Eamon shrugs, “Most of that blood’s not hers. Smelled the same stuff off some dead guy with a nasty gash in his jugular. And there was a bunch of glass on the ground. Put two and two together.”
“Go, Bel,” Isla comments, trying to find the positivity in this situation, much like the rest of us.
“Oh, she was bad-ass. You would have been proud, Little Hunter,” he taunts her again, causing her to roll her eyes. But the blush spreading across her cheeks leads me to believe the nickname had the opposite of Eamon’s desired effect.
Or… not. Never have I seen a more smug smile than the one gracing Eamon’s face right now. Isla looks as though she would like very much to point a gun at him again, yet he seems like the happiest man alive. I think for a moment that the two of them will either kill each other or be the most terrifyingly powerful couple in the world, but before I can give it any more thought, Fritz interrupts.
“What the fuck happened?”
I look to where Bel is finally deep in slumber, sprawled across the couch with nothing on but the scraps they kept her in. Fritz drapes a blanket over the top of her, but she’ll need a lot more than that to keep her warm. Even in her sleep, she continues to sniffle and shake from the crash. I make my way over and ease her onto my lap, using my body heat to keep her warm.
Eamon explains, “They were doing some torture chamber showtime and Bel was next. Seems like we barely got there in time, but as you can see, she did a little damage on her way out.” He gestures to her damaged hand before walking toward us, “I can stitch that up, but it went clean through her hand so it might not ever be right again.”
Isla stares at her friend in obvious distress, so I suggest she return home. As it turns out, that was the wrong thing to say right now. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she scoffs, “She got taken because of you. You’re lucky I’m even letting you touch her right now.” She walks over and sits on the couch beside me, not taking her eyes off Bel for a second.
The giant asshole kneeling before me snickers as he works on Bel’s hand. When she whimpers in her sleep, he whispers, “Sorry,” though she can’t hear him. After cleaning and stitching her hand back together, he wraps it in some gauzy film and stands, looking down at us, “I’m real sorry it played out like this. But, hey, look at the bright side. Most of ’em don’t make it out at all.”
Fritz continues his pacing, surely overwhelmed by all the adrenaline he just sapped from our little warrior. Breaking our uncomfortable silence, he finally asks, “When do we take them down?”
“You don’t,” Eamon tells him, “Weren’t you listening? You only barely got her back alive. If you try to go after ’em, it’s suicide. You hear me?”
Fritz’s wounded look tears me up inside, but I agree, “You didn’t see this place, Fritz. They’re a full-fledged army now, and that was just one compound. What we need to do is get Bel the fuck out of here.”
His wounded expression kills me as he utters, “But, I promised.”
“Yeah, you fucked up there,” Eamon tells him, “But she’ll get over it. Just move her somewhere they can’t find her again, cuz you won’t get that lucky twice.”
“She won’t get over it,” Isla states, “She’ll go back by herself if you assholes don’t go with her. She won’t let this go. Who’s Mavis?”
“I don’t know,” I confess, “But what can be done? Her safety is the only thing that matters. I won’t let them have her again.” I hate knowing that I’ll have to stop Bel from being the fierce fighter that she is, but I won’t allow her to put herself in harm’s way because of this.
I fear the long road of healing she has ahead of her. Witnessing something like she has, on top of the pain and agony she endured… I would not wish this kind of suffering on anyone. I look down at her sleeping form again, so unlike the peaceful rests I’ve watched before. Her whole body continues shaking as she’s mumbling in her sleep, begging someone to stop.
We thank Eamon repeatedly, as many times as he’ll allow before he transcends time and space back from whence he came. I know Bel needs to be cleaned up, but I think she would feel violated if that happened while there was a stranger in her home. Isla grabs a towel and some soap from the bathroom and begins gently rubbing the blood from Bel’s trembling arms.
“I can clean her, Isla. Truly, it’s no trouble. It’ll only take a moment,” I gently prod.
With a sniffle, she nods, “Okay. I’ll… I’ll just…” she looks at us, “I don’t know how to be helpful right now. I’m so out of my element.”
“Let’s go get her something to eat. She’ll need comfort food when she wakes up and a fun bevvie?” Fritz suggests. Isla continues staring at her friend, uncertain whether or not she should be leaving her side. Fritz continues, “Come on. I’ll tell you about the time I started a revolution in Russia.”
With a small smile, she sets her cleaning supplies down and stands, wiping her hands on her pant legs. With another glance at Bel, they slowly make their way to the door, talking amongst themselves about how long it’ll take to gather the needed sustenance and whether or not Bel will need alcohol when she wakes. The answer to that is a resounding yes from them both, and I think to myself how wonderful it is they’re beginning to get along.
As I clean Bel with my powers, gently ridding her of the blood and mystery substance coating her, I consider all the healing she’ll need. Not only her hand, but mentally and emotionally, along with her relationship with Isla. I’m eternally grateful that we have our girl back, but she’s been through so much I fear she’s only going to be halfway here for a while.
I must accidentally swipe a sore spot because she winces and flutters her eyes open, staring into nothing for a few moments before focusing on me. She blinks a few times, clearing her head before she reaches for my hand and places it on her cheek.
Clearing the growing lump in my throat, I whisper, “Hello, my warrior.”
She gifts me with a small smile, tears filling her eyes, “Hello, Caspian,” before rubbing her face against my palm, searching for the comfort of my touch. I stroke my thumb against her cheekbone, full of relief that she’s more herself now than she was before.
After I place a chaste kiss on her forehead, I tell her, “We need to get you cleaned up, love. I can keep doing it with magic, but-”
She shakes her head vehemently, “I want to shower. I don’t think I’ll feel clean until I do.” Extracting herself from my lap, she tries to stand on shaky legs. She releases a sob, covering her mouth as she sees the blood still covering her legs and the scraps of cloth across her body. “Is this all mine?”
I purse my lips, holding her hips to steady her, “No, Bel. The only place you were bleeding from is your hand,” she stares at the covered injury in question, “Eamon gave you some stitches. He said you took out somebody.”
“Don’t sugarcoat it, Caspian. I killed someone,” she states coldly. I simply nod, unable to repeat the words. “I killed him.”
