Wrath had lived, however, waking up with the kind of crankiness that made you sigh in relief…because if a patient had the energy to be that pissy, he was going to pull through.
The following nightfall, after having been out cold for twenty-four hours straight and having scared the shit out of everyone around him, Wrath had unplugged the IV, dressed himself, and left.
Without a word to any of them.
Tohr had expected…something. Not a thank-you, but an acknowledgment or…something. Hell, Wrath was a gruff son of a bitch now, but back then? He’d been downright toxic. Even so…nothing? After he’d saved the guy’s life?
Kinda reminded him of the way he’d been treating John. And his brothers.
Tohr wrapped the towel around his waist and thought about the more important point of the memory. Wrath out there fighting alone. Back in ’58, it had been a stroke of luck that Tohr had been where he had and found the king before it was too late.
“Time to wake up,” Lassiter said.
SEVENTEEN
As night settled in for the duration, Ehlena prayed that she wouldn’t be late to work again. With the clock ticking, she waited upstairs in the kitchen with the CranRas and the crushed drugs. She’d been meticulous about cleanup: She’d put the spoon away. Double-checked all the surfaces. Even made sure the living room was ordered properly.
“Father?” she called down the stairs.
While she listened for sounds of shuffling movement and quiet words spoken without sense, she thought of the bizarre dream she’d had during the day. She’d imagined Rehv in the dark distance with his arms hanging to the sides. His magnificent, naked body had been spotlit as if on display, his muscles bunching up in a powerful show, his skin a warm, golden brown. His head had been angled down, his eyes closed as if in repose.
Captivated, summoned, she had walked across a cold stone floor to him, saying his name over and over again.
He had not responded. He had not lifted his head. He had not opened his eyes.
Fear had whistled through her veins and kick-started her heart, and she had rushed to him, but he had stayed ever distant, a goal never realized, a destination never reached.
She had awoken with tears in her eyes and a body that trembled. As the choking trauma had receded, the meaning was clear, but really, she didn’t need her subconscious to tell her what she already knew.
Snapping herself out of it, she called down the stairs again, “Father?”
When there was no reply, Ehlena took her father’s mug and walked down to the cellar. She went slowly, although not because she was afraid of spilling bloodred CranRas on her white uniform. Every once in a while her father didn’t rouse himself and she had to make this descent, and each time she took the steps in this way, she wondered if it had finally happened, if her father had been gathered up unto the Fade.
She wasn’t ready to lose him. Not yet, and no matter how hard things were.
Putting her head through the doorway into his room, she saw him seated at his hand-carved desk, shaggy stacks of papers and unlit candles surrounding him.
Thank you, Virgin Scribe.
As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she worried over how the lack of light might damage her father’s vision, but the candles were going to stay as they were, because there were no matches or lighters in the house. The last time he’d gotten his hands on a match had been back at their old place-and he’d lit the apartment on fire because his voices told him to.
That had been two years ago, and the reason he’d been put on meds.
“Father?”
He looked up from the mess and seemed surprised. “Daughter mine, how fare thee this night?”
Always the same question, and she always gave him the same answer in the Old Language. “Well, my father. And you?”
“As always I am charmed by your greeting. Ah, yes, the doggen has put out my juice. How good of her.” Her father took the mug. “Wither goest thou?”
This led to their verbal pas de deux over him not approving of her working and her explaining that she did it because she liked to and him shrugging and not understanding the younger generation.
“Verily I am departing now,” she said, “but Lusie shall arrive in a matter of moments.”
“Yes, good, good. In truth, I am busy with my book, but I shall entertain her, as is proper, for a time. I must needs get about my work, though.” He waved his hand around the physical representation of the chaos in his mind, his elegant sweep at odds with the ragged sheaves of paper that were filled with nonsense. “This needs tending to.”
“Of course it does, Father.”
He finished the CranRas and, as she went to take it from him, he frowned. “Surely the maid will do that?”