Page 83 of Curses & Keys
“Deal,” she says, holding out her arm for me to snap the watch on it. “Magic will help her heal faster. Ok, now get out.”
Startled, I realize she’s not going to let us stay here. “Thank you for helping her.” I pick Phaedra up and carry her out to the car. We have a safe house close to here. It will have to do.
41
PHAEDRA
Sleek, sophisticated décor and a wall of glass windows are the first things I see but it’s Jamison’s tired face and steel-blue eyes that capture my attention.
“Your friend Greta patched you up.”
I glance down and lift the light blue blanket, skipping past my black bra to the bandage on my lower right. Memories of the airport and the mage who stabbed me filter through the haze in my mind.
Parched, I swallow a few times and slide back the bandage. Red and full of pus, the wound is angry and gross. “Usually, a knife doesn’t do that much damage.”
“Poison,” he says, holding a glass of cool water to my dry lips. “Anise oil, I think she said. It’s something mages use to paralyze their enemies. Did a mage do this?” I nod, and his hand clenches. “I knew I should have gone after the weapon. Damn it.”
“He made a fatal mistake,” I croak. “He reached for the weapon. The tip caught him, and he jerked back, but it was too late.” I lift my head. “Where is the blade?”
He waves a hand to a chair in the corner. “There. I haven’t had time to look at it. I’ve been busy calling Gatlin and the rest to let them know we’ll be late to the meeting point.”
My body feels heavy, but I push myself up. “I’m awake. We should go.”
He gently pushes me back down on the sofa. “You’re healing, but not as fast as I’d like.” He rubs a hand across the scruff on his granite jaw. “When your eyes closed, I…” He swallows. “Are you immortal?”
“Sort of,” I reply. His brows draw together. “I die, but I come back. Depending on the wound, it can take a minute or a day.”
He picks up my fingers and plays lightly with them. “Does it hurt?”
“It isn’t pleasant,” I reply with a grimace, not wanting to think about it. “Where am I? A condo?”
He nods. “It is. We use this as a safe house. Do you want something to eat?”
I shake my head and try to sit up. “I need to use the restroom.” Stitches pull at my side, and I flinch.
He leans down, picks me up, and sets me down inside the restroom. “Call me when you’re ready. I’m going to grab you some crackers.”
When I finish, he’s standing outside the door. He carries me back to the living room. “Sorry. This is the only furniture in this place. We don’t stay here often.” He grimaces. “Your shirt was bloody. I didn’t want to leave it on.”
“This is fine for now.” I reach up and trace the lines of worry around his firm mouth. “As much as I love having you all to myself, I think you should help me heal this wound so we can getback to the others.” When he gives me a puzzled look, I wink at him. “Magic helps me heal.”
He carefully sets me on the sofa and lays the crackers on the side table. “Greta mentioned something about that, but I wasn’t sure what she meant.”
“Whether it’s curses or spells, my body absorbs magic. Thrives on it,” I reveal in a low voice, hoping the gods don’t hear me. They know I can regenerate, because they gave me that ability, but not the other. “Tell me. What was the first magic you learned?”
“Fire,” he says with a grin. “I was utterly fascinated by it. Had flames dancing above my cot before I could walk.”
“Show me,” I urge him, settling against the armrest.
He flicks a finger, and little flames appear. Dancing above me, they flicker and bend, and shine brightly. One flame turns into a tiger and pounces on a nearby lion. A giraffe eats from a tree where a monkey sits. Animals turn into soldiers marching in formation. Battleships form and sail across a sea of fire.
I laugh, delighted by his creativeness. Something I never expected from Mr. I-Need-To-Be-In-Control. “This is wonderful!” I think about how much power this must have taken as a child. “Your parents must have been freaked out by the level of magic you wielded at such a young age.”
The flames die, and I’m sad to see them go.
“My mother left right after I was born, and I didn’t see my father on a regular basis until I was ten years old.” His voice is matter of fact, but I can hear a sliver of loneliness in his tone. An emotion I know too well.
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching for his hand. “Was your childhood lonely?”
