A Matter of Forever (26 page)

I’m shaking. My heart is beating too fast. My ears are ringing.

A bright light blinds me, but I ... I’m too weak to move away. Even to shove something away with my hand. My eyelids go into overdrive in their efforts to focus. Holy hell, do I ache.

Wait. Why do I ache?

“She needs surgery,” someone says.

I don’t recognize the voice. There’s a blurry outline of a ... man? ... next to me. Male voice, as shaky as I feel. White coat. Face doesn’t seem right. Is purple-y, I think. I close my eyes tight and then open again. Still blurry.

“I’ve set as many bones as I can, but she’s got a bad concussion. And I think there’s internal bleeding that I can’t stop outside of a surgery room.”

Is he ... he’s talking about me?

I try to move, but a gentle hand presses against a shoulder. “It’s best to stay still.”

My chest hurts. Feels like ... feels like holes are carved in it. Like I’ve been cored over and over again. Like I’m still being cored.

Quiet murmuring sounds from the other side of the room. I think a door opens and closes.

“It’s a shame, little Creator,” somebody else says, “that you had to get rid of Bios.”

Now that voice I do recognize. If I thought my heart was racing before, that’s nothing compared to how I’m feeling now. Enlilkian is here with me. Where is here? Where am I? What—what—

Too many images hit me all at once. Karnach, under attack. Taking out nine Elders. Sophie. Mac. Kofi.

Jonah.

Oh my gods.
Jonah
.

I’m thrashing now, pain lasering through every vein alongside grief and rage, every blood vessel, every pore. I have to get out of ... this bed I’m in and get—I need to find him—

“Make that stop,” Enlilkian is saying.

Things are crashing around us, exploding, and I’m screaming and flailing and all I want to do is find him, make sure he’s okay, gods, please please let him be okay, but then my eyelids are drooping, my limbs slowing down until they are filled with weighted sludge.

“It isn’t wise to force her awake to only sedate her moments later,” I think the blurry man in white says, but here at the bottom of the ocean, it’s hard to be sure.

“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Until then, stay silent. Surely, you don’t want the same outcome as your mate?”

I want to fit these pieces together, but ... but it’s so hard.

Jonah. Oh my gods. Jonah. He can’t be dead. He can’t. He can’t. How can I breathe? How can I find a single breath in a universe he doesn’t exist in?

My eyes go blurrier than before, which makes sense considering I’m drowning. My heart hurts, just hurts so godsdamn much. Before I know it, that black abyss opens up below me and sucks me right in.

It’s the middle of the day, I think; soft sunlight filters through golden falling leaves to dapple a yard just outside the broken window in front of me. There’s what I think is a bench out there, white wicker, and a creaking swing, too.

There’s also what looks like a leg sticking out of the closet directly next to the window, covered in dried blood. I think it’s a woman’s; the toenails on the bare foot are electric orange.

Each breath I take in and out is a thousand knives stabbing furiously at my lungs.

“I’ve given you something to help you relax,” somebody whispers softly. “Don’t try to move too much.”

I have to blink a few times to focus on the person standing next to me. It’s a man, his face mottled black and purple, one eye partially swollen shut. He’s no longer wearing a white coat; instead, his blood stained dress shirt has sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the buttons at the collar open.

We are alone in a bedroom I don’t recognize. One that looks like a tornado redecorated it. Walls are cracked, the light over us is splintered, furniture is torn apart.

The man sets a syringe down on the broken, teetering nightstand next to us and leans over me. He gently pries my eyes open and peers in, waving a small flashlight back and forth.

“Your concussion is quite bad,” he whispers. “Try not to move too much.”

He’s an Elf, I think. Middle Aged. Scared; his hands are shaking.

“I’ve set your leg and arm,” he continues, voice barely discernable in the heavy silence of the room. “Wrapped your ribs as best I could. Tried to set your cheekbone, but ...” He leans down, his face so close to mine as he peers at me I feel soft hair swishing across the tip of my nose. “I’m a neurosurgeon. My last ER rotation was two decades ago.”

It takes a lot of effort to lick my cracked lips. “Wh-where?”

