Chapter 35
We only barely make it around the corner of the first hallway before we hear voices, then shouts as Company guards come upon the bodies in the room we just escaped.
It’s a good thing the Nomad has his wits about him, because by the time he pulls me into a closet, I feel as if all the blood allowing my brain to function has been redirected elsewhere.
Sweat has started to bead on my forehead.
The cold kind, wet and clammy. I feel as if it’s pouring out of my body, trapping my hair against my forehead.
“Come on, Wanderer, stay with me,” whispers the Nomad.
My hands are shaking, and I make the mistake of looking at them. The closet is dark, and I can barely see, but what I do see is enough to tie my stomach in knots.
My fingers are warped, twisted, like knots on a gnarled tree. I shudder, the sensation washing over my entire body. The pain is unbearable, but it’s not just the pain in my hands that has me holding back silent sobs.
They silenced me.
Again.
And now, with every wave of pain that threatens to bury me every time my fingers shake, I’m back there again. Back in Neverland. Back clawing at my throat, missing the voice that was just there, just a moment before. I’m on my knees, and I should be screaming, but nothing is coming out.
“Can you move them at all?” asks the Nomad, his voice unusually soft, though probably just to avoid detection on the other side of the door.
I try, but as soon as I signal my fingers to move, a crippling agony grips me. Like my fingers are being broken all over again, my wrists snapped. Nausea has me leaning toward the walls of the cramped closet, but the Nomad reels me back in, close to him.
I want to tell him no. That I’m likely to vomit all over him, but I’ve no way to relay this to him.
“You can get sick if you need to,” says the Nomad, “I don’t mind.” And then he’s pulling me close, careful not to put any pressure on my hands.
He steadies me with a hand on my back, the other running firm fingers through my cropped hair as he presses my cheek to his chest.
It takes me several gasps of cold air, trying to massage the nausea, before I realize I’m not the only one shaking.
“I’ll kill every last one of them,” he whispers, his words a promise.
I shake my head against his chest. I want to tell him it’s a waste of time. That if he goes on a revenge spree, it will only end with both of us dead.
But I can’t tell him any of that.
I can’t tell him anything.
I glance up at him, my eyes wide with pleading. He gazes down at me, and for the first time, I think I witness fear in the Nomad’s expression. He runs both hands to cup my cheeks, his thumbs catching the tears rolling down my face.
“Don’t fret, Wanderer,” he says. “I won’t put your life in danger for the sake of revenge. It won’t be today that they suffer for what they did to you. No, I’ll wait until you’re safe. And then I’ll hunt down every last one of them.”
I’m trembling, but I don’t shake my head. Don’t try to persuade him not to.
The Sister, Peter—they had a reason to steal my voice. A realm that needed to be crafted, my voice the foundational seal.
But the Company…
They had broken me for no reason other than that they could.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” the Nomad says.
“I’m going to get you out of here and to a healer.
Just stay conscious for me, Wanderer. I can’t carry you out and kill them at the same time.
But as soon as we’re out of here, pass out all you want.
I’ll walk you back to my ship. You can sleep the whole way.
I’ll even allow you to drool on me, but just this once. ”
That might make me laugh if I weren’t already feeling my eyes start to roll, but they go back into focus as I stare at the Nomad, feel the weight of his chest heaving as it ebbs and flows.
I can say nothing, except relay the sorrow in my eyes.
Then the sobs I’ve been holding back let loose, and it’s the most humiliating thing I’ve ever experienced. Feeling the Nomad’s arms around me as I choke on silent sobs. As my mouth gropes for catharsis that’s been stolen from me, my cheeks drenched in tears.
The Nomad only grips me more firmly.
“Wanderer,” he whispers. “Tell me this. If you could speak, would you tell me to shut up?”
I let out a silent, pained laugh, though it alleviates the pain for a single moment. I nod against his chest.
“Is it helping? Distracting you?” he whispers into my ear.
I nod again, hoping he’ll keep talking.
But the Nomad doesn’t keep talking.
Instead, he slips his palm down to my jaw, cups it so I can feel the divots in his hands where I wounded him. He bends his fingers, tracing my jawline until he reaches my chin, and then, with the gentlest of pressures, he tips my jaw upward.
We’re so close now. Close enough to feel the tips of his eyelashes scraping my forehead. His eyes aren’t closed, but they’re the barest of slits. Crescents of blue shining in the dark night.
“If you’d like, I could distract you some more,” he whispers.
I blink, hesitate.
Then communicate the only way I can.
I press my toes into the floor, raising my heels.
When our lips touch, it’s not like it was with Peter, the thrill of something new.
No, this kiss is old. Ancient. Written in mountain caves. It’s the warmth of the sun at its surface, before it ever reaches our atmosphere, ever caresses our skin.
When the Nomad kisses me back, it’s not the lustful frenzy that I would expect from him. It’s the longing kiss of a long-lost lover. And all of a sudden, his embrace is familiar.
And then, of course, I remember why it’s familiar.
Because how many times have I kissed this man, but in my dreams? How many times have I lived this kiss, but with the Nomad as my husband, or trying to woo me? I’ve kissed this man a thousand times, but it always ends the same way.
With the breath fleeing my mouth, not from the thrill, but from his hands around my throat.
I pull back, my eyes wide, my hands trembling at my side.
The Nomad cocks his head at me in question, and I realize he’s not breathing. “Wanderer, I…”
But then someone from the hall shouts to check the storage closet.
“Sorry for the interruption, love,” he says. “But it seems I have some people to kill on your behalf.”