by Krystal Wade
The Healers work together to clean blood from his face and change his blankets. I catch only a glimpse of the crimson before they wipe it away, but I see enough to know his condition has worsened. All the strength I managed to gather throughout the course of today leaks from my soul, leaving me hollow. I stare at the alarming scene before me, afraid to step into the room.
“Would you like to be alone with him, miss?” an old man asks, his tired eyes full of pity.
My heart is heavy. “Yes, please.”
I sigh and take a few steps toward the bed.
The Healers leave the room. The old man shakes his head as he closes the door behind him.
I turn to Brad. He’s asleep. Curling up on the bed next to him, I attempt to sleep as well, but it’s impossible. For the longest time, he doesn’t move, making me think for sure, a few times, he might have died. But every so often, he draws in a ragged breath. When Brad breathes, I breathe.
All I can think about is how it’s my fault we’re here in the first place. If I’d told Brad about the light, or even put a little more thought into how weird it was that he couldn’t see the entry to that stupid cave, we might not have come here. But the way Arland told it, I didn’t have much choice. My eyes close, but the details of every error I made play across them.
Following the light into the cave was the biggest mistake of my life.
Brad’s body is so hot that I have to get out of bed. He’s soaked with sweat. I grab a chair from the corner of the room and place it next to the bed, then lay my head on the edge by his waist.
Time seems to stand still. An hour goes by—maybe two. Brad runs his fingers through my hair. I lift my head, groggy and confused by the overwhelming guilt, as well as the information Arland shared with me earlier. I shouldn’t have walked away from him so soon; there are other things I want to ask, other things I need to understand.
Brad’s expression asks the pressing question before he does.
“What’s happening to me?” He plays with the loose hem on the bed sheets.
“They said it’s a poison, similar to a neurotoxin. There’s nothing here to treat it, and it’s too dangerous right now to return home for medicines.” I want to be strong for him, but weakness reveals itself in my strained voice.
“I was prepared to die for you, Kate; I still am.”
I squeeze the edge of the bed for support. “I will try to get home after the daemons have either been killed off or left.”
“Daemons? The things that attacked us? Don’t!” Even though his face is swollen beyond recognition, his eyes are still my Brad’s. I know the look he’s giving me; he doesn’t want me to risk my life for him.
“Why? I can’t leave you here to die!” Tears mount an assault, but I hold them back—for now.
“I would rather die here, in bed, with you in my arms, than send you out there. The medicines probably won’t work. Please, promise me you won’t do anything reckless.”
“I promise not to do anything reckless,” I say, my voice flat.
He moans; the agonizing sound torments me.
“Shh, everything is going to be okay,” I say, pushing Brad’s tousled hair from his forehead and wiping his face with a cold cloth from the bedside table. The fabric becomes hot the instant it touches his skin. I remove the cloth, swirl it around the air, and then reapply. My attempts to cool him are futile, but I’d rather be busy. And if cooling him does help, then I’ll continue until he’s healed, if that’s what it takes.
Brad’s eyes close for a moment—as if he’s going to sleep—then pop right back open. “Did you know I wanted to marry you? From the very first day I met you, I’ve known I wanted to be with you forever. Promise me you’ll find someone who loves you the way you deserve; find someone who loves you like I do.”
He grabs my hand, squeezes it. Dropping the cloth, I cannot respond, cannot keep up the façade of strength. Tears race down my cheeks, pain fills my heart, and air refuses to fill my lungs. Giving an automatic nod, I grab the cloth again, dab Brad’s head, but remain quiet.
Two promises I cannot possibly keep, within five minutes of each other. This day keeps getting worse for us both.
Questions swim around the forefront of my mind. Would I have married him? Sure, I’ve thought about marriage, kids, and what kind of life I wanted to have, but I haven’t had a boyfriend before, so I haven’t considered who I might spend my future with. Would it have been Brad? I cannot see a life without him in it, in some fashion. I cannot fathom the depths of his love for me. Why did he never tell me? Why didn’t he ask me if I’d date him? Was he afraid my answer would be no? Would my answer have been no? The rambling questions pop up as fast as corn kernels in the microwave, leaving me as battered as the bag they pop in.
