“We’ve got to kill those motherfuckers.”
Out in the concrete corridor, John glanced across as Vishous spoke up. The Brother was lighting a hand-rolled, his teeth holding the cigarette in place, his glowing hand doing the duty of a Bic. His slashing brows were so low, they distorted the tattoos on his temple.
“Those fucking shadows need to be over,” he muttered.
John refocused on the closed door of the operating room. It was impossible for him not to feel responsible for what Murhder was going through. Even as John knew he hadn’t volunteered to get stung, his reaction to the wound … this shit with Murhder … he was never going to forgive himself if the male died on his account.
“John.” Xhex’s voice was low, barely above a whisper. “This is not your fault. You did not do this.”
Turning his back to the crowd, so no one could translate, he signed, They did the right thing.
“What are you talking about?”
The rattling of chains coming through the closed door made him close his eyes. It was all he could do to keep from screaming.
Refocusing, he signed, Not letting me into the Brotherhood. They did the right thing.
Xhex shook her head and said softly, “What are you talking about? Every one of them has gotten injured at one time or another.”
Not like this.
“Just stop,” she said with exhaustion. “You’re not making any sense.”
He turned back around and faced the door. The bumping and slamming, the rattling, the barked orders of the medical staff on the far side of the wood panel—it was the soundtrack to a nightmare. And as he listened to the different noises, separating each component of the suffering, he felt a shift in the center of his chest.
Xhex was right. He was being ridiculous. He had fought with courage and strength, and what he had happened to him could have happened to anyone. What did it matter whether or not he was a Brother?
Murhder wasn’t one any longer, and look at the male of worth he was, sacrificing himself for somebody he barely knew, putting his life on the very line.
I will fight in your honor, he vowed to the male on that operating table. I’m going to take this cure after they’re done with you, and if I live through it, I will evermore fight for you.
Xhex tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be harsh.”
I love you, he signed. With all my heart. Always.
His shellan gave him a strong hug. And then as she tucked herself against him, she trained those gunmetal-gray eyes on the door. As he studied her profile, he decided he’d been very lucky in his life. In spite of all the setbacks and the hard start, his female was his luck. She was his good fortune. She was his risen star that guided him to a safe harbor.
Looking around at the Brotherhood, at his friends, at the shellans who had showed up in support, he decided that, whatever higher power was up there after the Scribe Virgin’s disappearance, surely it would respond to all this collective worry over what was, without a doubt, a male of worth.
Surely it would help.
Surely the one overseeing them was a savior instead of a foe.
Murhder was totally unaware of the passage of time. The roaring heat inside of him stripped everything away, and yet, as he burned in the fire, he knew he would come through. He had been here before. He had lived through what the symphaths had done to him, had survived the torture of his mind turning against his body—and even though this was the reverse, his body turning against his mind, he knew he was going to make it.
Strength did not exist unless it was tested.
And he had been tested before.
There was no end in sight, no hint of an easing, no relent to any of the present suffering, but there had been none of that before. That was the nature of torture—it was not just the pain; it was the not knowing when, or even if, the end was coming. But he knew better than to believe in all that forevermore nonsense. There was going to be a terminal event: Either the agony stopped or he did.
And until either of those happened, it was just a miserable waiting game—that he could withstand.
Hell, the chaos in his brain caused by the symphaths had been much worse than all this. At least now, in the center of the firestorm, he was still himself. Even though he was blinded, unable to hear, lost in the sea of suffering, he still he knew who he was. He knew where he was. He knew why he was putting himself through this.
Most importantly, he knew who he loved.
When the symphaths had played with him, when they had filled his head full of terrible images and thoughts—triggers, triggers, everywhere—he had lost himself and his way. Anchorless, with nothing really significant to live for, he had floated off into an ether of madness. And afterward, when it was over, he had not been able to find his way back.
No matter how hard he had tried to ahvenge Xhex.
