It’s me who finds her, though—me who sees the small, pale figure huddled beneath two crossed beams, blood covering her face.
Had the logs not fallen in a crossed formation, they would have crushed her. As it is, I have no idea how bad the damage might be. I scoop Cat up in my arms. Her featherlight weight terrifies me, as if there’s no soul inside that body.
“I don’t think you should move her—” Leo starts, but I shoulder him out of the way and start running for the infirmary. Cat’s weight is nothing at all to me—I’m running faster than Leo and Ares can keep up.
Professor Howell intersects us, his silver whistle bouncing on his chest as he runs.
“Keep her steady,” he instructs me.
I’m already doing that, carefully cradling Cat’s neck with my right arm, supporting her legs with my left, using my hand to press her face gently against my chest.
I’ve never seen her so pale and ashen, all the beautiful color bleached from her skin. The blood and dust make it difficult to tell if there’s any movement of her lashes against her cheeks.
I press my fingertips against the side of her throat, careful not to jostle her.
I think I feel a pulse fluttering against my ring finger.
Leo dashes ahead, hammering on the infirmary door.
I expect Dr. Cross to open it with his usual ill-humor. Instead, an elegant blonde woman stands in the doorway. In my panic, I’d forgotten that Snow’s wife is the medic now.
“Get her inside,” Sasha Rybakov says at once. “Lay her on the bed.”
I carry Cat into the long, low building, which now smells of soap and fresh flowers, instead of like antiseptic and Dr. Cross’s chai tea. I only notice the change subconsciously, occupied by the far more pressing task of laying Cat carefully on the clean infirmary sheets.
“Thank you,” Sasha says. “Now I’ll need you to leave—”
“No!” I bark. “I’m not going anywhere!”
“Fine,” Sasha says, unwilling to waste time arguing. “The rest of you, out. There isn’t room for six in here.”
“I’m going back to the challenge,” Professor Howell tells me, with a concerned glance at Cat. “Report to me as soon as you can.”
Leo and Ares seem even more hesitant to leave, but Sasha shoos them out unceremoniously, closing the door in their faces.
Then she turns all her attention on Cat, swiftly checking her pulse and her pupil dilation, lifting Cat’s shirt to examine her abdomen and listen to her breathing, then gently running her hands down Cat’s limbs, checking for breaks or sprains.
By this point Cat is coming to, letting out a groan of such pathetic softness that my heart clenches up in my chest. I’m sick and furious—what the fuck was Lola thinking, making Cat climb up on that rickety pile of sticks?
“Is she alright?” I bark at the doctor. “How bad is it?”
“I think . . .” Sasha says, gently feeling Cat’s head and neck, “that we have a very lucky girl here . . .”
“That didn’t feel so lucky . . .” Cat moans, those thick black lashes fluttering against her cheeks.
“Get me a basin of warm water,” Sasha orders, pointing to the cabinets.
I hurry to obey, testing the temperature of the water, then filling the basin. I bring a clean cloth as well. Sasha adds a little disinfectant that makes the water foam, then begins to gently clean Cat’s face. The dirt comes off, but not the freckles, which stand out more than ever against her pallor.
I was worried that she’d broken her nose or knocked all her teeth out. But it seems like the blood is all coming from a gash along her hairline.
“Why is it bleeding so much?”
“Head wounds always do,” Sasha says calmly. “You know that, Dean.”
I look up at her sharply.
She gives me a small smile. “Oh, yes. Snow has told me all about you.”
“You call him Snow?” I ask, curious.
“Sometimes,” Sasha says.
I search Cat’s face, wanting her to open her eyes all the way so I’ll know she’s alright.
“Don’t squeeze her too hard,” Sasha says.
I look down at my hands, which are tightly clasped around one of Cat’s. I hadn’t realized I was gripping her hand.
“Is this your sister? Cousin? Lover?” Sasha says, noting my intense concern.
“She’s my . . .” I look at Cat, and now those dark eyes do open, and fix on mine. “She’s my friend,” I say, squeezing her hand once more.
The corner of Cat’s mouth twitches in quiet amusement.
“Her name is Cat Romero,” I tell the doctor.
“Cat,” Sasha says gently, “do you feel any sharp pain or pressure anywhere on your body?”
Cat takes a deep breath, eyes half closed, focusing on what must be a thousand aches and pains.
“No . . .” she says after a moment. “Just a lot of dull throbbing.”
“You’re going to have quite a few bruises,” Sasha says. “And I’ll probably have to stitch this.” She nods toward the cut on Cat’s forehead.
“That’s fine,” Cat sighs. “I had a couple of those last year.”
I bite back the urge to demand why she needed stitches last year, and who fucking caused it.
“Are you really alright?” I ask her, trying not to let her hear how anxious I am inside.
“Yes,” she says, a little color coming back into her cheeks. “Just sore.”
“I’ll give you something for that,” Sasha says. “Then the stitches won’t hurt, either.”
She fills a syringe with clear fluid and inserts the needle into the crook of Cat’s arm. She pushes down the plunger, and almost immediately Cat lets out a long sigh.
“Ohhhh that’s really good . . .”
Sasha chuckles. “That’s Professor Lyon’s own blend. We have to keep it under lock and key, or all the teachers would be knocking on my door.”
The doctor begins to organize the instruments needed for the stitches.
Cat rolls her head to the side to look at me, her eyes large and liquid, the pupils dilated.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not that injured. You’ll still get your month’s worth.”
“I don’t care about that!” I retort angrily.
Then I see Cat’s teasing smile.
I hadn’t realized that she could be funny. There’s a lot about Cat I still have to learn.
“Dean . . .” she says softly.
My heart hits against my ribs, not yet calmed from the mad race over here.
“Yes?” I reply.
“Did you catch me?”
“No.” I shake my head. “But I did dig you out.”
“Maybe next time . . . try to catch me,” Cat says.
I know she’s joking, but I feel an uneasy guilt that makes my laugh sound strange.
“Next time give me a little warning,” I say.
“You’re so fast . . .” Cat whispers, her voice drifting across the space between us.
“Not that fast,” I say.
“You could catch me . . .” Cat says, her eyes half closed.
I know she’s high as balls on whatever Professor Lyons cooked up, but her confidence in me fills me with warmth all the same.