single night of my life since I was seven, and now apparently you somehow trick me into marrying you and having children with you before you do it, I think.
What I write is, If you were about to be “examined”—I make that word especially large—by someone who seems to think your worth is about as much as an insect’s, you’d be tense too, I’m sure.
“To be entirely fair to Lars, he does deem insects to be more valuable than most fae or human lives, so really, it’s a compliment,” says the Nomad, coolly.
I roll my eyes. Why are you even here?
The Nomad clucks his tongue and cocks his head to the side. “Oh, would you have rather come alone? If I remember correctly, that was one of your many demands.”
Just then, Lars walks through the doors, a glass jar full of wriggling larvae in his hands. “Magnificent!” he says. “My weevil eggs have hatched and I get to biopsy a faerie wing, all in one day!”
The Nomad looks at me as if to say, See, aren’t you a little bit grateful that I’m here?
All of a sudden, my limbs go clammy. Not at the idea of Lars biopsying my wings, but at the notion that already, I can read the Nomad’s expression like I could, well, a husband.
He must notice my sudden pallor, because the Nomad cocks his head to the side in question.
I wrench my gaze from his, not wanting to see the concern in his eyes, the one that brings back memories of the dream I had last night.
And not just the dream, but the memories that the future version of myself had had about the Nomad.
The level of emotional intimacy we’d shared.
The jokes, the laughs, the nights, the touches.
That’s the thing about dreams.
They can make us long for the things that never existed.
Things that would only hurt us if we ever managed to get our hands on them.
“You’ll need to be prone for me to examine your wings,” says Lars, looking at me like I’m an idiot for sitting up.
Why? I write, partially out of stubbornness, but mostly because I don’t like the idea of being face-down. It feels helpless in an already vulnerable situation. Besides, that was always how Peter made me lie when he bloodlet my wings.
“Why can’t she sit up while you examine her?” says the Nomad.
Lars gives the Nomad a blank expression. “I always examine wings with the subject in the prone position.”
The Nomad’s smile practically slithers. “Make an exception.”
I’m not sure why the Nomad cares, but I have a difficult time not being grateful when Lars finally bends to his will.
“Very well,” says Lars, leaning down underneath his counter and pulling out a set of metal clamps.
What are those for? I scribble.
“Restraining. Obviously,” says Lars.
I don’t know why I glance at the Nomad instead of writing my thoughts on the parchment, but I tell myself it’s because it’s quicker. Definitely not because last night’s dream has me caught in some sick dependency with the Nomad.
“Those won’t be necessary,” says the Nomad.
“The biopsy will be painful. I’m going to have to tap into the spine of her wings. If she doesn’t remain still, it’s possible the procedure could cause permanent damage.”
I should be sweating at the idea of permanent damage to my wings, but I accepted I might never fly again long ago, and right now, it’s all I can do to rip my gaze away from those chains.
Images of that cave with Peter in the days after he’d tricked me into coming with him to Neverland assault my mind. The pain of having my wings let, all the while, Peter whispering apologies that meant nothing.
The Nomad moves in front of my vision, crouching so he’s eye level with me as I sit on the table.
“Don’t fret, Wanderer. There’ll be no more chains.”
I shouldn’t, but I let my eyes wander to his. To the cool blue my subconscious so longs to trust.
“She needs something to hold her down,” says Lars under his breath.
“She can hold onto me,” says the Nomad, without looking at him, without tearing his eyes from mine.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want anyone touching my wings ever again. I don’t want to be on this table. Don’t want to be examined, experimented on.
If it were just the ability to fly again at stake, I’d walk away and never look back.
But as it is, I can’t even mouth the word “No.”
“Hold onto me,” the Nomad says, his voice just as firm as when he said it to Lars, but this time, it’s quieter, surer. Firm like a taut tether, not like a wall.
I nod, shakily, then take the Nomad’s hands.
