He helped me stand, wrapped his arms around my waist. I smelled blood, sweat, and patchouli, then I was moving, fast. Too fast.
Then there was the green, green, green of the jungle. Then there were arms, familiar arms, that caught and held me.
“Ryder!”
“Laney, thank gods, Laney.” He breathed into my hair as he gripped me tight, both of us clinging to the other.
A moment, two, and Rossi was back with Bathin.
“He’s wounded,” Rossi said, a bit unnecessarily since Bathin was holding his arm over a gut wound, and his eyes were unfocused. He slumped to the ground as soon as Rossi let go of him.
Myra strode over with her med kit.
“Where are Xtelle and Avnas?” I asked.
Bathin grimaced. “I told them to come. They didn’t listen. Wanted…dramatic…exit.”
He snapped his fingers. The jungle disappeared, replaced by red light.
We were inside a stone again, but Bathin was on the floor, unmoving.
“Passed out,” Myra said, as she pulled his arm away so she could deal with his gut wound. After a pause, she pulled surgical gloves, goggles, forceps and sutures and a lighter out of her pack. “Rossi, I need you to kill these gut leeches when I pull them out.”
Rossi stepped over, and there was the smell of butane. There was also the sound of Myra tugging wet things that screeched out of Bathin’s belly, and dropping them to the floor.
I caught sight of one leech-like creature with visible fangs, before Rossi smashed it, and burned it with the lighter.
I shifted in Ryder’s arms, not letting go of him. I didn’t think I physically could let go of him.
Hogan and Jean were sitting, Hogan with his back against the stone. Jean sat in between his legs. They were passing a water bottle back and forth. Hogan looked more aware than I’d last seen him.
Jean offered us a full water bottle from her backpack.
“Thanks.” I took it, swigged the liquid which I knew was only water, but that tasted amazingly sweet, then handed it to Ryder. He drank deeply until it was gone.
“Are you okay?” I asked both of them.
Hogan nodded. Jean rocked her hand back and forth in a fifty-fifty gesture.
“I think Hogan has a concussion,” she said.
“Jean broke her ankle and won’t wish me to heal it,” Hogan said. “I’m not happy about that.”
“Concussion,” she said, like this had been an ongoing argument. “Heal thyself, genie. Then you can heal others.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “Why aren’t you doing that?”
“He’s exhausted,” Jean said, when Hogan wouldn’t answer. “Magic takes energy. Wishes take alotof energy and focus. Why do you think all the legends say genies only grant three wishes?”
“Because the story wouldn’t have any tension otherwise?”
She flashed me a grin. “Well, yeah. But also, there is a limit to wish giving. That’s what the stories are rooted in.”
“I can grant wishes,” Hogan said, but I heard the exhaustion in his tone.
“Did you take pain-killers?” I asked Jean.
She nodded again. “Wrapped it in an ankle brace Myra had on her. It doesn’t hurt if I don’t move. You should sit down. We’re safe here.”
