Chapter Seven Kion #4
But then it’s James and Mabb’s turn, and they’re off. Kion watches them speed away with a heavy heart. Mouth thin, he looks back down. Taissa is wrestling herself onto Cronus, who’s twitching violently and spinning in a circle, not giving her the time to secure herself in the saddle.
His heart stops in his chest as, with one final buck, Taissa goes flying again. She hurtles into the air, arms and legs kicking as she plummets toward the ground from such a height that even the Agility glyph won’t be able to help her with a painless landing.
And this time, Kion isn’t there to catch her.
Ah, fuck.
Kion paces in the Nexitory’s infirmary, breathing in the smell of antiseptic and blood.
Blood, because there’s currently a lot of it gushing from Taissa’s nose and forehead, enough that Kion’s lower-level Panacea did very little to stop the bleeding.
Or maybe his hand was shaking too damn badly to perfectly draw the glyph.
And then there’s her sprained wrist. Edward Becerra, the team’s medic, will have to apply higher-level Healing glyphs himself, as well as bandage her up.
Comparatively speaking, she’s lucky. Her Agility glyph at least allowed her to tuck into a graceful roll once she hit the ground, dispersing the very worst of the impact.
But she still howled in pain. He hates that sound.
It’s the worst one on earth.
“Locke, really, I’m fine,” Taissa insists as she sits on the crinkly paper sheet over one of the infirmary’s many cots. The white walls are decorated with photographs of the stymphs. There’s Cato, soaring across the sky. There’s no photograph of Cronus. “Let me go back out.”
“You look like you’ve been decked, Cho.” Although a simple punch to the face would definitely have been better than a fall from the sky.
“It’s just a couple of bruises, honestly.”
He feels his throat bob. “Don’t give me that shit,” he bites out. “You’re covered in more blood than a redcap.”
“How dare you compare me to one of those hideous, vile—”
Edward, hurriedly pushing a wheeled medical cart piled with bandages and bottles toward them, clears his throat. Kion’s lips thin as Taissa looks at him with wide eyes.
Edward, unfortunately, isn’t ugly.
Where Kion is brawny and rugged, Edward is slim and lithe, with silky blond hair and a clean-shaven jaw that could cut glass. He probably doesn’t have a map of scars underneath his clothing, like the rivers and creeks and brooks of London, crisscrossing over one another and flowing eternally.
Prick.
“Er,” says the medic, green eyes wide, “I’m so sorry to interrupt this interesting exchange, but, Ms. Cho, if I could…”
“Taissa,” she corrects, not very antagonistically. That’s out of character, for Cho. “You can call me Taissa.”
“Taissa.” Edward smiles, his whole face lighting up. “It’s great to meet you…I’m a really big fan.”
Rolling his eyes so hard that he swears he sees his brain, Kion grinds his teeth as the medic cleans Taissa up. In his experience, trips to the infirmary never involve so much talking or smiling.
And he’s never seen Cho so fucking chatty before.
He clenches his jaw as Edward mentions never having been to Banallan and as Taissa laughs, saying there’s not much to see except cows and the stadium. Then Edward is smiling down at her, gently dabbing the cut on her forehead with a clean cloth.
Kion glares.
Cleaning a wound isn’t supposed to seem so intimate.
Why is Cho looking at Edward like that?
Kion is contemplating violence when Edward finally leaves, off to grab some antiseptic he forgot.
Moments after he’s departed, the doors to the infirmary swing open and Niamh struts in, tapping away on her tablet with a smile.
That smile abruptly falls as her eyes lift and land on Taissa’s blood-smeared face and Kion’s fuming one.
“Oops,” says Niamh. “Is this a bad time or something?”
“No, it’s grand,” says Kion with every drop of sarcasm reserved in his soul.
The club’s publicist beams. “Brilliant!” As Kion inwardly groans, the elf plops down on the cot across from Taissa, crossing her legs.
How she walks in those ridiculous pink pumps, Kion will never know.
“This evening, seven o’clock sharp. The paparazzi are expecting you and Taissa to pop into Tally Ho for a bite and a drink.
Quick, easy, simple—and it’ll call some attention to the local pub! ”
“Wonderful,” grits Kion through his teeth. He feels time ticking away. The thought of lying to the world at large means nothing to him. But lying to his team? Merlin. That’s something else altogether.
“Yes, fantastic,” Taissa grumbles.
“Hold hands,” encourages Niamh, evidently ignorant of the way both athletes are skewering her with their furious stares. “At least for the photos. And try not to look directly at the cameras! We want this to look as natural as possible. Oh, this is so exciting, you two!”
Natural would be him fighting Cho to the death in a Roman gladiator ring.
Kion debates telling Niamh this, then decides against it.
The Summertides elf is clearly happy to remain in her own imaginary world of sunshine and rainbows, where everything sparkles like sugar and Taissa Cho does not hate Kion Locke and vice versa.