Brad’s eyes glaze over as he watches me think. I’m not sure what level of consciousness he’s in. A few times, his eyes roll back in his head, causing me to go into a panic. Before I scream for help, his eyes always come back to their proper place, looking at me. After he falls asleep again, I lie beside him and fall asleep, too.
Flashes of violent images set on a loop plague my dreams: the coscarthas attack Brad and me, killing us both. Arland jumps into a lake to save me from being pulled under by a snake-like creature, only to drown. Everyone I’ve met here at base is set on fire, bodies flailing on the ground before me. I’m forced to watch as their skin melts. Something—some creature—stabs a woman through the heart with a stake; a child screams at her feet.
I awaken, trembling with fear. Sitting up, I realize it’s not me trembling, it’s Brad.
“Brad! Help! Someone, please!” I jump off the bed and continue to yell, trying to get someone’s attention.
He convulses on the bed. Drool leaks from the corners of his mouth. The irises of his eyes roll into the back of his head, revealing only white.
Arland bursts through the door, along with the two elderly Healers. He backs me up to the wall, blocking my view of Brad. I cry out from the innermost recesses of my heart as I watch my best friend’s body shut down.
The woman injects something into Brad’s arm with a large copper syringe, stopping the convulsions.
“Kegan, bring the other,” she says.
Kegan brings over another syringe, filled with something I hope will help Brad.
“This will place him in a deep sleep. He will not be in as much pain. We can take him out of it—if we find he is healing,” the old woman says, looking at Arland.
He hangs his head. “Go ahead, Shay.”
Arland returns his gaze to me and lets my arms go, when I stop fighting against him. I’m the definition of a mess. This is the beginning of the end. If they have to induce a coma, they’re worried the neurotoxin is attacking Brad’s brain. If he heals, they can bring him out of it, and it will be as though he were in a deep sleep, but if he does not heal, he will at least pass without pain.
Sinking to the floor, I rest my head against the wall. My heart already broke once, when I thought Brad died; now, my heart feels like it has been ripped from my chest.
Arland scoops me into his arms. He carries me into my room, where he lays me on the bed. Curling into a ball, I wrap my arms around my shins and bring my knees to my chest. There are no tears left, no emotions to express, no will left in me to live. I’m empty, and a terrible friend.
“How long have you two been mates?” Arland asks, stretching a wool blanket over me.
“He’s not my mate.” The word makes me feel like the friendship I’ve shared with Brad is cheap.
“Cadman informed me you two were in each other’s arms, kissing, when they came upon you in the clearing. It is really none of my business. I am sorry to have asked. If you do not need anything, I will leave you.” Arland is already by the door.
“No,” I say, sitting up. I can’t handle this. My emotions are out of control. I don’t want Arland to leave. I don’t want to be alone. I feel bad for being so nasty toward him. He has been kind to me; he deserves to hav
e that kindness returned. “Please don’t leave. I’m sorry I got upset.”
“I should not have pried into your personal affairs,” he says, still standing by the door.
“It’s okay. I might have asked the same thing if I were you. Will you stay for a while?”
“Are you sure you do not wish to be alone?” His voice is full of apprehension.
“I’m sure. How did Cadman see us kissing in the dark?” I ask, desperate to start a conversation before he walks out.
Arland grabs the rickety old chair from beside the dresser, then sets it down by the foot of the bed. “Our eyes have become accustomed to seeing great distances in the dark. It is not a trait we are proud of, but one we could not survive without.”
I cross my legs over each other to get more comfortable. “So you don’t need light to see? You’ve evolved?”
“Light helps, but no, we do not need it.”
