Page 70 of Perilous Healing

Cool fingers grip me, pulling me under, and I’m surrounded by darkness.

Screaming.

Tormented voices.

Shadows fill my vision. They cling to me like ink, but I’m too weak to move, so I just lay there as they cover me.

Please, no.I try to speak, but nothing comes out.Please don’t let me leave Bianca. She needs me. The people there need me.

But the shadows don’t respond, even when I open my mouth to try and scream.

Then—“You belong to Me.”The Powerful proclamation echoes through my mind at the same time a bright light pierces the dark, and the shadows retreat, racing away from me as the light fully encompasses everything around me. Then there’s nothing—just light.

And an overwhelming sense of peace.

Chapter22

Bianca

“Okay, this is good, right?” I say as I stand back from the cabinet after moving a few things. I’m not entirely sure why I felt the need to reorganize everything, but I need to know where everything is.

If there’s an emergency, the seconds spent searching for something could mean life or death.

“It’s good,” Abana replies. “You do good work.”

I snort. “All I did was organize.”

“Today, you organized. But yesterday you brought Laring and Idra comfort. Who knows what you will do tomorrow?”

“Who knows,” I reply with a half-smile.

The door flies open and I whirl, expecting to see Silas telling me that Lance and the others are here. That the cavalry has arrived and we’re going home. Instead, it’s a ten-year-old boy, his eyes wild and afraid.

“Come!” he yells. “The SEAL needs you!”

“The SEAL? Silas!” I grab the closest medical bag—one of the things I just repacked and organized—and sprint out the door. My boots hit the dirt in heavy strides as I race toward the pit. But I don’t have to go far.

Two men, one who translated for me yesterday and another I don’t recognize, are carrying a limp Silas, while Idra applies pressure to a wound in his chest. Dread turns my stomach to a pit of rocks.

Please, God, no. Not him. Please don’t take him.

“Get him inside,” I order.

They listen, taking him over toward the cot closest to the door. They set him down, and I grip the front of his blood-soaked T-shirt and tear, ripping the fabric open. Blood is pouring from a wound in his chest.

“I need to know what happened. Alcohol,” I order Abana as I press fresh gauze onto the injury in Silas’s chest, holding pressure there until she returns.

I try not to look at his face, forcing myself to keep my attention only on his injury. Because I know that if I look up at him, I’ll lose it. Something he can’t afford.

She retrieves the bottle, and I pour it onto another stack of gauze, then work cleaning the area around the wound. “Keep pressure,” I tell her.

She replaces my hands and I continue cleaning the area so I can make sure there’s just the one injury. My training kicks in, and I work down my list. Life-threatening injuries first. So far, thank God, it looks like it’s just the one.

“You can answer at any time!” I call out.

“He tried to intervene in a fight with a guard and was stabbed,” the translator finally says.

“With what?”

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