Now, however, this kiln of incredible heat, coupled with his bonding for Sarah, forged him like steel, the remaining scattered parts of him uniting and hardening … baking into an unassailable whole … sealing up, the cracks gone.
His foundation once again became solid and strong in this second transition of his.
The instant the conviction arrived unto him, he snapped free from his spasming body, his soul floating up over the table he was tied down on, his closed eyes nonetheless seeing his arms and legs strain and jerk, his ribs pump from hard breath, his head thrash.
He watched himself.
And the medical staff. And especially his Sarah. She was right by him, standing next to him, hand on his shoulder no matter how much his torso twisted and pulled. She was his angel, making sure he came through.
I’ll be back soon, my love, he said from his lofty observation. I’m here with you now—
Sarah looked up abruptly, sure as if she heard him.
I’m coming back. I promise …
The next thing Murhder was aware of was silence. Stillness.
He came awake, but it was inside the cage of his body. His eyes were closed—either that or the blindness he’d experienced was permanent—and he couldn’t really feel the bed under him. He did even know if he was having seizures anymore or not.
Beep. Beep. Beep—
His lids lifted slowly. All he saw was white, and for a moment, he thought, Goddamn it, I’ve died. This white landscape is the Fade. After all his “I’m going to make it through this,” he’d ended up dying—
Sarah’s face appeared above his own, and blocked out the brilliant light. “Hi,” she said softly. “You’re back.”
Murhder started to smile. He wasn’t sure exactly how well he managed it. His mouth felt loose as yarn.
“Back …” His voice was like sandpaper. “Back to you.”
She was gentle as she brushed his newly shorn hair at his temples. “You were so brave.”
“What … happened? Results?”
“It looks good. It looks really promising. We’ve ordered a second set of the drug. Havers said he should have it by nightfall. If I’m right, it’s John’s best shot at a cure.”
“You’re … going to be … right.”
As Murhder’s eyelids became heavy as garage doors, he fought to keep them open.
“It’s okay,” he heard her say. “You rest.” ;
“We’ve got to kill those motherfuckers.”
Out in the concrete corridor, John glanced across as Vishous spoke up. The Brother was lighting a hand-rolled, his teeth holding the cigarette in place, his glowing hand doing the duty of a Bic. His slashing brows were so low, they distorted the tattoos on his temple.
“Those fucking shadows need to be over,” he muttered.
John refocused on the closed door of the operating room. It was impossible for him not to feel responsible for what Murhder was going through. Even as John knew he hadn’t volunteered to get stung, his reaction to the wound … this shit with Murhder … he was never going to forgive himself if the male died on his account.
“John.” Xhex’s voice was low, barely above a whisper. “This is not your fault. You did not do this.”
Turning his back to the crowd, so no one could translate, he signed, They did the right thing.
“What are you talking about?”
The rattling of chains coming through the closed door made him close his eyes. It was all he could do to keep from screaming.
Refocusing, he signed, Not letting me into the Brotherhood. They did the right thing.
Xhex shook her head and said softly, “What are you talking about? Every one of them has gotten injured at one time or another.”
Not like this.
“Just stop,” she said with exhaustion. “You’re not making any sense.”
He turned back around and faced the door. The bumping and slamming, the rattling, the barked orders of the medical staff on the far side of the wood panel—it was the soundtrack to a nightmare. And as he listened to the different noises, separating each component of the suffering, he felt a shift in the center of his chest.
Xhex was right. He was being ridiculous. He had fought with courage and strength, and what he had happened to him could have happened to anyone. What did it matter whether or not he was a Brother?
Murhder wasn’t one any longer, and look at the male of worth he was, sacrificing himself for somebody he barely knew, putting his life on the very line.
I will fight in your honor, he vowed to the male on that operating table. I’m going to take this cure after they’re done with you, and if I live through it, I will evermore fight for you.
Xhex tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be harsh.”
I love you, he signed. With all my heart. Always.