They’re firm, and to be quite honest, the pressure he’s placing on my hands hurts. I think that might be intentional. Like how I used to dig my talons into my palms until I bled to distract myself from the pain of Peter’s bloodletting.
“If you want to stop, all you have to do is shake your head,” says the Nomad.
I nod, and Lars gets to work.
At first, it’s just a tickle on the top spine of my left wing. Not painful, except in the memories it brings back, back when I thought Peter ran his fingers over my wings because he loved them.
“Do you want him to give you a warning?” asks the Nomad.
I think. When I’d made my demands, I’d told Lars I wanted to know everything he was doing before he did it. He’d explained his plan to me this morning, and although I thought I would want everything explained again, now that the moment has come… I shake my head ever so slightly.
Seconds later, a sharp pain pierces my wing. I don’t mean to, but I dig my talons into flesh. Except this time, the flesh isn’t mine.
I watch the Nomad’s face for any signs of pain, but all I get is the slightest flinch, the only cue that I’m hurting him the brief uptick of his angled jaw.
“That was just the catheter. The actual needle—”
“She said she didn’t want a warning,” seethes the Nomad.
But when the needle goes in, I’m wishing I had asked for one.
I open my mouth, my throat soundless, my teeth chomping on a scream that won’t come. There’s no relief in the soundless scream. No escape, no catharsis from the pain, except to grip tighter, to dig my talons deeper, deeper.
I squeeze the Nomad’s hand as if I’m clinging to the side of a cliff for purchase. He takes a sharp inhale, but he doesn’t tear himself away. Doesn’t waver.
“It’s alright,” he says. “You can hurt me to your heart’s content. I’m not going anywhere.”
It’s when the scientist begins extracting marrow that I put the Nomad’s promise to the test.
This time, I dig my nails so hard into his palms, the blood begins to gush, coating his hands, coating my fingertips, dripping from our intertwined hands. I watch it as it drips onto the floor, creating a puddle beneath us, the Nomad’s blood staining his own boots.
I glance up at him. I can’t help myself. A bead of sweat has broken out on his forehead, his face clammy. But he holds my gaze, unwavering.
And for a moment, gratitude fills my heart. I long to tell him…something. That I’m sorry? Thank you, maybe? But my hands are preoccupied with wounding his, and my mouth won’t move in any way that resembles words, so I just gaze into his eyes and hope he reads my meaning.
A smile, made crooked by a wince, appears on his mouth. “You’re quite welcome, Wanderer.”
Another dagger of pain. My spine arches without my permission. Lars yells something my ears can’t quite comprehend.
“Make her stay still,” he says, and this time I understand.
“Doing my best over here, I’m afraid,” says the Nomad through gritted teeth, his face going paler by the second.
My whole body is trembling, though I can’t tell if it’s my own system, or if the Nomad is trembling and it’s coursing through our joined hands.
“How much longer are you going to be?” he gasps to Lars, probably as much for his benefit as mine.
“Less time, if you’d have let me restrain her,” is all Lars answers.
“I assure you, you’re not the one suffering for that decision,” says the Nomad, glancing back at me with a wink, then whispering, “Let’s do this again sometime, shall we? I feel quite close to you right—”
Another sharp pain in my back, and though I cannot make a noise, that’s not the case for the Nomad.
He groans as I dig my nails deeper, channeling all of my pain into his hands. We’re both sweating, both painting, though his lungs are the only ones making any noise.
Another sharp pain, and then Lars finally says, “Got it.”
A moment later, he slips the catheter out of my wing, the immediate pain dissipating, leaving behind the dull ache of a past trauma, a bruise.
My whole body relaxes, my talons coming back into my fingers. My hands are wet with the Nomad’s blood, and when I look at the Nomad, I expect to find the same amount of relief on his face.
Instead, his eyes are glassy. “I changed my mind, Wanderer. Let’s not do that again.”
And then the dreaded Nomad passes out onto the floor.