Antonio jerked again against Calloway’s grip.This time, his hand slid free.He backed away, one step, then another, his whole body threatening to shake.
“Better run,” he managed to spit out.“Before the monster gets you.”
“No, Antonio, please!Listen!”
But Antonio was already turning, seeing for the first time what Calloway had tried to hide.
Declan.The sluagh stood alone, surrounded by blood and rotten flesh.He was fighting something, a figure that seemed as much water as woman.He was winning.
Fuck.Washe winning?The thing had a tentacle around his neck, its hands reaching for his face, and Antonio wouldkillCalloway for this.He would.Except, when he glanced over his shoulder, the wisp was already gone.
A scream, and when Antonio looked again, Declan’s attacker was turning black, skin bubbling and bursting, spewing fresh gore on the sands.And Declan?Declan was bleeding.
Antonio broke into a run.
“Stop!”Declan called out.“Don’t touch anything.I’ll– Shite.I’ll come to you.”
Antonio didn’t want to stop.He wanted to get to Declan, clean the blood from that pale skin.He needed tohelp.But he stood, trying not to gag at the smell of rotting flesh, because he trusted the bastard, and Declan trusted him.
Declan also, apparently, felt like stripping.Which made sense.If Antonio’s sweater was covered in rotting fishperson, he’d be stripping too.And thank fuck for shock and rot and Declan bleeding, because at least this memory would only ever be a nightmare, not a betrayal.
How had Antonio been so fuckingstupid?Wandering after the pretty music while Declan fought for his life.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, breathing shallowly through his mouth between the words.“I’m so fucking sorry.I wasn’t thinking.”
“If you get to apologize for being magicked, I reserve the right to apologize for not grabbing you up or noticing the voids fucked fog sooner.”Declan tossed his balled-up shirt to the side and kicked off his boots before starting on his jeans.
“Like hell,” Antonio answered, wondering if he should look away.But he couldn’t.He needed to see Declan, to know the sluagh was safe.“Fine.We both blame Calloway.”
“Fair enough.”Declan nodded to the space between them–still too much of it–and a road flare came into being.“Set that off, would you?Get Florian here.You’re not harmed?”
The flare must have been manifested, not glamoured into being, because Antonio could see it.Even with everything, bleeding and stripped to his skivvies, Declan had remembered.
“You’re the one bleeding,” he said, picking up the flare.His hands were steady.His breathing wasn’t.“I’m alright.Because of you, I’m alright.”
“I know how to heal myself up.”Declan used his jeans to clean the gore from his skin as he spoke.“I’d much rather it be me if we’re to be honest.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t.You could heal me, too.”
The flare was comforting in his hand, solid and simple.Antonio made himself focus on it, the act of taking off the cap, finding a flat, unbloodied piece of ground, and lighting it with the rough surface of the striker.It went up in a shower of sparks, casting the whole gruesome scene in shades of orange.
“I’m attempting to think of something to lighten the mood,” Declan said, discarding his jeans with a frown.“Unfortunately, I’m coming up quite short.We can move further away if you like.I’m … well, as acceptable as I’m like to be, until we get home.Some substances cannot be simply magicked away.”
Something was wrong.Well, just about everything was fucking wrong.But this was in the bond, a bitterness in the comfort of smoke.And Antonio wasn’t exactly Mr.Feelings, but he knew regret.The tense anticipation of breaking.
He knew Declan with his wings pressed against his back.
Right.Do something.Now.
“But other than that, Mrs.Lincoln, how did you like the beach?”A cautious riff on Antonio’s favorite dark joke.
Laughter, low and rasping and real, the bitter tension easing into surprise.Antonio stripped off his sweater, the oversized blue one Mara had given him for Christmas, and held it out with a weak smile.
“Here, Murderpunk.Just looking at you’s making me cold.”
“My thanks.”Soft words as Declan pulled on the sweater.Ridiculously oversized on him, sliding off one shoulder and drowning him in pale blue.
“You–”