“If it had not been for our flashlights, the three of us might not have known the daemons were coming,” I say, shuddering at the memory.
“Your eyes will adjust,” he says, as if it will happen overnight. “If you do not mind, what is your relationship with the boy?”
“Brad has been my best friend since we were eight. Until we wound up here, I never realized how much he loved me. People have brought it to my attention over the years, but when I asked him how he felt, he always denied it. Maybe because he knew I didn’t feel the same, and if he admitted it, he might lose me. I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. Before the coscarthas attacked, he kissed me. I imagine he figured it would be the last chance he would ever have to share his feelings,” I say, rambling on way too long.
“You do not share the same feelings for him?”
“I don’t know what I feel. I do love him, but it’s not the same kind of love he has for me.” Now, I’ll never have the opportunity to explore a relationship with Brad. Lying back down, I pull the blanket up to my chin and close my burning eyes. All the happy memories of Brad flash across them. “My mom always told me to be honest with him about how I felt, so I wouldn’t end up hurting us both in the future. If I’d listened to her, he might not be here with me right now. He could be safe at home, with someone who deserves him. Not stuck in a coma here, because of me.”
“You cannot blame yourself. I do not believe the boy would ever have given up on you, even if you had said you hated him. If he has waited this long for an opportunity to be with you, he would not have easily left your side. That kind of love does not burn out.” Arland pats my hand, then heads for the door.
The simple touch leaves me even more confused about my love life than before I met Arland. My dreams of him have always been filled with intimate passions I’ve never experienced with anyone. His light touch is not enough to quench the intense desires I feel, because of what we’ve shared over the years.
He stops before the door closes all the way. “If you are willing, I would like to begin training you how to use weapons in the morning. I will not take you away from the safety of this base without you having knowledge of some basic self-defense techniques.”
I nod.
Arland disappears behind the heavy, wooden door.
What am I supposed to do here? This world may be where I came from, but it doesn’t feel like my own. Somehow, I’m supposed to fight Darkness for these people, and I’ve never so much as punched a person. I miss Brit. If she were here, I’m sure she would love the opportunity to save the world. Scratch that; I’m glad she isn’t here. I hope she’s at home, safe in her own bed.
Picturing home for a moment, I wonder what Brit told our parents. Sure, Mom probably wasn’t shocked, but what are Gary and Mr. Tanner doing right now? The thought of Mr. Tanner brings me back to Brad’s comment about marrying me. I could have been Mrs. Kate Tanner. The thought causes me to choke. The way I felt so comfortable in his arms that evening in the tent: was it because of how familiar we are with each other, or because there is something more?
I no longer want to think about anything—not about Brad, not about Brit, and not about Arland. The flickering candle next to the bed illuminates roots poking through the ceiling. I count them until my thoughts slow and my breathing becomes heavy. After fifty-two, I begin drifting to sleep.
Chapter Eight
The smell of eggs drifts into my dreams. Hunger gnaws at my stomach. Opening my eyes, I stretch my arms, muscles sore and stiff. There’s no way I could have been sleeping more than an hour.
Someone has left a tray of food and some clean clothes next to the bed. I grab the tray, pick at the eggs and potatoes, but wait to get dressed. My skin is dirty. There would be no point in putting on clean clothes. I climb from the bed, grab the burning candle from the table, and then walk from the room to check out the other two doors in the hall. No one else I’ve seen is as dirty as I am; there must be a shower or something somewhere.
The door at the end of the hall is locked, but the one across from Brad’s opens into the most peculiar of bathrooms. The floor on the right side of the room has a stone enclosure built over a natural spring. Water flows in and out of the basin, probably making it the cleanest bath anyone could ever sit in.
The sound of the spring flowing is consistent, tranquil. The candle in my hand flickers in the holder. I set it down, and then slip off my borrowed nightgown, allowing it to fall to the floor around my ankles. I walk up the stone stairs to the opening of the enclosure, and then step into it with caution.
