“What about it?” Ani asks caustically. She doesn’t look at me.
“They have in-residence healers —”
“You think we don’t know that?”
“I’m old,” Isaiah says.
I squint at him affectedly. “Really?”
He graces me with a smile.
“I’m …” Ani hesitates. “I’m not good enough.”
I feel her lie, or at least an equivocation, slide over me. “You can feel pain radiating from me … through all the energy I carry. Not a single other healer has ever stated the same.”
Ani looks a little sick, still not looking at me. A smile ghosts over Isaiah’s lips.
“So … your power is unique in some fashion,” I say. “Unique enough that you’d like it to remain hidden?”
“Of course not,” Ani says.
“Where is the main wound, Zaya?” Isaiah asks, apparently done with the digging-into-each-other’s-secrets portion of the conversation.
I tug my T-shirt away from my neck and shoulder, pulling back the bandage just enough to expose the top of the seething bite mark marring my skin.
“What the fuck …” Ani whispers, horrified. “That’s … is that infected? With what?”
“Venom of some kind,” I say.
“But that …” She leans forward, clearly engaged now despite herself. “The surrounding tissue is dead. That’s necrosis, isn’t it?” That last question is directed at Isaiah.
He nods, looking serious but not overly concerned. “Yes.”
“But that would have to be removed … how the fuck is it not … is it still bleeding?” Ani shakes her head in disbelief, sending all her dark curls flying again. “But there … there isn’t any blood on your clothing … how are you walking around like that … it must be excruciating.”
“The universe needed me moving,” I say simply, allowing the bandage and my shirt to fall back in place. “Blood seeping through my clothing would have been a hindrance.”
Ani blinks at that.
Isaiah chuckles, pretending I’m joking.
“We … we can’t fix that,” Ani whispers to him.
“We wouldn’t be here if we couldn’t,” he says.
“We …” Ani glances at me, then quickly away. “We can’t owe her. And we can’t pay her price.”
“An even trade,” I say, though I still have doubts as to whether they actually can heal me.
Isaiah, still gently cradling my hand in his, leans toward me. “How do you feel about a Mercedes-Benz 280 SE?” he asks, nodding out the window toward the metallic-green beauty that’s already caught my eye. “1970. All original parts, single owner. I paid extra for the custom color. Opted for the sunroof, though. I never did think a convertible made any sense.”
“What!” Ani squeaks. “That’s your pride and joy!”
“Why do you think I brought it out for our drive today?”
“To sell it?”
“A trade,” Isaiah says.
