Betrayal's Shadow (22 page)

***

Mia crouched, her fingers digging in the uneven floor to fight the dizziness of the
fold
. She turned her head in confusion. Unfamiliar rock registered beneath her hands, and the echo of cavernous space rang around her head. Moist heat penetrated from the darkness and plastered her clothes to her skin.

This appeared to be a step backward in cell design—not good.

She waited in the darkness and listened for anything, anyone, to indicate a threat. Only the isolated drips of water penetrated the silence. Reaching into the side of her bag, she drew out a small flashlight, and let the beam dart around close to her. The ceiling, if she considered it one, joined above her in crags and divots. Stalactites dripped to an equally rough floor. The air shimmered with moisture, a faint glow of luminescent greens and whites interspersed along the walls increased the stark barrenness of her surroundings.

Following the short tunnel she had
folded
into, she sought some sign of Turen. No
fold
had ever executed without him being somewhere close.

The persistent stench of rotten eggs intensified with the drips and gurgles of water as the tunnel opened into a larger cavern. She lowered the flashlight and allowed her eyes to adjust to the fluorescent algae around the cave’s natural contours. Nowhere in sight was any exit. After a glance to the tunnel she’d come from, she shook her head. No exit there either.

Mia moved forward, keeping to the perimeter of the cavern with quick checks behind the few outcrops. Concern and caution guided her actions. Given Xavier’s propensity to harbor unusual, deadly creatures, she didn’t wish to call attention to herself. Yet Turen had to be here somewhere. He was always close. Unless his situation posed a danger to her, he wouldn’t ignore her.

His absence left her uncertain and anxious, more akin to the emotions she’d expected two weeks ago, after they’d had sex. Okay, incredible, marathon sex, and while she wanted to call it something more, she didn’t have the courage.

She’d anticipated his detachment and feared his rejection on her next visit. He’d produced neither. Instead, he had merely waited quietly for her to adjust to the
fold
and opened his arms to her, withholding nothing, no reservations, no subterfuge. He’d held her, kissed her, and grilled her about caution, ruthlessly. He’d drilled her with guidelines for her defensive training, almost as if he could pass all his knowledge to her in a crash course just by his sheer force of will.

That hadn’t happened, but she was more alert than ever. Imminent death had that effect.

The ground angled down and she braced herself against the wall, flashing the light back up to canvass an opening high up the cavern’s wall. With a sinking suspicion, she reversed the light downward. On the ground beneath lay a large, distorted mound.

“No.” She ran the last few yards and slammed her backpack to the floor. Her flashlight tumbled on top as she reached for Turen’s body. Shreds of torn flesh covered his chest and arms. His blood, thick and dark, seeped from raw wounds. The parts that weren’t bloody were discolored and swollen.

Biting her lip, she stared at his face, afraid to touch it. One eye was swollen shut, with his lips split and bloodied. The lines of his cheek and jaw were lumps of flesh instead of the cut, chiseled angles her hands knew by heart. She pressed her fingers to his neck in hopes of a pulse.

A faint, thready response beat back, and a low wheeze issued from his lips. Painful to listen to, but at least an assurance that he wasn’t dead yet. His injuries left no doubt to the intent of his beating. No one injured a man and dumped him in this remote pit expecting him to live.

“Turen. I’m here. Please, please stay with me.” She glanced toward the hole above, but the dark shaft sloped up into nothingness. Someone had tossed him here like so much trash.

Dear God.
Eyes closed for a minute, she struggled for a steady breath. It was unlikely anyone would search for him soon, if ever. This was a place of last resort. Her gaze skittered over the shadows outside the edge of her flashlight’s beam. She swallowed a twinge of relief at the absence of bones or carcasses.

Gently, she skimmed his chest and arms, taking in every detail, uncertain if she could detect any broken bones. Gritting her teeth, she angled him against her to check his back. It fared no better from lacerations, but there was no way to gauge internal damage. If he survived this, she would need to add first aid training to her list of skills.

