Chapter 22 #2
I hadn’t seen Septimus again since he stormed off.
Instead, when I’d wandered out into the hall—limped out, more like it—the Bloodborn man had intercepted me and led me upstairs, to a small hallway with several doors.
He showed me to a small bedchamber with an attached washroom.
It was tiny and plain, but it had an actual bed, which put it ahead of many places I’d slept in the last ten years.
“So what is this place?” I’d asked. “Some sort of military outpost?”
But the man had simply ignored me and closed the door.
Leaving me to the daunting—perhaps, I was coming to admit, physically impossible—task of peeling myself from the layer of grime and guts like a caterpillar emerging from a cocoon.
{You will not look like a butterfly once it is done,} Zefiah helpfully pointed out.
Thanks, Zefiah. I appreciate that you’re so encouraging.
I eyed my shoulder in the mirror—where the blood seeping through my shirt was caked so thick that it stuck to my skin. The pain had gotten better, which very easily could be a bad thing. Loss of sensation seemed like bad news.
Gods fucking damn it.
{You will have to cut that shirt off.} Even Zefiah sounded like she felt bad for me.
I touched my belt. My dagger was missing—perhaps taken from me by the Shadowborn when I was entranced. Shit.
I eyed Zefiah, who lay across the bed.
{That would be unwise,} she said, seeing my intention.
I promise I won’t accidentally stab myself in the heart.
{You can barely control your own arms. I am destined to end you one day, Kyrene. I would prefer that day not be today.}
That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.
{Do not get too sentimental. I merely would rather drink the blood of gods before I drink from your rancid heart.}
Rancid, huh?
I couldn’t be too offended. I did, literally, smell like I was rotting. Just another carcass.
I touched my head, fingers finding the clump of brain, stomach clenching.
Gods fucking damn it.
A knock sounded at the door.
I whirled around quickly enough that my body scolded me for it. Zefiah’s blade flared, the dim room briefly doused in gold.
{It is him.}
Her disgust was palpable. And relatable.
I bit back a curse, casting another glance at my pathetic visage in the mirror. I did not want to be seen like this. Without trousers no less.
“Go away,” I called.
“I brought you medicine.”
I swallowed another curse. Godsdamn it. That was actually a good reason for him to be here.
He sounded different. Or maybe, he sounded the same again. Calm, smooth, and just a little smug. No hint of the animalistic anger I’d glimpsed downstairs.
“Leave it at the door,” I said. “I’m changing.”
“I am certainly not leaving it at the door. This is precious stuff, and I need to make sure it gets where it needs to be—especially after you wasted the last one.”
After I wasted the last one? The fucking nerve.
“I can treat my own wounds, thank you,” I shot back. “I’ve been doing it long enough.”
But as the words came out of my mouth, a slew of memories struck me, reminding me of all the ways they weren’t true. Not the last few years.
Mirie had gotten good at stitches. By the end.
“I know you well enough by now, dove, that I do not put it past you to let yourself die because you won’t ask for help. You are useless to me dead, and you are useless to me without a sword arm. Let me in.”
I could practically hear his pompous fucking smirk.
I glanced at Zefiah, silently hoping that, what with all her very public revulsion, she’d have some kind of retort offering an alternative solution. But she was silent.
Thanks for nothing, Zef.
{As I said, Kyrene, I still long for gods’ blood before I drink yours.}
I rolled my eyes and threw open the door.
The scent of vanilla enveloped me. Septimus was wearing fresh clothes—white, as always. His face was clean. His eyes were back to their normal, icy shade. His hair was pushed back from his face, save for one stubborn ashy strand that curled over his forehead.
I looked him up and down. “What, does every outpost in the House of Blood keep a few special outfits just for you?”
“You look lovely too, Kyrene.”
There was always something about the way he said my name that made the sound run up my spine. I didn’t like it.
I stared at him, eyes narrowed. At first glance, he appeared to be his usual calculated self.
But there was an odd, rough edge to his voice, a slight hoarseness, a tiredness when he said my name.
The darkness under his eyes was pronounced.
And if I looked closely, I could still see the spots of blood under his nails and in his hair.
He’d pulled himself together as quickly as possible and then rushed over here. In his hurry, he’d left a few stitches loose. I couldn’t tell whether I found that satisfying or disconcerting.
“Medicine?” I said, extending my good arm.
“Let me in.”
“I don’t want you here.”
His gaze flicked impassively over me.
“You have brains in your hair.”
“I don’t want you here,” I repeated.
“Do you not want me here more than you don’t want brains in your hair?”
I considered this.
At my silence, he chuckled. “Never before have I felt inferior to gore.”
“I love gore.”
“Clearly.”
But then I thought of whose brains it belonged to—thought of the bolt splitting that girl’s face in two right in front of me, right when she was just two steps from freedom. All at once, the thought of going even a single second longer without washing this off seemed like physical torture.
With a sigh, I stepped aside and let him in.