If he would take it.
“Come on, son. Drink,” Tegan murmured. Resheathing the dagger, he used his free hand to open Micah’s mouth.
It wasn’t going to work.
The fresh blood pooled on his tongue, only a few drops making it down his throat.
If he couldn’t swallow, he couldn’t drink.
And if he couldn’t drink, he was going to die.
Either way, Tegan had to get him out of there.
With a growl, he pulled the man’s wrist to his mouth and sealed the wound with a swipe of his tongue. The bleeding stopped at once, the skin healing over almost instantly.
The young Kazakh scrambled away from him, sputtering something in his native language as he stared at his vanishing injury.
Tegan stood up and walked over to the old man who had given Micah shelter and care these past few crucial days and nights. There was a wariness in the dark eyes that stared back at him, but there seemed to be an understanding, even sympathy, in the old patriarch’s lined face. Understanding that needed no translation.
Tegan extended his hand. “Thank you for looking after my son.”
The aged human reached out, his grasp surprisingly firm as he gave a nod of acknowledgment.
While the younger Kazakh continued to inspect his wrist and hyperventilate on the other side of the tent, Tegan strode to Micah’s bedside and took out the satellite phone he’d carried with him since leaving the States. He would need to call Elise and let her know he’d found their son.
But first, he needed to make arrangements to get him home.
He punched in the code that connected him to a secured line at the Order’s Washington, D.C., headquarters.
“I have him,” he told Lucan Thorne, the founder of the Order and Tegan’s oldest friend. “I’ve got Micah.”
The exhalation on the other end of the line was filled with relief. “And the rest of his team?”
“Just Micah. He’s in bad shape. It doesn’t look good for the others, Lucan.” He glanced down at Micah on the cot, his slack lips stained with the blood he desperately needed but had barely absorbed. “Ah, fuck, Lucan. It doesn’t look good for my son, either.”
“We’re on it,” Lucan replied, his low voice grim but steady with resolve. “We’ve already got your coordinates. Gideon’s making arrangements to have a medevac team on the ground to pick you up ASAP.”
“Thanks.”
“No thanks required. You ought to know that by now, brother.”
Yeah, he did. Tegan fell silent, unable to express how much he needed to hear his friend’s reassurances. In the background, he heard the traces of Gideon’s British accent as he spoke and the clack of his fingers typing on a computer keyboard.
“Gideon says Lazaro Archer’s already responded to the call,” Lucan said. “He’s dispatching one of his units from Rome as we speak.”
“Okay.” Tegan stole another look at his son. He couldn’t hold back the jagged sigh that tore out of him. “And Lucan? Tell Lazaro to hurry.”
CHAPTER 3
Ash clung to the back of his parched throat.
Micah tried to swallow, but his jaw felt rusted tight. His tongue was thick, his mouth as dry as a desert. He groaned, and was shocked to hear the low sound vibrate deep in his chest.
He was alive?
Fuck.
Pain in his lungs as he choked in a gasping breath wrenched his crusted eyelids open, but only for a second. His retinas felt aflame, still seared from the explosion of light that had come out of nowhere and lit up the ghostly forest brighter than the midday sun.
