Except her. She clears her throat. “You should have. You suffered this long when you didn’t have to.”
“Being a sick kid has given me a high pain tolerance.”
“Understandable, but pain doesn’t make you stronger; it tires you out, makes your body focus on the wrong thing enough for a minor curse like this to spread. Like it is now.” Little red spots form on his chest and side. The more complex bruises darken from brown to black to a deep purple. “Soon, it’ll be too much to contain.”
“Any lasting effects?”
“Luckily it’s low stakes to heal, but if it were higher, you’d need a healer, or at least a doctor with a working amulet.” Veda’s neck still feels bare without hers. “Do you have any potions?”
“None for pain.”
Veda steps closer, trying to figure out where to start. She glances at his neck, watching his Adam’s apple bob. She worries at her bottom lip. “I’ll have to cure it myself. It’s been a while since I’ve healed anything.”
She’s back in the empty hospital hall in Philadelphia, trying to save Dr. Lawson’s life.
“Take your time.” Gruff yet calm, Hiram’s voice pulls her from her own head.
After pressing a hand to the bruise on his shoulder, she whispers the charm to stop the Contact Curse: “Auxilium.”
Warm light flares beneath her open palm. She pays for magic with a shiver that chills her to the bone. The bruise doesn’t fade, but given how Hiram’s stiffness subsides and his face flushes right before her eyes, she can tell his pain is ebbing.
“Better?” she asks.
“Much.”
Veda moves to the gash low on his side, healing it with ease. She works with clinical ease, knitting the skin back together with a spell that she pays for with a wave of momentary nausea. Once it passes, anerrant thought escapes: It’s the first time she’s spared any attention to a body that isn’t her own.
And the first time she’s allowed herself to openly appreciate someone else’s form.
No longer sallow from the Contact Curse, Hiram looks as good as he smells. Clean with a subtle woodsy scent. It’s heady. She can admit he’s handsome. She’s thought as much, even during her active antagonism. But now she sees there’s an allure about him. More than that, Veda understands why women look his way, whyshelooks his way.
For now, Veda lets her attention roam, combing every detail from the dusting of freckles on his shoulders to the intricate, albeit incomplete, sleeve of ink along his arm. She is only checking for bruises, of course. But her gaze lingers, drawn to the labyrinth of color and detailed art. The starry night sky with the rising sun and a waning moon on his shoulder. A compass and a handless watch entwined with flowers. Two trees, one skeletal, the other in full bloom. And then ... the eye identical to the one on her amulet. She pauses, lifting her gaze to meet his. Hiram’s expression gives nothing away. Her eyes drop again, still too curious. Wrapped around his wrist is a snake eating its own tail, while symbols fill in the spaces between each image. This is far from being a haphazard collection of impulsive decisions; it’s a dedicated work of art. Every mark speaks of intention, of a calculated man. Even the clean stop at his wrist feels deliberate, designed to keep the inner workings of his life hidden from a world too eager to judge him. Just like she had.
“You don’t seem like the tattoo type.”
“I didn’t know there was a type.” Hiram gives her a look she can’t interpret. “I never cared about what any of it meant until I recognized the eye on your amulet when I saw you in the cave.”
“You scared me that day,” Veda confesses.
“Do I scare you now?”
Increasingly so, but she doesn’t take the bait. “The bruises should fade in a few days.”
“I may swim in the healing waters and bring Antaris with me tomorrow. You should come, too.”
Veda doesn’t know what to make of the invitation, unable to shake the coiling that feels liketrouble. “We’ll see.”
Hiram doesn’t put on his shirt. Instead, he rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms out, every motion more fluid than the last. Beginning to relax, his head tilts slightly, eyes focused but hazy from the fading pain. Veda observes as he tests, works, and flexes the muscles of his shoulders until he catches her eye.
“I should get ready to go,” she says quickly. “Khadijah is on her way.”
“Have you eaten?”
Veda’s stomach clenches at the thought of food.
“I made butter chicken,” he adds.
“While in pain?”
