Page 50 of Stealing Tink

“Do you want him to give you a warning?” asks the Nomad.

I think. When I’d made my demands, I’d told Lars I wanted to know everything he was doing before he did it. He’d explained his plan to me this morning, and although I thought I would want everything explained again, now that the moment has come… I shake my head ever so slightly.

Seconds later, a sharp pain pierces my wing. I don’t mean to, but I dig my talons into flesh. Except this time, the flesh isn’t mine.

I watch the Nomad’s face for any signs of pain, but all I get is the slightest flinch, the only cue that I’m hurting him the brief uptick of his angled jaw.

“That was just the catheter. The actual needle⁠—”

“She said she didn’t want a warning,” seethes the Nomad.

But when the needle goes in, I’m wishing I had asked for one.

I open my mouth, my throat soundless, my teeth chomping on a scream that won’t come. There’s no relief in the soundless scream. No escape, no catharsis from the pain, except to grip tighter, to dig my talons deeper, deeper.

I squeeze the Nomad’s hand as if I’m clinging to the side of a cliff for purchase. He takes a sharp inhale, but he doesn’t tear himself away. Doesn’t waver.

“It’s alright,” he says. “You can hurt me to your heart’s content. I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s when the scientist begins extracting marrow that I put the Nomad’s promise to the test.

This time, I dig my nails so hard into his palms, the blood begins to gush, coating his hands, coating my fingertips, dripping from our intertwined hands. I watch it as it drips onto the floor, creating a puddle beneath us, the Nomad’s blood staining his own boots.

I glance up at him. I can’t help myself. A bead of sweat has broken out on his forehead, his face clammy. But he holds my gaze, unwavering.

And for a moment, gratitude fills my heart. I long to tell him…something. That I’m sorry? Thank you, maybe? But my hands are preoccupied with wounding his, and my mouth won’t move in any way that resembles words, so I just gaze into his eyes and hope he reads my meaning.

A smile, made crooked by a wince, appears on his mouth. “You’re quite welcome, Wanderer.”

Another dagger of pain. My spine arches without my permission. Lars yells something my ears can’t quite comprehend.

“Make her stay still,” he says, and this time I understand.

“Doing my best over here, I’m afraid,” says the Nomad through gritted teeth, his face going paler by the second.

My whole body is trembling, though I can’t tell if it’s my own system, or if the Nomad is trembling and it’s coursing through our joined hands.

“How much longer are you going to be?” he gasps to Lars, probably as much for his benefit as mine.

“Less time, if you’d have let me restrain her,” is all Lars answers.

“I assure you, you’re not the one suffering for that decision,” says the Nomad, glancing back at me with a wink, then whispering, “Let’s do this again sometime, shall we? I feel quite close to you right⁠—”

Another sharp pain in my back, and though I cannot make a noise, that’s not the case for the Nomad.

He groans as I dig my nails deeper, channeling all of my pain into his hands. We’re both sweating, both painting, though his lungs are the only ones making any noise.

Another sharp pain, and then Lars finally says, “Got it.”

A moment later, he slips the catheter out of my wing, the immediate pain dissipating, leaving behind the dull ache of a past trauma, a bruise.

My whole body relaxes, my talons coming back into my fingers. My hands are wet with the Nomad’s blood, and when I look at the Nomad, I expect to find the same amount of relief on his face.

Instead, his eyes are glassy. “I changed my mind, Wanderer. Let’s not do that again.”

And then the dreaded Nomad passes out onto the floor.

CHAPTER 22