Page 37 of Hunted By Fae
Whether it strengthened her or prolonged her suffering, I don’t know. But in the hours since, there have been no more nose bleeds, and her serrated breaths have softened.
I loosen a breath of my own.
Peeling myself from the edge of the bed, I reach for the cold cup of stale coffee on the small trolley.
Each time my lashes drift too low over my sight, threatening to steal me away from consciousness, I gulp down more coffee.
It’s black, no sugar, utterly flavourless besides the burnt undertones. Coffee from a pot. Nasty stuff. But unless the kitchen has stores of energy drinks yet to be found, this is what I rely on for now.
Can’t risk sleep.
If I drift off, even for a few minutes, that could be the moment Tesni takes a turn.
“Good,” Louise’s familiar murmur reaches me across the basketball court. “That’s good. Don’t rush—take it easy.”
I set down the mug and lean out of my seat. My bottom is practically lifted off the leather cushion of the chair as I tilt aside and peer around the plastic curtain.
And I can do nothing but blink.
The plastic curtains around the patient bed are pulled back, all the way, to reveal crumpled sheets and twenty-something Emily sagged on the edge of the mattress.
She glistens with the same sweat that sogs her sheets, but she’s awake, sitting upright, with Louise’s arm looped around her middle to support her, she’s…recovering.
I watch, my face slack with blatant disbelief.
Louise firms her arm around Emily’s middle, then tugs her to slide gently off the bed.
My lashes flutter—my gaze drops to the floor as her bare feet pad down…
I wait for her to fall, to crumple, to pass out, to bleed from the nose and mouth and eyes.
But Emily stands.
Shaky, trembling, leaning into Louise.
Yet, she’s standing all the same.
I blink again, as though it’ll somehow make sense of what I’m seeing, that it will ease the flare of rage building in me.
The breath that shudders out between my lips is nothing short of ugliness, of envy and rage.
I shove out of the chair and advance on them.
The urgency in my flaring gaze is mirrored in my hushed shout, “How are you doing that? How are you better?”
Last time I saw Emily through the parted curtains, she was in the fever sleep.
Now she’s up?
Standing?
I shake my head under the glare Louise shoots at me. “No,” I point at her, a cold washcloth in my grip. “Don’t you fucking start with me.” I turn that urgent look on Emily, her clammy face, the weight of her lashes over brown eyes, like it costs her too much to just meet my gaze. “What did you do that she didn’t?”
Why are you well, and Tesni isn’t?
How are you recovering, while Tesni dies?
It isn’t fair.