The man glances around the room guiltily before leaning back down toward me. Close to my ear, he barely breathes, “Saerçier.”

I have no idea where this place is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not Annar.

Footsteps sound in the hall; the man yanks away from me, stumbling back to a metal folding chair a few feet away.

Nivedita appears in the doorway. Or, at least, the Elder wearing Nivedita’s decaying, once stunning face. Eyes settle on me and then the man before it turns and leaves.

Tears slide down the man’s cheeks; he glances toward the closet before shutting his eyes entirely, deep breaths shakily pulling through his nose.

He is just as much a prisoner as I, I think. And then, more clearly, I need to get out of here. I need to get back to Jonah and see—

Everything around me starts to shake again. The man is wailing, and all those cored holes in my chest open up wide before blackness finds me again.

The man is no longer in the room, at least from what I can tell. Instead, there’s a young girl with a tear-streaked face, cowering in a corner. She’s Elvin, too—or at least, I think she is. She’s so young, it’s a little hard to tell.

The Elder wearing Earle Locust-tree’s face is in here, too, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. “Get to work,” it barks at her.

She winces, sniffling as she drags the back of her hand across her nose, smearing the snot coming out across her sweet face, but she stumbles toward me. There’s crusted red streaks in her hairline, a chunk of curly blonde hair missing.

Fury curls through my veins. They tortured a
child?

She turns toward the Elder and says, words tripping out of her quivering mouth, “But ... she’s got casts. I need to touch her skin.”

The Elder simply stares at her, unmoved.

“I can’t ... I have to touch someone to fix them.” The little girl hiccups as a fresh set of tears streak through the dirt and snot on her face. “Have to touch her skin, feel her owies. I can’t do that through a hard cast.”

She’s here to heal me. Gods, they kidnapped and tortured a child, just so she could come and heal me?

I want to tear the Elder apart bit by bit. Destroy them all for what they’ve done.

“Work,” it snarls at her again, but the girl starts bawling in its vehemence.

I force my words out, past lips that don’t feel like mine. “Sh-she ... c-c-
can’t.”

But here’s the thing.
I can
. Outside of the holes in my chest, I think I’m drugged. Maybe the man gave me more of his Elvin medicines, because—

Jonah
.

The nightstand next to me splinters apart completely; the end of the bed I’m in, carved and beautiful explodes into tiny slivers of kindling. The girl screeches bloody murder and retreats until she’s up against the far wall, before sliding down and hugging her knees.

Must. Focus.

All I want to do is cry myself. Curl into the same ball. Drown in the blackness threatening me. Destroy everything around me. But ... there is a little Shaman here that needs me who is missing part of her hair because some monster in this house most likely ripped it right out of her head to get her to do what they want.

I force myself to breathe. In. Out. Count to ten. Twenty. Thirty. The room stills.

The Elder leaves his post by the door, grabs the girl’s arm, and yanks her up until her toes dangle against the carpet. I force the fury howling in my chest back. I can’t lose this opportunity.

He drags her toward me. “Fix her now, little bitch.”

One of her tiny hands trembles as it reaches toward me. Mine doesn’t hesitate like hers, though. My hand shoots out and latches onto Earle’s rotting shirtsleeve and I will that asshole’s existence straight into oblivion.

Cold satisfaction fills me up. That’s one.

The girl stumbles in its disappearance, her eyes going wide, like she’s about to lose it once more.

I gingerly place a finger in front of my lips. The pain may be dulled, but I’m still moving slow. I force the wrath still pulsing through me back, so all she’ll see is just a girl, broken in a bed and not the creature of vengeance I ache to be.

What I will be, once I get her to safety.

She stills, biting her lip. So, I motion her closer. The poor thing hesitates (which I get, because I just murdered something right in front of her, monster or no), but eventually creeps toward me.

It’s too hard to talk, plus I don’t want to alert anyone what I’ve just done, so I create a piece of paper with writing already printed on it. I hold it up to her.
I will get us out of here. I will keep you safe. Can you fix my leg and arm?

She stares at the paper in my hand for a long moment. I know she speaks the same language as I, but can she read it? I’m screwed if she doesn’t.