The water temperature is perfect. Submerging myself, I allow the warmth to refresh my tired skin. My eyes close, and I float on top of the spring. I don’t think about Brad, or home, or anything else for as long as it takes for my fingers and toes to prune.
Next to the enclosure, sitting on a large rock, is a bar of soap. I grab it, rub the soap all over my skin, and through my hair. The smell of summer lilacs drifts through the bathroom, along with the steam.
The bath is so comforting, I have to force myself to climb out. Reaching the bottom step, I find someone has replaced my nightgown with the clean clothes I forgot to bring from the bedroom—and a towel. The fresh linens are folded and laying on an old oak counter next to the door. My senses must be relaxed; I never observed anyone come into the room.
For fear someone else might come in while I’m not decent, I rush to dress. The pants are tight and brown. The leather boots lace up to my knees and are a perfect fit. I slip a long-sleeved, white linen tunic over my head—the shirt hangs down to my thighs—and cinch a wide, brown belt around my waist. My hair is still dripping wet. I towel it dry, run my fingers through to comb the tangles, pulling out a ton of russet strands.
When my hair dries, I leave the bathroom and peek into Brad’s room. Shay shakes her head. I look from her to Brad; there hasn’t been any change in his condition.
“I will find you if I notice any improvement,” she says, getting up from her chair.
“I-I—” I want to run to him, sit next to him, hold his hand and tell him everything’s going to be okay, but he’s not there.
“Go.” She crosses the room, puts her hands on my shoulders, then guides me through the door. “There is nothing you can do.”
The old Healer is right. There’s no sense in going in; it wouldn’t help me find a way to get him home, and it would only make me feel worse, watching him as he lies motionless on the bed.
Shay eases the heavy door closed behind me.
Dirty dishes litter the tables in the dining room, chairs are not in their proper places, and the buffet table is empty. I go into the kitchen, hoping to find someone soon because I’m beginning to feel alone, but there’s no one in here either. It appears everyone has already eaten and gone about their business for the day.
Cleaning is the best idea I have for busying myself. I collect the plates from the dining room, take them to the sink—already full of water—and begin washing.
Back home, in periods of stress, I’d clean. After mailing out college applications, I’d w
ork on the house until it gleamed. Every day, I came home from school and vacuumed, did the dishes, dusted—anything to get my mind off the waiting game. The afternoon my first acceptance letter came, the cleaning sessions became more intense. The acceptance wasn’t from the school I wanted to attend; they were merely the first to write back. Twelve more acceptance letters graced our mailbox, but the one for Virginia Tech came last. During those few months, Mom never had to lift a finger. I inherited my habits from her, anyway. Mom did the same thing I did. When Gary had a heart attack and had to stay in the hospital for a week, Mom could barely find time to visit him with all the straightening up she was doing.
After a few trips back and forth between the kitchen and dining room, I’ve managed to wash all the dishes. The tables also get a good wipe down, and I push the old chairs, similar to the wooden one in my room, back into their places. I look around the rooms, smiling, proud of my work.
”Well,” someone behind me says in a high-pitched voice.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I turn around. The redheaded woman who prepared food for Brad yesterday enters the dining room from the hallway.
“It appears as though you have finished up my job. Now what am I going to do with myself?” she says, her tone layered with irony. Laughing, she moves beside me. “We have not formally met; my name is Flanna.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Flanna.” I’m able to see her face in full detail now. Flanna appears to be a year or two older than I am. She has crystal blue eyes, a short nose, and a pointed chin. She’s smiling and absolutely stunning.
“Arland said you were beautiful, but with all that muck covering you, it was hard to tell for sure. I am glad you discovered the washroom this morning,” she says, winking.
It’s a little embarrassing to hear that Arland spoke about me and that everyone noticed how disgusting I was, but Flanna doesn’t seem to understand this.
“Did I frighten you when I brought in your towel and clothes? I did not want to see you running down the hall wearing nothing but your skin.”
