Though I usually crave caramel in a creamy cold form …
“That wound on her neck —”
“That’s not for you to question,” the woman says. Her voice is brusque with fear now. “You’re getting paid well enough.”
Jewels. I think her name is Jewels. From before … after the interdimensional portal but before this room.
Interdimensional portal … where did that idea come from? That shouldn’t be at all possible. The energy that threads around the globe through the intersection points, with the Conduit as the anchor, is a shield … or should be a shield that —
“I know who he is, who I’m working for, and what he does to those who disappoint him,” the first person says, defiant while also lowering their voice. “But I’m not some lowly healer without protections in place.” Their accent is different. Navajo, maybe. But the Diné peoples don’t usually contract with anyone from the Federation.
I try to get my eyes open. I can feel residual essence coating my neck and shoulder, and more across my tongue. Healing spells, salves, or brews, at best guess. That essence is inert, though. Possibly because my own essence, even while unconscious, even as drained as it is, naturally protects itself. But more likely, given that I do actually require healing, the blood wards etched throughout my cozy prison are blocking all essence-wielding.
I thought keeping the Conduit in a cage at all, or for any length of time, was impossible. I just hadn’t reckoned on that cage being built by a Conduit’s surviving — rejected — soul-bound mate.
And apparently, caging a Conduit in this way comes with its own set of issues.
“Keep her alive,” Jewels says stiffly. “And there won’t be any problem.”
I get my eyes open. Thankfully, my head is already turned toward the two people hovering by the closed, rune-etched steel door. The familiar-sounding woman is indeed Jewels, the dark-blond, hazel-eyed shifter with the intricate braids who I saw after almost dying in the portal. When I was almost trapped in the in-between. I’m fairly certain she’s the only person other than the Cataclysm allowed access to my prison, but she most often comes and goes when I’m unconscious. I also assume that there are cameras and other monitors hidden from my admittedly hazy sight.
Next to Jewels stands a deeply-tan-skinned, slim woman in a sleek aquamarine pant suit. She’s carrying a small medical bag and waving her free hand, clearly frustrated. “I can’t work properly in here! If I can’t wield my power, then —”
“Shut up,” Jewels hisses. “Just … go.”
“Go?”
“Whatever he’s paying you isn’t worth your life.”
“He’s not going to kill me or hurt me,” the healer scoffs, not sounding wholly convinced. “Do you know how valuable I am to my tribe?”
“We shouldn’t be having this discussion,” Jewels says firmly. “We shouldn’t linger in this room, and we shouldn’t be discussing anything other than what you need to heal her.”
“I need access to my fucking essence!”
“Just … go. Go now, and I’ll cover for you. He’s … distracted, occupied.”
“I’m under contract —”
“If you can’t heal her, he will kill you.”
“I told you that —”
“He will kill you. The contract, the deal with your tribe, is nothing to him. Nothing compared to what she means to him.”
“I don’t … I don’t understand.”
A long pause ensues, during which I contemplate trying to speak. I can pay the healer more than anything the Cataclysm can offer, has offered.
But before I can articulate anything, the healer whispers, “You have to get her to eat. You have to get her out of this room, fresh air, sunlight. She needs to … move ….”
“She’s not going to die,” Jewels snaps, not sounding remotely sure about her own assertion.
“She is clearly dying.”
“He won’t allow it.”
“He’s not a fucking god!”