Just before panic sets in, she gifts me with a quick, quiet nod. I put my finger back up to my mouth and erase the paper. And then I erase the cast on my leg and the one on my arm.

She’s still fearful, but her little hands reach out and press feather-light against my leg. Lines scrunch on her forehead; her tongue sticks out the corner of her mouth as she squints. It’s awful that I’m asking so much of this young Shaman, but I will be no good for her until I’m back on my feet.

I ache to fall apart, to just ... let myself slide into darkness. Or just let the howling fury building in me free. I don’t want to put that foot in front of the other for what I know I have to do to get us out of here. I don’t know if I have the energy for it. But vengeance is a controlling demon that doesn’t accept weakness or failure. Enlilkian must pay for what he’s done. And then, so help me, I will track that bitch Sophie down and exact the same price from her.

Only then will I allow myself to sink into the lull of desolation.

The girl does her best, I think. By no means, am I fully healed. As she’s probably nine or ten at the oldest, she isn’t nuanced enough to fix all the injuries I have, which leaves an eerie sensation like giant Band-Aids have been peppered all over my body. That’s okay, though. As long as I can get on my feet and a hand can make contact with evil, I’ll be more than good enough to go.

She helps me out of bed, her hand so small in mine. She’s quivering, whispering over and over again about how she’s sorry she can’t do more. I touch her shoulder gently and let her know it’s okay. I’m chewing on cotton when I say it, with a tongue and lips that surely someone snuck in in the middle of the night and glued on me. And then I hug her, because I think the both of us need one.

There are syringes scattered on the floor, bottles, too. I gingerly pick one up—it’s still hard to bend over—and peer down at the label. Dammit. I can’t read the Elvin language it’s in. I turn to her and tap on the label, shrugging my shoulders in confusion.

She leans closer and says softly, “Pain medicine. It’s for nons.”

It’ll do. I motion toward one of the syringes; she picks it up and hands it to me, her eyes wide and confused—a little anxious, too. Does she worry I’m going to dose her with it? I give her a smile:
trust me
. And then I stick the needle into the rubber top and fill the barrel.

She backs away a little.

I prove I mean her no harm when I shove the needle into my own arm. Something warms spreads out from the epicenter, something numbing.

Numb is good. I can work with numb.

I make a new piece of paper.
What is your name? Mine is Chloe.

She looks up at me in surprise, like she recognizes my name. If I’m lucky, maybe she does. “Cicely.”

I get rid of the paper and make a new one.
Do you know how many people are here other than us?

Her eyes flit toward the half-open doorway. Five fingers go up; she shakes her head quickly. Four fingers.

Are they all bodies like ours?
She’s confused, so I add:
Do any look like shadow monsters?

She shakes her head, confused. Okay. She’s only seen the Elders possessing Magical bodies. I do a quick inventory of the ones I know of ... Jens. Harou. Nivedita. Earle, who is now gone. The Elemental ... Thierry?
I need you to stay quiet, okay? We need to sneak up on them for me to protect us. Can you stay quiet for me?

She takes a deep breath; nods her head.

Good girl.

As I tiptoe toward the door, I catch site of the leg sticking out of the closet. How could I have forgotten about it? I motion for Cicely to stay back and reverse course to check it out, hoping against hope that I’m wrong. That maybe the people who live here have a thing for mannequins with painted toenails.

But, no. There’s a real woman in there, her messy hair laced with white, her eyes wide in terror as they fixate on something no longer there. Her body is bent at a funny angle, like it’d been a twig, and somebody carelessly snapped it and tossed it aside.

I have to count to thirty before my anger simmers in the background.

I wonder where the man was from before, the neurosurgeon that probably was no longer of any use to Enlilkian now that he has Cicely. Is this his wife? Partner? Is he still in this house? Or is there a closet holding his body, too?

First things first. Get Cicely to safety. Kill as many mothereffers as I can on the way out.

We find the first one watching television in a room down the hallway, its back to us. The set is on loud; an action movie is on, one I’ve seen before with Jonah just months before. And that burns me like nothing else ever could, knowing this sonofabitch gets to watch this godsawful movie right now, and Jonah ... he can’t.