Flamebound A Lone Star Witch No(91)
“Sir, you’re blood pressure is really high. We need to—”
“No pain medicine.” He looks at me, his eyes black with discomfort and a demand not to be ignored.
“Declan, please,” I tell him, reaching out to stroke his hair back from his face. It’s a miracle to me that there’s any left, but with the exception of some singed edges, it’s as long and silky as ever. “I can’t stand to see you in pain.”
“I can handle the pain.” An arrogant statement from a man who has suffered far worse in his life—I’m not sure where that thought comes from, but looking at him now, I know it’s the truth.
“In case you haven’t noticed, someone is trying to kill your family. There’s no way I’m going to be so out of it that I can’t protect you.”
His blunt words, like arrows to the very heart of me, strike at the knowledge I’ve been trying so hard to ignore in the heat of the moment. But now that the fire is gone and Rachael is walking unsteadily down the hallway with the help of two firemen, it’s hard to ignore the obvious:
My father’s grave and inexplicable illness bringing everyone home.
A huge explosion that rocked the family seat—and that of the coven—once the last Morgan made it through the doors.
A fire that seemed just a little too powerful and just a little too convenient to be simply a by-product of the explosion.
It doesn’t take a brain surgeon, or even an incredibly powerful warlock, to figure out the obvious. That this is more than just a bid for the Council. Someone meant to end us all. Right here. Right now.
“We need to transport him to the hospital, Princess.”
“Of course.”
Declan’s fingers tighten on mine. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Declan, please. Be reasonable.”
Rachael stops a few feet away. Her eyes are wide and wild in her too-pale face. “I can help him here.” Her voice sounds like she’s swallowed an entire quarry’s worth of gravel. Or the equivalent of that in smoke.
“Excuse me, Your Highness, but you need to be taken to the hospital as well.”
She gives the paramedic the same look Declan had just a few minutes before. “I’m fine here.”
“Rachael, let them take you in and check you over. Then, if your lungs are okay, I’ll bring you back here.”
“My lungs are fine. Every time the smoke damage got too bad, I healed them. Between that and Dad, I don’t have much left to give Declan right now, but I’ll try.” She starts to sink to her knees beside him.
Declan stops her by taking matters into his own hands. He gets to his feet in one long, smooth movement that belies the amount of pain he must be in. “I’m fine, Rachael. You should conserve your power for someone who really needs it. Besides,” he says, looking around at the paramedics, all of whom are staring at him in varying degrees of shock, “I think we should get out of here, don’t you?”
I’ve been doing my best to ignore the ominously creaking floor beneath us, but if Declan and Rachael can walk, I am all for getting the hell out of Dodge. It isn’t safe in here anymore. Besides, the sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can get Declan to see reason about medical help. Not to mention, now that the most immediate crisis is over, I’m dying to see my family. To make sure they are all healthy.
Declan takes my hand in his and, ignoring the paramedics and their gurney, starts propelling me toward the stairs. I grab hold of Rachael and drag her along with us, determined to keep an eye on both of them. My sister is walking slowly, painfully—like there might be something more to her injuries than smoke inhalation—but the only sign of the nightmare Declan just lived through is a small hitch in his stride. Well, that and all the red, blistered, angry skin. I still don’t know how it’s possible. I plan to ask him at my earliest opportunity, but for now I decide to just be grateful.
Wrapping an arm around my sister’s waist for the second time today, I take as much of her weight as I can. It’s not nearly as difficult to move her now as it was earlier, and I don’t know if that’s because of the adrenaline flowing through me or if Declan is doing something to help things along.
I look at him sharply—the last thing he needs to be doing is expending more energy, especially considering how miraculous it is that he’s alive and not in severe shock—but he just looks at me as though he has no idea of my suspicions.
It’s a long walk down the three staircases to the front door. My head is throbbing from the bump I took earlier and I’m starting to feel more than a little nauseated. I don’t know if the nausea is a sign of a concussion or if it’s from the smoke inhalation or if it’s just reaction to the abject terror I felt for Declan. Whatever it is, it’s getting worse with every step I take. I fight it, just as I fight the strange lethargy sweeping through me. I focus simply on putting one foot in front of the other. It’s harder than I ever imagined it would be.