“He just might be.”
The healer scoffs. “Seriously?”
“If you can’t heal her under these conditions, then he will kill you. He won’t allow her to leave this room.”
The healer shifts on her feet, clearly hesitating now. I don’t blame her. The Cataclysm is actually worse than his reputation, and it seems clear that we’re in the Federation. She’s extremely vulnerable here.
Coming to some decision, the healer yanks open her bag and starts pulling small, corked vials of mage brew from its depths, pressing each glowing glass vessel into Jewels’s hands.
“I don’t think these are working properly,” the healer says. “They need essence to latch onto, for lack of a more precise explanation. But I … keep giving them to her every three hours. If you can do nothing else, then these will have to do. Change the bandage every twelve hours … here …” She starts pulling out healing patches, though the shifter can’t really hold much else.
A few of the patches flutter to the ground.
The healer just watches as they settle on the concrete, then she shoves her entire bag at Jewels and reaches for the door latch. She can’t open the door. It’s too heavy. Starting to panic, she pounds on it instead.
Jewels sighs. Dropping the brews and the few healing patches she’s holding back into the bag to free one hand, she yanks open the door, visibly bracing herself to take its weight.
I catch a glimpse of four figures beyond the door. Two huge shifters in Cataclysm MC cuts lurk at the far side of a corridor. Two dark-haired and dark-tan-skinned males stand guard on the near side, both in dark-blue suits but wearing traditional Navajo jewelry, a mixture of semiprecious turquoise and silvery metal.
Not waiting for the door to be fully opened, the healer practically leaps into the corridor, startling her two companions. One instantly faces off with the lurking shifters, a silver blade suddenly in his hand. Presumably my guards — or maybe they’re guarding Jewels? — are berserkers. More like those from the confrontation … from before I was tossed through the portal.
I can’t feel any essence through the now-open door, but it’s a safe guess that the Navajo mage might actually be able to hurt the berserkers with that silver blade, depending on the alloy used to forge it.
The other Navajo guard reaches for the healer as if to shield her. She presses a hand to his chest, holding him at bay for just long enough to lean back to meet Jewels’s gaze and whisper, “What about you?”
Still within the room and holding onto the medical bag, Jewels sighs heavily. Her gaze flicks across the enforcers in the corridor. “I’m protected. I’m pregnant. It’s a girl.”
Even if I can’t touch essence, it’s clear from her tone that Jewels is voicing that statement not just to assuage the healer’s concern. To remind herself? To remind the Cataclysm enforcers in the corridor?
The healer nods, visibly stopping herself from speaking. Her gaze flicks over Jewels’s shoulder, toward me, and her eyes widen — at seeing me awake? Or maybe at seeing my purple eyes for the first time? Though she had to know I was an awry, yes?
Or maybe the blood wards completely dampened her senses, but now, standing in the open doorway, she can feel me, truly see me?
The healer visibly pales, opening her mouth as she raises a trembling hand in my direction. But before she can speak or react any further, her guard clamps his hand down on her half-raised arm. He, too, has seen me over her head. He pulls her closer, and she tears her gaze away from me, eyes flicking warily to Jewels instead.
Reaching for the handle to close the door, the dark-blond shifter hasn’t noticed I’m awake.
“If you need —” the healer starts.
“Just leave,” Jewels says wearily, slowly pushing the door closed with her shoulder.
I catch sight of the healer flinging one last glance in my direction as she’s quickly escorted away. Then the door latches, and Jewels throws the bolts.
I was already assuming the door was soundproof, but the lack of reaction from the healer’s guards — specifically how they didn’t react as they would have if they’d heard her panicked pounding on the door before it opened — confirms it.
Seemingly unaware that I’m watching her, or that I’ve heard everything she’s discussed with the healer, Jewels just stands there, medicine bag clutched in one arm and forehead pressed to the metal-clad door. She takes a shuddering breath, then slaps her free hand over her mouth to muffle a sob.
I close my eyes to her momentarily unfettered, fear-fueled grief. I turn my head away, unable to absorb it, to do anything about it while confined to this bed … confined to this bed and not even able to find the strength to speak to Jewels.
Though I also don’t want to take on the responsibility for her life by offering a favor for her help in escaping.
No. I hide from Jewels’s grief — from the obvious reasons for it — as if I’m not the most powerful person in the world. As if everything that I was taught about the role I was to undertake as the Conduit was actually all hinged on some delicate framework.
Some corrupted, rotten framework of my aunt’s construction.
I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to shut down those thoughts as I manage to curl my legs into my chest in a fetal position, keeping my back to the rest of the room.
But the darkness doesn’t take me this time. Sleep doesn’t rise to comfort me.
