by SM Reine
“It doesn’t hurt that much,” Luke said.
“Why are you fighting me on this? Did I do something to make you angry?”
“I have nothing against you, but that doesn’t mean I want you to touch me, either.”
“I see how it is. Very well.” For a man who had gone so far out of his way to rescue her, Luke was making it quite clear that he didn’t actually like her all that much. Marion’s throat felt thick, and she worried that she’d start crying if she talked too much, so she kept things short. “Tell me what to do.”
“Bathroom,” Luke said. “First aid kit. Then check the cabinet by the fridge.”
Marion swallowed down her disappointment and retrieved the first aid kit. It was rather large—not surprising, considering that Luke was a doctor. She had to half-drag it to his side.
She opened it to find an array of professional tools: scalpels, bandages, painkillers.
“Oh my,” Marion said.
“Cabinet by the fridge,” he said again.
She opened it to find a large bottle of whiskey. “This is what you want?”
“Antiseptic.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Inside and out. Glasses are over the stove.”
Marion grabbed those, too.
Luke was sitting up when she came back, trying to get his jacket off.
“Don’t move,” she said, swatting his arm, perhaps slightly harder than necessary. Her frustration had to go somewhere. “Let me.”
She tugged it down his shoulders. She couldn’t help but remember when she had pushed Konig’s shirt down his shoulders earlier, though in a completely different context. It was horrible that she’d even equate the two in her mind.
Marion couldn’t help but stare when she cut his shirt away, though. Dr. Lucas Flynn was, somehow, even more sculpted than a sidhe prince. How a doctor had time to provide the kind of compassionate care he’d delivered to Elena Eiderman and still carve his body into that of a god was a mystery for another day. One where he wasn’t bleeding out of a wound longer than Marion’s arm, slicing him open from armpit to hip.
She stared at the massive, gaping wound even harder than his impressive abdominals. “You had a calm conversation with me while hiding that under your jacket.”
“Think I was in shock,” Luke said. “The shock is fading. Unfortunately.”
She tucked a couple of worn pillows behind him so that he could lean back, and then gave him a glass of whiskey. “What should we do about this?” She pointed at his wound and kept her eyes on his face. Not his muscles.
“First I’m going to get drunk. Then you’re going to be an extra pair of hands while I stitch it up,” Luke said.
“You’re going to perform surgery on yourself?” Marion was going to need at least one drink, too. She poured a glass for herself and drank it quickly. It burned all the way down and made her eyes prick with tears. “Okay, what’s next?”
“Clean this needle with alcohol. Wash your hands while you’re at it. Then put on the gloves at the bottom of the box.”
Marion hurried to do as he told her, taking the tools to the sink. Through the kitchen window, she saw that the snow was only increasing. It was thick enough in the back yard that she could see only a few inches of the fence.
They were not going to be able to go to the hospital any time soon.
“The faucet isn’t working,” Marion said.
Luke muttered a curse. “Of course the water’s off. There are bottles in another cabinet. Don’t remember which one.”
She found them hiding behind some canned green beans that looked about as appealing as roadkill. Marion set a couple of bottles aside for drinking, then took one for her hands. “I hope this melts overnight,” she said, washing her hands thoroughly in the sink using old, gummy soap that was crusted to its bottle. “I don’t know how I’ll drive to the city in this kind of weather.”
“I’ll be able to drive us tomorrow,” Luke said. He poured himself another drink and knocked it back. The whiskey didn’t seem to bother him at all. He’d had a few more years to practice drinking than she had, though.
She brought the sterilized needle back to him, pulling the gloves on. “What now?”
“Thread the needle for me,” he said.
There was just enough room on the couch for Marion to sit between his body and the edge. While she threaded the needle, he washed away some of the blood with the cheap whiskey. He barely even groaned.
Marion struggled to do her part, and all it required was getting one stupid piece of thread through a tiny hole.
They were going to sew him shut.
She was feeling faint, and it wasn’t because of that foul-tasting gasoline that was masquerading as whiskey.
Luke was watching her. “You okay?”
“Delightful,” she snapped. “This is so much better than taking you to a hospital.”
“Uh-huh. Press the sides of the skin together for me.”
Marion did, and then she redirected her gaze to the bookshelves so that she wouldn’t have to see the needle going in.