Mia clenched her fingers to stop their shaking and finished her mental assessment. His face she could clean. His mangled fingers at abnormal angles—they would have to wait. She closed her eyes a moment to choke back a gag, but pursed her lips and turned back again with determination.

First, the most critical damage and then, hopefully, she would have the courage to handle the fingers. She settled next to him, her legs folded beneath her, and placed her hands gently over his chest, palms flat, her fingers splayed. If she could fix bloody wounds, it made sense she could affect internal organs, his heart and lungs.

Next, she would tackle the broken things. How she would set broken ribs, she had no idea. A small cry escaped her.

Damn, she was just kidding herself that she could do this. Memories of his caresses flooded her mind. Those large gentle fingers, now cracked and broken, created too harsh an image. But the harshness fueled rage. Renewed by her anger, she blinked back the tears and gritted her teeth.

Okay, Mia, focus, this is war. First, triage. Focus on one thing at a time. Any more will be too overwhelming. Don’t think about how they did it, don’t think about his pain, and don’t empathize, just do. Cry for him later.

She waited on the reassurance of his heartbeat, for the faint rhythm to increase and develop a steadier pace beneath her hands, as she willed his heartbeat to synchronize with hers. The warmth of his blood pulsed beneath her fingers. She forced calm into her thoughts and released it to him through her touch. Not certain if it would work, she nonetheless refused to give doubts a foothold and continued. Her touch had healed. Perhaps her thoughts would as well.

Flow and breath. Rhythm and warmth.

It took much longer than she’d hoped to steady his rhythm, but his breathing was easier with blood no longer weeping from his wounds. With a swipe of her hand across her forehead, she stared at his still body and then bent to listen to his lungs. If broken ribs were a problem, she would expect internal wheezing. Nothing. Not content with that test, she positioned his body with his spine as straight as possible and ran a check over his chest, following the path of every rib for a sign of abnormality. No indications of broken bones registered beneath her touch and he exhibited no external response of pain. With luck, no bones had pierced a lung.

His lack of response worried her more. She pushed the hair from his face on impulse. “Turen.”

Nothing.

In the strange lighting, he appeared tanned from the bruises that splotched his skin, with more abused flesh than fresh, healthy sections. She gently used a cloth and her bottled water to wipe away the blood while considering her next step.

This process was too slow, his wounds were too severe, and his head and fingers still required treatment. He wouldn’t survive if she couldn’t affect changes faster. One of his hands rested in her palm, his knuckles raw and bruised with three bent fingers. She could leave them for later, though waiting until he awoke seemed too cruel.

“I’m not a coward,” she muttered without conviction. Gripping one finger, she squeezed her eyes shut, and tugged in one quick pull. The muffled pop sounded like a gunshot. She dropped his hand and lurched away; losing everything in her stomach at the base of the wall.

“Shit.” Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she stared at the remaining two fingers and other hand that still needed alignment. There would be plenty of time to feel horrible later. He needed those fingers set. Then she’d work on the rest of his internal injuries and his head.
Please God, don’t let them have caused any brain damage.
She had to trust his head was hard enough to survive the abuse. A gurgle of hysteria bubbled up, but she tightened her lips and turned back with resolve.

The exact tune and the title escaped her, but the hum she issued helped her distance herself as she picked up his hand. Her volume rose to cover the sickening sounds as his bones cracked and popped. It helped a little—not enough.

One, then the next, then finally, the chore done, she cradled his hand against her lips.

Murder and violence. It was all she could think of for everyone who had raised a hand against Turen. That thing with the teeth and wrecking-ball tail. Rasheer. The soldiers. Xavier. Every damn last one of them she could kill without experiencing a whit of remorse. If only it were possible.

