A long, cold beat. Then, “Yeah, Archon Seraphael.” His voice dropped a register. “You’re not thinking it’s to the point you need that kind of intervention?”
I was. I was so fucking desperate I’d summon a demon if it would put color back in Parker’s lips.
“Can you contact him?” I asked. “I know it’s insane. But she—I can’t lose her. Can’t let her go.”
Menace’s reply was all gravel. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll call you back.”
I hung up before he could say more. The shame was a stone in my chest, but it was smaller than the fear.
Back in the room, I watched the blue digits on the monitor roll over, then back, like a slot machine stuck on a losing streak. Parker’s mouth twitched, then settled. I counted her breaths: nine a minute. I willed it to ten. Twelve. I stroked her hair, now sticky with sweat, and whispered nothing words into the space between us.
Nurses came and went, shadows in the night. One offered to bring me coffee. I shook my head. If I left, she might be gone when I got back.
I took off my jacket, used it to cover her toes, tried not to think of the morgue slab Doc would roll her onto if the numbers didn’t turn around. I squeezed her hand, thumb pressed to her wrist, counting not the pulse but the proof that something of her was still in there.
The world shrank to that touch.
I fell into a daze, half-waking, half-dreaming, the hours ticking by with no change in the pattern. At some point, the janitor passed in the hallway, his mop squealing on the tile like a rat ina trap. He never looked in, never made a sound. I envied him his work: clean the mess, move on. Repeat.
Menace texted just before 3:00 a.m.:Will try at dawn. Hang on, brother.
I set the phone aside and waited for the light to shift again.
I didn’t let go.
The night didn’t end, just wore out. I’d memorized every second of her heartbeat, the way the color in her face seemed to fade in and out with each nurse’s shift. I counted the needle marks on her arms: four on the left, five on the right. IV drip was half-gone by dawn, the liquid silver shrinking with every tick of the clock.
I’d promised Menace I’d wait for daylight, but the sky outside stayed coal-black. I didn’t close my eyes, not once.
The first hint of change was Doc’s footsteps, heavy on the tile. He came in with a new file, thumbed through the printouts, then looked at me instead of her. “It stopped,” he said. “The swelling. It’s receded.”
I didn’t get it at first. I’d lived in crisis mode so long, my brain couldn’t process good news. “What do you mean, receded?”
He dropped the scan on the counter, pointed with a capped pen. “See this? Last night, pressure was rising. This morning, it’s baseline. No medical reason for it. None.” He didn’t say miracle. He didn’t have to.
I blinked, stared at Parker’s forehead, expecting the skin to split, expecting the universe to take it back. But it didn’t. Her hand was warmer now. The blue had faded from her lips. I let out a breath and said a silent thank you to whatever bastard angel Menace had roped into this.
Doc checked her vitals, tapped a note into his phone, and left with a nod. “If she makes it through the day, she’s out of the woods. You can stay, but don’t expect her to wake up soon.”
I stayed. I watched the monitors, ignoring the hunger that gnawed at my ribs, the stench of sweat pooling undermy shirt. Every few hours, the nurse came to check her, and every time, I flinched like she’d come to tell me it was over.
Sometime around three, the rhythm changed. Parker’s eyes flickered under the lids. Her fingers twitched. I leaned in, whispering, “You’re not done yet, little bird. You gotta wake up and call me an asshole.”
She did eventually. Her eyes cracked open, unfocused at first, pupils blown wide. She croaked, “You smell like you fought a sewer rat and lost.”
I laughed, the sound more like a sob. “Missed you, too,” I said, and squeezed her hand until I thought I’d break it.
The first hours were a blur of micro-conversations. She answered Doc’s questions. Gave a smartass reply. Mentioned seeing her mother. Doc had a snide remark. She asked about Rocket, about Maddie, about the house. She didn’t ask if she was dying, and I didn’t tell her she almost had. The room felt smaller with her awake, and the machines seemed less hungry for her blood.
On day two, she could sit up with help. She winced with every breath, ribs wrapped in tight bands, her arm in a brace and tape over her temple. I found a brush in the visitor’s bathroom and tried to detangle her hair. She made fun of my technique, but let me finish.
Later, when we were alone, she said, “I saw my mother. When I died.” The words dropped like a body from a bridge. “I told her I’d found my mate, and it was you. She told me she always knew it was. I told her I had to get back to you.”
I pressed my lips to her knuckles and said nothing. My throat had locked up.
She studied the window, the faded sky. “It felt wonderful there, so peaceful, but my pull to you was stronger than wanting to stay there with her. She told me it wasn’t my time to be there. And to listen. That’s when I heard you calling me.”
She went quiet, and I watched the side of her face. The bruises were already fading, the cut on her cheek closing up like an afterthought.