He was fast and neat, even when working on himself. According to the clock on the wall, the tidy stitches only took a few minutes, even though he had to span a good eighteen inches of his body. It felt like much, much longer to Marion. Her heart pounded in her temples the whole time he did it.
But then he was done.
“You can look again,” Luke said, sagging back against the couch. He was even paler than when he’d started.
“There’s Percocet in the first aid kit,” Marion said.
“I’d rather stick to the whiskey. It’s more fun. And they don’t mix well.” His eyes had slid shut, and it didn’t look like they were likely to open any time soon.
Marion swept through the room to clean it up: the bloody remnants of his shirt, the blankets, extra gauze, the needle. She shoved everything into an empty trash bin before returning to Luke.
His jacket wasn’t destroyed, but it would stain if the blood were allowed to set. She sat on the floor beside him to spot-clean it with another water bottle.
“What are you doing?” Luke asked sleepily. She thought he’d been unconscious.
“Never you mind that,” Marion said. “Focus on resting.”
“What if I focus on more whiskey?”
She eyeballed the bottle. The two of them had demolished half of it, but very little of that had been Marion’s responsibility. “I’m not sure you should.”
“I’ve got a hollow leg,” he said.
Marion handed the bottle to him. Their hands almost touched—merely an inch apart.
It would be so easy to twitch her thumb and get that skin contact she so badly wanted. The memories she needed.
Luke seemed to sense the direction of her thoughts. He jerked the bottle away.
Marion set his jacket aside. “Doctor…” She shifted onto the sofa beside him again.
He watched her blearily, mind so fogged by pain and alcohol that Marion could see the distortion of his brain signals. She hadn’t gotten all that much from him before. Luke’s mind was usually as guarded as the rest of his demeanor. “Marion. Marion Garin.”
“Yes, that’s my name,” she said.
“Beautiful,” Luke said, just like Elena Eiderman had.
She inched her hand toward his on the couch. “The briefest touches have given me language, memory, and magic. What do you think would happen if we touched each other longer than that?”
“We already talked about this.”
“This isn’t about your memories. It’s about mine. What if you’re the key to unlocking everything?”
“I’m not.” He said it so emphatically that she couldn’t help but recoil. “Whatever weird reaction strikes up whenever we touch—it’s gotta be coincidence, or accident—”
“But it’s every time. Don’t you think that means something? Don’t you feel something between us?”
He went tense all over.
Marion had gone too far. Br
ought up a facet of their relationship neither had addressed aloud.
It was too late to take it back, so she took a deep breath and plunged on. “This isn’t about your memories at all, is it?” Marion asked. “It’s because of this…um, this chemistry between us.” Gods, she hoped she wasn’t hallucinating the chemistry. She could only handle so much humiliation for one night. “We have a special connection. I felt it from the moment I saw you in the hospital.”
Luke set the whiskey bottle aside. “I won’t say chemistry. Connection—maybe. I feel connected with a lot of patients.”
“Would you really follow most patients into the Middle Worlds to save them from assassins? Or are you trying to hurt me by pretending that you would?”
The look he gave her in response to that was very much like the one he’d given her in the clothes store in Port Angeles. “You know I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Then are you resisting me because of your ex-fiancée? Your ridiculous oath to remain alone?”
“I shouldn’t have told you about that,” Luke said. “No. My ex has got nothing to do with this.”
She flung her hands into the air. “Then what is it? I’m not asking you to get married to me. I’m not even asking to go on a date. I’m asking you to help restore my memories and my magic! It’s ridiculous that you won’t do that because you’re afraid we’ll touch and—and that it will turn into something romantic.”
It sounded much stupider when she said it out loud than when she had considered the idea. Now she was on a roll and she couldn’t stop herself. The verbal diarrhea just kept getting worse.
“You shouldn’t flatter yourself, Dr. Flynn! Don’t even imagine that you’re at risk of having a romantic thing with me. I’m the Voice of God!”
“This again,” he muttered.
“I am the Voice of God,” she repeated, more firmly, “and my boyfriend is a sidhe prince. I can touch you without consequence. I’m not afraid of falling in love with the likes of a mundane man like you.”
Although once she said that hideous four-letter word, she realized that it might have been a little too close to truth.
Marion hadn’t left the Autumn Court because she genuinely thought Konig wanted to hurt her.
She’d left for Luke.
Her mouth snapped shut. She slipped off the couch and sat on the floor by his jacket, where she should have been the whole time.
