Think I’m in shock.
And if I am, it’s starting to fade away.
The fire is searing now, eating into my bones, and a hollow cry tears free of me. My spine suddenly arches, my head cracking back against Cliff’s arm, and my scream splits the air.
Eyes rolling back in my head, my every muscle clamps up like lead bolted to me, and the shudders start. I think I’m seizing, but my mind … my mind is so far, far away, drifting off into the nothingness.
Still, I see what’s going on around me. Faintly, I’m aware of Cliff peeling his arms away from me and sprinting down the road. He hauls the satchels back to me and, as he drops them to my side, he falls to his knees.
Something is thickening my throat; a pressure like a hand gripping my neck too tight. My screams start to melt down into whispered cries.
I cut a panicked look at Cliff.
Be with me in my final moment. Be with me in my agony.
But he isn’t looking at me.
Black tendrils fall over his whitened face as he digs frantically through the bags. He’s spilling and pulling things all over the dirt until—he fishes out a small pinkie-sized phial from the bottom of a satchel. It’s filled halfway with glittering black powder, like dried-out tar then pulverised.
I recognise it even through the haze draped over me. It’s the same stuff he smeared into his side-wound from the bomb. The same stuff that healed him miraculously in a matter of hours.
“Nooo,” my croak is chased by my hand lifting from the ground. “Let me die…” I reach for him, pausing only when I see my hand.
The torn sleeve of my dress covers most of it, but those black lines spearing all over my fingers and wrist can’t go unnoticed. I look like some venomous thing from a horror movie. And the smell…
The smell!
My hands are radiating some rotten, pus-packed sores that punches the air with its stench.
Vomit crawls up my throat, but I’m fading further and further away. Before I can be sick on myself in any way, Cliff’s hand shoots up for my face. He grabs my jaw so hard that it’s forced open and he tips the phial’s contents into my mouth.
I fight him as much as I can; writhing weakly on the ground, lashes fluttering as darkness starts to take me.
Still, wetness springs at my eyes. Beads of it gather on my lashes as I look at him. His hand slips away from my jaw, the phial now empty in his other hand.
He looks at me. Defeat has his face slackened, his shoulders slump and he wears traces of panic in his heavy breathing.
“Relax,” he tells me, his tone thick with exhaustion. “You will sleep for a while. And then you will wake.”
My voice is a hoarse and croaky whisper, “You should let me die.”
He simply watches me. Reaching for my face, he peels a strand of hair from my sweaty skin. “I am selfish, Cora-lee. Now sleep.”
I do.
PART TWO
6
Sweat clings damp fabric to my body. My lashes are weighed down by the clutches of sleep.
Slowly, I become aware of a stony weight draped over my middle and the faint taste of salted water in the air. Tendrils of hair rustle at the shell of my ear, as though a gentle and steady breath is pressed too close to me.
A weary frown withers my face. Fluttering my lashes, I try to make sense of what I see around me. I’m on a bed; that much is clear by the plush, springy cushion that embraces my body. Beyond that, I see a pair of heavy curtains drawn over a window, an ajar door in the corner of the room, and in-built mirrored wardrobes opposite me.
With a grunt, I push up onto my elbows and turn my tired, glazed eyes around the bedroom. The mirrored wardrobe faces me, revealing myself—looking utterly haggard, traces of black circling my eyes, gaunt cheeks that tell of my eternal hunger in this new dark world, and lips so dry that they have cracked—on the bed with Cliff draped beside me. His arm rests over my mid-section, which explains the weight. It’s like a steel bar pressing against my organs.
Cliff’s face is buried into the pillow, where my hair was sprawled just seconds ago. A deep sleep has its clutches in him. His breaths come out steady, barely nudging his still chest, and his face is slack and peaceful-looking.
Turning my cheek to the mirror, I run my gaze over him. A sleeping, avenging angel from the pits of hell. My demon.
He saved me with that damned black powder.
I was supposed to die out there in the dark. It’s what was best for the both of us. And yet, he spent the last of that magical healing powder on me. Me, who he so adamantly insists he cannot protect once we meet with his group. Me, a kuri he should not be cuddled up against on a bed in a bedroom somewhere.
I expected to die in a fucked up way in a fucked up world. But this ... this is a whole new brand of twisted.
Looking down at my arms, I see the work of the black powder. I’ve only ever witnessed one attack from the critters on a human, and it was a grim thing to behold. His arm was covered in black lines that speared all the way up beyond his shoulder and quickly spread to his chest before he loosened his final breath.
There are no black lines to spear over my skin. They are all gone. Who knows how quickly the black powder got to work, all that I do know is that it purged that toxin from my body and saved my life—and gave me one hell of a hangover.
I’m tired. Though, I feel like I have slept for days on end.
I could sleep more. Slumber still snares around me, the temptation to fall back against the mattress and let Cliff’s arm tighten around me. A protector—for now. But not for long.
That reminder spurs me out of his hold.
I shift alongside the pillows to reach the edge of the bed, but I don't make it. That steely arm curls around me and drags me back into the nook against his body.
My movement has stirred him out of rest.
And he wakes suddenly.
In a blink, I’m pushed back into the mattress, a stone-faced dark fae crouched over me. Buried fire blazes in his eyes as though he has kept that anger hidden within him the whole time I’ve been out.
Hands pressing into the bed on either side of my head, he keeps me trapped. A dark fae cage with a captured human.
Shadows dig deep into his jaw as he sweeps over me with his amber gaze, assessing every freckle and blemish on my face. Bringing his nose to me, until it presses the tip of mine to the cartridge and I wince, his mouth curls into a snarl.
“If you ever do that again,” he whispers, lashes of danger whipping all around him. I cringe. “I will shed the blood of your kind. Innocent kuris will die for each attempt you make on your own life.” His mouth inches closer to mine until I can taste his crisp, fresh breath on my tongue. “Despite my favour of you, I am not so forgiving, Cora-lee. I am not above tormenting you.”
Save for my burning cheeks, blood runs down my face and gathers around my racing heart. I loosen a shuddering breath, turning my cheek to his pressing nose.
“What do I care about the other kuris?” I mumble, though my heart isn't quite in it. He did specify innocent—and how innocent are we talking here? Children?
“You care,” he whispers, his mouth grazing the length of my hot cheekbone. “More than you want to.” He pauses to plant a poisonous chaste kiss on my face. “A feeling I have come to know better than a close friend.”