Magic Rises(102)

Barabas pulled Christopher out of the cage. The man stared up at him. “I died, didn’t I? Are you an angel?”

“Sure,” Barabas said. “Follow me to the Heavenly Shower.”

Christopher walked a couple of steps on wobbling legs and spun back, looking at me with an expression of complete desperation on his face.

“Go with the angel, Christopher,” I said. “We’ll talk later.”

Barabas turned him around and guided him into the building.

I turned to follow them. Curran stood in my way. “What the hell were you thinking?” he asked quietly.

“Move,” I told him, keeping my voice down. The audience was dispersing but not fast enough for my taste.

Lorelei chose that precise moment to rush out the door. She saw my face and stopped. That’s right. Keep your distance, delicate flower. The weak human is still very angry. In my mind, I dashed at her and swung. She had a thin neck. Wouldn’t be too hard.

I crushed that thought. I wouldn’t lose it.

Curran clenched his teeth. His face had that relaxed icy quality that usually meant a storm was about to erupt. “I need to talk to you.”

“Not right now.” I’d had it with him.

“Yes, now.”

“But how will Princess Wilson survive without your manly protection while you and I talk?”

Gold rolled over his eyes.

“I tell you what. She is over there and I’m here. Pick.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Then I’ll pick for you.” Watch me walk away.

“Is that a threat?”

“No, that was a test and you failed it. Don’t follow me.”

He grabbed my arm. I jerked back. “Do not follow me,” I snarled through my teeth. “Or I swear to God, I’ll get my sword and fucking stab you in the heart with it.”

He let go. I marched across the yard, picked up Slayer, and kept walking all the way into our room, where I barred the door.





CHAPTER 16




Sometimes the simple pleasures in life are best. Like a hot shower after a sweaty, bloody fight. A dull, heavy numbness crept into my arms. Hugh hit like a battering ram. I would really pay for blocking him in the morning, but the pain had already started. I felt tender all over. With luck, I’d still be able to move tomorrow.

I stood under the water, trying not to think, and concentrated purely on shampooing my hair and then dragging a soapy sponge against my cuts. It hurt and I welcomed it.

Andrea once told me that I had a problem processing emotional pain. I couldn’t handle it, so I replaced it with physical pain instead: either I inflicted it on others or I suffered through it myself. Well, I had physical pain aplenty. If she was right, I should be floating on a cloud of bliss right about now.

Finally the water ran clear. I stepped out and looked at myself in the mirror. The gashes on my thigh and stomach had come open. Demet was really, really good at medmagic, but I was still human and now I was all cut up to hell. In the past, Doolittle had spent so much effort on healing me that some of my old scars had faded. Clearly, this created an imbalance and the Universe had decided to compensate.

Half a dozen shallow cuts crossed my arms and torso. Hugh’s handiwork. I shouldn’t have let him goad me. Voron always told me that he’d trained Hugh to fight, but also to command and plan. But he had trained me to kill. Hugh would be directing an army, leading it into battle, while I was a lonely assassin on the sidelines, cutting my way through the mass of people to my target. In a simple one-on-one sword fight, I had an edge.

Neither of us had used magic. I still didn’t know the full extent of his, and he still didn’t know much about mine. At least I hadn’t given myself away completely.

Someone had left bandages on the night table. Probably a gift from Doolittle. I bandaged the worst of it, sat on the chair very carefully—my thighs hurt—and slumped forward. My body hurt all over. I closed my eyes. It was just pain. It would pass. I just needed a minute. I still had three hours before my shift with Desandra started.

Someone knocked. I stared at the door, hoping to burn through it with my gaze and explode whoever was on the other side.

Knock-knock.

“Yes?”

“Can I please talk to you?”

I didn’t recognize the voice. Okay. I pulled on a clean T-shirt and a new pair of jeans, picked up Slayer, and opened the door. A young man stood in the hallway, dressed in a djigit outfit. Young, barely eighteen. Dark blond hair, brown eyes. He stood, rocking forward on his toes, as if expecting to be jumped any second.

“What is it?”

“You’re looking for the orange creatures,” he whispered in a heavily accented English.