His shellan gave him a strong hug. And then as she tucked herself against him, she trained those gunmetal-gray eyes on the door. As he studied her profile, he decided he’d been very lucky in his life. In spite of all the setbacks and the hard start, his female was his luck. She was his good fortune. She was his risen star that guided him to a safe harbor.
Looking around at the Brotherhood, at his friends, at the shellans who had showed up in support, he decided that, whatever higher power was up there after the Scribe Virgin’s disappearance, surely it would respond to all this collective worry over what was, without a doubt, a male of worth.
Surely it would help.
Surely the one overseeing them was a savior instead of a foe.
Murhder was totally unaware of the passage of time. The roaring heat inside of him stripped everything away, and yet, as he burned in the fire, he knew he would come through. He had been here before. He had lived through what the symphaths had done to him, had survived the torture of his mind turning against his body—and even though this was the reverse, his body turning against his mind, he knew he was going to make it.
Strength did not exist unless it was tested.
And he had been tested before.
There was no end in sight, no hint of an easing, no relent to any of the present suffering, but there had been none of that before. That was the nature of torture—it was not just the pain; it was the not knowing when, or even if, the end was coming. But he knew better than to believe in all that forevermore nonsense. There was going to be a terminal event: Either the agony stopped or he did.
And until either of those happened, it was just a miserable waiting game—that he could withstand.
Hell, the chaos in his brain caused by the symphaths had been much worse than all this. At least now, in the center of the firestorm, he was still himself. Even though he was blinded, unable to hear, lost in the sea of suffering, he still he knew who he was. He knew where he was. He knew why he was putting himself through this.
Most importantly, he knew who he loved.
When the symphaths had played with him, when they had filled his head full of terrible images and thoughts—triggers, triggers, everywhere—he had lost himself and his way. Anchorless, with nothing really significant to live for, he had floated off into an ether of madness. And afterward, when it was over, he had not been able to find his way back.
No matter how hard he had tried to ahvenge Xhex.
Now, however, this kiln of incredible heat, coupled with his bonding for Sarah, forged him like steel, the remaining scattered parts of him uniting and hardening … baking into an unassailable whole … sealing up, the cracks gone.
His foundation once again became solid and strong in this second transition of his.
The instant the conviction arrived unto him, he snapped free from his spasming body, his soul floating up over the table he was tied down on, his closed eyes nonetheless seeing his arms and legs strain and jerk, his ribs pump from hard breath, his head thrash.
He watched himself.
And the medical staff. And especially his Sarah. She was right by him, standing next to him, hand on his shoulder no matter how much his torso twisted and pulled. She was his angel, making sure he came through.
I’ll be back soon, my love, he said from his lofty observation. I’m here with you now—
Sarah looked up abruptly, sure as if she heard him.
I’m coming back. I promise …
The next thing Murhder was aware of was silence. Stillness.
He came awake, but it was inside the cage of his body. His eyes were closed—either that or the blindness he’d experienced was permanent—and he couldn’t really feel the bed under him. He did even know if he was having seizures anymore or not.
Beep. Beep. Beep—
His lids lifted slowly. All he saw was white, and for a moment, he thought, Goddamn it, I’ve died. This white landscape is the Fade. After all his “I’m going to make it through this,” he’d ended up dying—
Sarah’s face appeared above his own, and blocked out the brilliant light. “Hi,” she said softly. “You’re back.”
Murhder started to smile. He wasn’t sure exactly how well he managed it. His mouth felt loose as yarn.
“Back …” His voice was like sandpaper. “Back to you.”
She was gentle as she brushed his newly shorn hair at his temples. “You were so brave.”
“What … happened? Results?”
“It looks good. It looks really promising. We’ve ordered a second set of the drug. Havers said he should have it by nightfall. If I’m right, it’s John’s best shot at a cure.”
“You’re … going to be … right.”
As Murhder’s eyelids became heavy as garage doors, he fought to keep them open.
“It’s okay,” he heard her say. “You rest.”