Page 67 of Red Demon
“Who?”
She clenched her jaw. “My sister.” She stirred, added a pinch of something white and powdery, tasted and adjusted. At last, she was satisfied.
“Drink.” She brought me a hot cup to where I sat in a chair, my legs propped awkwardly on a low crate.
I sniffed the pungent brew, closing my eyes tight.
“Keep healing. You’ll have plenty of time to die when I’m not looking.”
I tipped the cup to my lips, taking a slow, bitter sip.
“Down it fast. It gets slimy as it gets cold.”
The next sip was more difficult than the last, the sour taste building. I slumped halfway through, but got the work done.
“Good. Let’s check your wounds.”
She placed a warm hand over my heart, pressing, listening to the rhythm. I studied the scars on her chin, trying to find the line I cut, healed over among the rest. Maybe it was the herbs that had me transfixed by the design of those thin scars over her skin—that had me not wanting to claw back her hand from my body.
She stepped back, her fingers brushing against the edge of the loose fabric over my broken ribs. I tensed, but her touch was light, hesitant.
“Relax,” she said. “You have honor, remember? Even if I’m close enough for you to strangle.”
I exhaled, torn somewhere between suspicion and vulnerability. Faruhar turned to kneel behind me, her long hair tickling my skin as she untied a clasp on the linen. I leaned forward to accommodate her as she unwrapped the bandage with a gentle rustle. The warmth of her breath stirred the hairs on my arm, the studs on her chest armor chilled the skin on my back as she leaned in. The room seemed to shrink as the last of the fabric came off in her hands, the only sounds her breathing and the erratic thump of my heart.
I awaited her verdict.
“You’re healing too fast for a sedo, even if you mostly smell like one.” Her finger hovered over the broken skin above my lungs, then my bruised and once dislocated shoulder.
Sedo, it literally meant dying in archaic Asri, what the Attiq-ka called mortals. I did not know how to respond to that, but I inhaled, hoping to find something to insult in return. Earth, sweat, and perhaps something more floral in the mix. Nothing I could hate.
She reached into a pouch at her waist and pulled out a small vial, opening the jar to reveal something white and half-translucent. Faruhar dipped two fingers into the jar and brought them to my shoulder and down my ribs. I shivered at the touch. Then, she brought up some clean bandages, stained but hand-washed, guiding my hands to hold the fabric firm to my chest as she began wrapping. Her touch lingered a moment, tracing Asher’s scar across my heart, tying the bandage tight.
“There,” she said finally, stepping back. “If those splints hold, I’d say a few more days, a week until you can care for yourself again.”
“What?” It had taken me about two months to heal from far less.
“Will you accept my help that long?”
I stuttered. “Yes.” I guess that healing speed didn’t seem odd to her. Even with the best medicine, it should be.
“Great, my sister wants me to hurry this up. I’ll restock what I can and take off as soon as I know you won’t die.”
Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to speak. “Is your sister the one who tells you who to kill?”
Faruhar picked up the dirty bandages. “She’s none of your business.”
I huffed, the force painful on my wrapped chest. “Anyone who had a hand in killing the people I love is my business. Who do you work with?”
She shook her head out with a nervous laugh, removing the blanket on my legs, starting to unwind the fabric around my splinted leg.
“Don’t you fucking say you don’t remember. You must know that much.” I crossed my arms, glaring. “Who is Bria?”
“If you still want to die, keep talking about her. Maybe we can work something out.” She met my gaze with defiance until her eyes flicked down to my bare groin.
Nope, no bandages there. I stared back, unshaken until she looked away. Embarrassed, I hope.
She hustled across the room, grabbing a handful of fabric and throwing it hard at my lap.