She lowered his hand and reassessed. There was a faster way. One that would anger him when he found out. The upside—faster progress and Turen would expend more energy on regeneration instead of just survival. The downside—she might not heal him, and if she wasn’t careful, she would slowly drift into oblivion in the process.

Another glance around the cavern confirmed that alternatives weren’t waiting in line. She lifted her shirt over her head and stood, then slid her jeans down her legs. Now, to get the best coverage. Lying beside Turen, she tucked close. She clasped her arms around his back and rolled him on to her until chest-to-chest, with his cheek alongside her head, he lay cradled inside her arms and legs.

“Okay, superman, time to come back to me. Don’t you dare opt-out. This isn’t my idea of a way to end a relationship.” With a deep breath, she clutched him tighter.

As the cold seeped in, impressions took hold in her mind—his arms around her, his body pinning her beneath him in passion, his attention to her as they talked, him positioning her body while he helped her train—all fed her determination and spun in one long reel of memories.

Minutes passed, perhaps an hour, until her body no longer registered sensations.

The ice cold of the rock against her skin had leached into her bones in perpetual numbness. Her mind started to float. Then dizziness engulfed her, followed by a strange detachment as the healing process overwhelmed her system.

She stayed where she was. He needed to regain consciousness. Even if she couldn’t keep him, she knew she could save him.

“I love you,” she murmured and drifted off.

CHAPTER 13

His leg twitched. Turen tried to stretch his hand to still the motion, but his fingers were pinned beneath him. For some reason, he couldn’t quite rationalize which body part to move to get free and blinking failed to clear his hazy vision.

One eye responded though, and with a hand finally free, he rubbed at the film. Stiff, swollen fingers resisted his efforts. It took several seconds to register that the haze wasn’t a vision problem but hair.

Soft, sleek hair.

He jerked back with a gasp. Sudden spikes of pain speared through joints and sinew, just as quickly stanched the instant he recognized Mia’s still form. Naked but for pathetic bits of lace and silk, her cold body lay sandwiched between him and the rock floor.

“No.” His roar echoed off the walls as he struggled to find her pulse. A tremor fluttered against his thumb, one too weak for comfort.

“Mia. Wake up, please.” He rolled off of her, rubbed her cheek with his, and cradled her to his chest. With her mumble against his skin, more a groan than a cohesive response, he eased his grip to let her breathe. “Stay with me, love.”

Her shiver reverberated along his skin and then increased to a harsher shake. Desperate, he rubbed his open palms over her arms and back, stroking softly as he canvassed his newest hell for any help. Her clothes lay in a pile beside them, but they wouldn’t do any good if he didn’t get some warmth circulating in her body first.

Damn it all.
She’d healed him and almost killed herself in the process.

“Come on, beautiful, show me your stubborn streak.” With awkward movements, he managed to sit and shifted her to his lap, away from the cold stone floor. “Don’t you dare leave me, Mia. That’s a new rule. Do you hear me?”

He buried a hoarse cry in her hair and searched the far side of the cave. Trails of water trickled down the wall, the air thick with the strong smell of sulfur. Disgusting, yet instead of the chill of Xavier’s supply caverns, warm moisture hung in the air. Maybe?

Mia tight in his hold, he struggled to stand. His short, stiff gait brought him to the wall and he reached out, letting the water stream across his skin. With a start, he realized his broken, twisted fingers were now straight. Sensation returned in a series of painful stings as the warmth from the heated underground spring coursed down his palm.

Every break, every strike, and every blow Shank had inflicted lodged permanently in Turen’s memory. It was hard to believe the guard had dealt worse punishment than Rasheer. Then again, Shank had taken him by surprise and didn’t want him to live.

Turen gripped the wet rock; glad for the minute pain that reassured him his hands still functioned. Mia had set his fingers, and given the chill of her body, she’d spent hours healing him. He bit back another curse and blinked at the foreign wetness in his eyes. She had found him, as always, his own little homing device. Thank God, he’d woken before she’d slipped away.