Mae took a deep breath, steadying herself before launching into whatever medical magic she controlled. In the next moment, sparks rippled over Scylla’s body as Mae gathered her own information from Scylla’s state.
“How? Who would hurt Scylla?” Mae helped Prospero lower Scylla onto the bed, as if the magic radiating out of her in a glittering shower required no effort.
“No pulse,” Prospero started.
“It’s still there. Faint. She’s alive, not by much.” Mae continued to run her magic over Scylla. The sparks were now illuminating the whole room like an invisible fire burned and flashed, leaving behind only the waterfall of shimmering magic.
The simple truth that Scylla was not dead was enough to make Prospero feel like some weight fell from her shoulders. It didn’t fix the barrier, but once Scylla was healed,shecould fix it.Everything will be fine. Scylla will be fine.Prospero stared down at her oldest friend.She has to be.
“If you hadn’t got her to me now…” Mae let the words dangle, not giving voice to the fate that could have befallen the unconscious witch. Sometimes when she was healing, Mae seemed to be only half-aware that she was speaking. It was one of her many charms. She stared at her patient, magic zinging around her like a stellar show.
“But youcanfix her…?”
“I can try.” Mae looked up at Prospero briefly and demanded, “What do you know? Who did this? Where? With what? Tell me.” The doctor made a gesture as if she could pull the very words from Prospero’s mouth.
“Her abdomen. There’s moss on a wound.” Prospero wasn’t sure of the who or why. She had theories, but theories wouldn’t help Scylla. “I don’t know what they used. Maybe a—”
A scream ripped through the room.
Scylla, even unconscious, flinched and yelled as Mae removed the moss from her stomach without an audible word.
“Bullet.” Mae paused, glaring at Scylla’s abdomen. “Get water. Hot enough to hurt.”
Prospero flinched in empathy, but she knew that Mae’s magic was guiding her. They’d been in such places more often than Prospero wanted to recall. Strangers, new witches, had bled and vomited and screamed as Mae repaired them well enough to stabilize them.
And Prospero had assisted her too often.
Most of them survived.
Scylla will survive.
Medicine wasn’t her magical strength, but she was adept enough to be useful. And as the proximity to death seemed to be the spark that awakened a witch’s magic, Prospero had carried in plenty of witches who were approaching death’s door. A handful were beyond recovery, but most of those witches were patched and spackled and medicated to the point of health. Then the magic took over.
Scylla has to survive.
Prospero opened one of Mae’s cabinets and unerringly retrieved the purified water. Things were in the same places they’d been for years, although the water wasn’t always bottled. Familiarity created expediency, and speed was essential in such moments.
Prospero’s hands shook as she poured purified water into a vat and heated it as she carried it over to Mae.
“She’s going to be unconscious a while with the blood loss and pain,” Mae said, as if the jerking of Scylla’s body weren't already proof of that. Mae tipped a sachet of various herbs she’d drawn from one of her apron pockets into the vat, and the scent of boiling tincture made Prospero’s stomach clench.
The vat visibly cooled under Mae’s touch, and then she poured the water over Scylla’s stomach. It sizzled like acid, and Prospero reminded herself that she could trust Mae.
Mae heals, not hurts.
Still, when Scylla’s eyes opened briefly, locking with Prospero’s, it took effort not to shove the doctor away. Prospero’s hands balled into fists when Scylla lurched sideways, as if to escape the agony. The look of rare betrayal was one Prospero hoped never to see again on her friend’s face, especially aimed at her.
“Mae will fix you,” Prospero promised. “I brought you to Mae. You’re safe.Safe,Scylla.”
But Scylla still tried to escape.
“Grab her!” Mae ordered. She was shaking from whatever magic shewas still using, and Prospero hoped that she was strong enough to fix this. Once or twice, Mae’s magic was not enough.
The battery. We need Monahan.
But Prospero couldn’t go get him. Not yet. Right now, Prospero’s hands were firm on Scylla’s shoulders, and she bodily blocked her from escape as she took a wide-legged stance and braced. Scylla was taller and stronger.
“Your magic,” Mae snapped.
