Page 69 of Vanish Into Light

The bleeding had stopped. That wasn’t hopeful in and of itself – the bleeding stopped when a person died, too – but she saw that his chest rose and fell, shallow but steady.

Gallo mopped around one of the wounds with an alcohol-soaked gauze pad and peered down inside with a penlight. “Bullet’s still in there,” he said. “I’ll have to fish it out.” He reached into his kit again, and came out with a curved set of forceps.

“You don’t have to watch,” Lance said, quietly, leaning in close so their arms brushed.

She swallowed. “I do.” Because she did. Because she had theprivilegeof watching. Because five years ago, when he’d been pulled down into the pit, there’d been nothing but a puddle of blood, a knife, and some smudged chalk symbols to look at.

She gripped the edge of the table, and she didn’t watch the specifics of what Gallo did – hearing the wet sounds of it was bad enough – but she watched the flicker of Beck’s pulse in the hollow of his throat; watched the rise and fall of his chest. Watched his lashes flutter as his eyes moved beneath closed lids. She studied him, as if doing so would keep him alive.

“Okay,” Gallo said, quietly, and she startled.

When she blinked – and when had she done that last? – she saw that Beck’s chest had been cleaned save a few traces, and the wounds were packed and covered with bandages.

“Oh.” Her brain was moving at a sluggish pace, thoughts muddled, crowded with old memories. “Thanks.” She stepped in closer, and laid a careful hand on Beck’s shoulder.

His eyes flipped open.

In that first second, as Rose bit back a startled gasp, his eyes were solid black. Glossy and dark as ink. But then he blinked, and his pupils contracted to cat-like slits, and his eyes were their usual glowing gold again.

He sucked in a sharp breath, chest lifting as his folded wings flexed against the table. His neck arched, and his lips parted, candle and lamplight glinting off the sharp points of his fangs as he pressed his head back. His pulse flickered unsteadily in his tensed throat, and he was in pain, Rose thought. He was in ungodly amounts of pain, just as he’d been years ago, when he’d staggered bloody and hypothermic into his own kitchen.

She reached for him–

And he hissed, “Wait.” Voice threaded with a growl. Tail lashing the air. Again: “Wait.” He closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths that hitched when the flex of his ribs tugged at his wounds. Then, finally, brows drawn tight together, he lay still, breaths shallow and quick. When he opened his eyes again, they were glassy.

His gaze shifted sluggishly around the room as best he could without turning his head. He wet dry lips. “How did I get here?” He sounded – he soundedafraid.

Lance’s arm brushed Rose’s as he stepped up beside her. “I carried you.”

Beck’s eyes rolled toward Lance, and his mouth twitched. “Ah. How…chivalrous, Sir Lancelot.” He took a few wheezy breaths. “I think…both lungs…might be…punctured.”

“Yeah,” Gallo confirmed. “How are you breathing right now?”

“Hell has…its perks.” His next breath sent a fresh pearl of blood seeping out from beneath a bandage and rolling down his side.

Rose’s heartbeat throbbed in her ears; panic fluttered in her throat. “Morgan, are you sure–”

But the conduit was already shaking her head. “He will heal.”

“Yes.” Beck’s horns knocked lightly against the table as he shifted his head. “I’ll be fine.” Then he passed out again.

~*~

Once it was clear that Beck was out cold, but still breathing, and likely to stay that way – hopefully – the others slipped out.

Lance stayed. Partly for Rose.

But largely for himself, too. After tonight, he could no longer pretend to be objective. Not after he’d felt the unnatural heat of Beck’s blood sliding through his fingers, seeping through his clothes. Not after he’d looked down at his slack, too-pale face, and thought,No. Please, no.

When you got to the pleading stage, there was no more room for denial.

Save for the occasional flick of his tail, and the side-to-side shift of his head, Beck lay still. His chest lifted at regular intervals, and though blood showed through the bandages, no more had seeped out from beneath.

Rose sat in a chair by his shoulder, within arm’s reach, and Lance sat beside her; close enough to hear the faint, wet stick of Beck’s healing lungs on each breath; close enough to feel the tension that shimmered beneath Rose’s skin. She sat ramrod straight, hands pressed flat to her thighs, and she didn’t blink often.

This was the Rose he’d met when she showed up at R Base five years ago; the new Knight with the shiny wings on her collar and frost in her stare. She’d glowed like a beacon, a lighthouse drawing him in – jagged rocks waiting to rip him to pieces just out of sight.

This was the same Rose.

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