Flesh and Blood

And blood. He mentally begged her forgiveness as he shook off the troublesome thoughts. The Kubai Mata had made him into something more than human, but they hadn’t erased the mortal nature he’d been born with. Refocused, he fetched clean water and towels, laid out the necessary things for what he was about to do, and sat on the bed beside her.

She murmured something.

‘It’s all right. You’re safe.’

Again, her lips parted in a half moan, half whisper. ‘Mal.’

Of course she would ask for the vampire she professed not to love. ‘No, you’re with Creek.’ The words came out harsher than he intended.

Her eyes fluttered open. This was not a good time for her to wake. Not when he had seventy-plus stitches to sew into her flesh. ‘Creek?’

‘Yes.’ Beneath all that gold, she was pale except for the dark smudges shadowing her eyes. He put a hand to her forehead, but even before he made contact, the heat rising off her skin seared his palm. Fever had set in, brought on by the hellhound’s poison. Poison he’d been sealed against. Delirium could not be far behind for her. Meanwhile, his leg had already begun to heal.

‘Creek.’ The word wasn’t a question this time. ‘The … Kubai Mata.’

He dipped a towel into the water and gently wiped away the crusting blood from her wound. ‘That’s right. KM.’ Maybe keeping her talking would help get her through the pain.

But she said nothing else, nor did she flinch at his touch, even as he neared the ragged skin. Her eyes stayed closed and her breathing took on a rhythmic cadence. She hummed softly, a tune he’d never heard.

Cleaning finished, he threaded a sterilized needle. ‘I’m going to stitch now.’

She nodded in slow motion. He said a quick prayer and made the first stitch. Not a flinch. Eased by her stoic ability to take the pain, he proceeded without looking up until the first gash was closed. Twenty-four of the neatest stitches he’d ever made. His head came up, proud of his work.

Tears streamed from the corners of her closed eyes.

His gut tightened and a small tremor ran through him. He set the needle aside and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. Cap unscrewed, he held it out as he sat back down. ‘Here, drink some of this.’

Her eyes opened, her pupils barely focusing on the bottle. ‘No alcohol for comarré. Must keep the blood … pure.’

‘You need it for the pain.’

She closed her eyes again. ‘Comarré don’t feel pain.’ Her voice was thready and weak.

‘You were crying.’ But he didn’t push it.

She didn’t answer, instead going back to the repetitious breathing and humming. He took a long pull of whiskey to settle the sudden case of nerves he’d gotten before putting the bottle aside and taking up the needle again. The tears didn’t return.

Finally, he finished. He taped gauze over the stitches and sat back. ‘I’m all done. I did the best I could, but there will probably be a scar.’

She answered with a sound like faraway laughter. ‘Comarré don’t scar.’

He covered her with the sheet. ‘Get some sleep. I’m going to shower, then I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’ Maybe her system could work the poison out on its own. Maybe the fever was already burning it away. If not, he’d call Argent. Or maybe take her to his grandmother. She might know how to fix this.

He went downstairs and started a pot of coffee. Then, in the small bathroom, he stripped down and checked his leg. More of a deep gouge now. Already the edges were closed. By the time he’d finished showering, it was a long red weal. Wearing only a towel, he added his ruined jeans to the pile of clothes to be burned, poured the coffee into a thermos, and went back upstairs. He set the thermos on the bedside table – Chrysabelle seemed to be asleep – and turned to dress.

He was wrong.

‘Your marks,’ she whispered. ‘You really are Kubai Mata.’

He glanced over his shoulder. One finger lifted off the bed to point at his back. He’d already dropped the towel, so he stayed where he was. So what if she’d seen his marks? They weren’t sacred. Not exactly. Chances were good she wouldn’t remember anything after this fever was done with her anyway. ‘Go back to sleep. You’ve got a fever and you need to rest.’

‘Musta hurt,’ she whispered as she seemed to succumb to sleep again.

Like hell, he wanted to say, but she knew all about that, didn’t she? In fresh jeans and a clean T-shirt, he settled next to her on the bed, his back against the plywood-barricaded window that made up the side wall, his shirt sticking to his damp body. He was about to pour a cup of coffee when she started talking softly. He almost couldn’t hear her.

‘I don’t want to die.’

The words were so plaintive, so earnest they gave him a chill. He scrunched down beside her, brushed a few strands of hair from her face. Her skin burned beneath his fingertips. ‘You’re not going to die, I promise.’

She moaned and struggled to sit. He wrapped his arms around her to keep her immobile until she calmed. ‘No.’ She tensed. ‘I need to find my brother.’

‘Your brother is fine.’ He pulled back to see her face. Red flushed her cheeks, making her signum stand out like flames. The poison rode her hard. Her mind was suffering. Comarré didn’t have family, not in the true sense of the word. Perhaps she spoke of a comar she’d been close to.

She pulled against him, frantic. Despite her injury, she was incredibly strong. Pinpoints of blood leaked through the gauze. He swung his leg over hers to hold her down. Still, she persisted. ‘Where is he?’ ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">