“I’m not drunk enough for this,” Luke said, leaning against the back of the couch again.
Marion’s eyes burned. “Me neither.” She poured herself another glass and drank it down. It was just as awful as it had been the first time.
Gods, she hoped he was drunk enough not to have noticed what she’d said.
His tone was a lot gentler when he started talking again. “You don’t know me. We only met a few days ago.”
Yet Marion felt as though they were so much closer than that. She trusted him more than anyone else she had met in her brief memories. She wanted to open herself to him, and have the favor returned.
It was naïveté. Illusions of emotion cast around the confusion of memory loss and adrenaline.
Luke had told her no.
No, she couldn’t use his money.
No, she couldn’t touch him.
But yes, he would save her. And he’d keep saving her as long as she needed it. Couldn’t Marion be satisfied with that?
She folded her hands under her arms, squeezing them tightly to her sides. “It’s absurd you won’t help me when you can do it so easily. That’s all I’m trying to tell you.”
His hand slipped down to rest on her clothed shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt you, Marion. It’s just complicated.”
She inched away from him.
“Angels can read minds,” Luke said.
Leliel had proven that quite effectively. “Yes, I know.”
“The more you touch me, the likelier it becomes you’ll read my mind.” He sighed. “Look…this is the thing: you’re important. You know a lot of people. Tomorrow, you’re going to go to this summit where all these other important people are waiting, and if you’ve gotten something out of my head—if they get something about me out of your head… It’s just not safe.”
“You’re important too, aren’t you?” Marion asked. “That’s why you’re such an enigma.”
“You don’t have to be important to make important enemies. We aren’t touching again for my safety.” After a pause, he said, more quietly, “And for yours.”
Marion finally nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “We’re just going to hole up until it’s time to get you to the summit. All right? Giving that speech is the only way we’re going to shake off your assassins.”
He didn’t say it, but Marion understood that it was also the only way that Luke would be able to get rid of her, too.
17
Luke could only tell when morning came because his senses told him that the protective cloak of nighttime had been stripped away. There was no sunlight to indicate the time: the snow was too thick, the clouds too heavy, the valley too deep. It was always too deep. Morning had never touched his old home in the mountains.
It was strange waking up to that timeless twilight the way that he used to. When Luke had last awakened in such a fashion, it had been a different world, a different time.
He’d been a different man.
Sitting up was difficult, which had less to do with the stitches woven into his side and more to do with the sheer volume of whiskey that he had drunk the previous night. Even Luke, hollow-legged as he’d claimed to be, could get a hangover. It wasn’t easy, but he’d managed somehow.
He groaned, resting a hand on his stitches. The skin was hot. His human body was struggling to heal as best it could.
Luke was acutely aware of the fact that the pain was his fault. He could have avoided it. Could have been healed by other methods.
Marion could have fixed him.
But he’d made his choices, and he was going to stick with them.
He drank the last half-inch of whiskey in the bottle before forcing himself off the lumpy couch and into the kitchen.
The bedroom door was cracked open a fraction of an inch. Marion rested atop the comforter, hand on the pillow beside her face, curls arranged so neatly around her head that it looked deliberate. Luke hung by the doorway to watch her sleep, feeling the weight of the snow outside the building as it pressed in on them, confining the two of them in the tomb of Luke’s old life.
Her heart pulsed steadily, shooting blood through the lacework of veins patterning her pale throat. Her brow was furrowed even though she was unconscious.
Marion was unhappy. He’d done that to her, and no amount of migraine would make him forget it.
“Damn,” Luke muttered.
There was nothing to cook for breakfast. He could only crack open old canned food, so old that they still had the barcodes with the black parallel lines stamped on white. He opened the tops, drained the liquids from the fruit, dumped it in a bowl.
Not much of a breakfast, but at least it would be enough to keep them from being hungry for a little while. Long enough to plan how they’d get out of the house, get to New York, deliver Marion to the summit. Twelve hours wasn’t nearly enough time.
“Good morning.” Marion had sneaked up on Luke and stood by the bedroom door, hair tousled and face puffy from sleep. She wore the same jeans as the night before, but she’d replaced the shredded bathrobe with one of Luke’s t-shirts. It overwhelmed her slender form.
He set the canned food on the table, a rickety little thing with barely enough room for one of them to sit by it, although there were two rickety chairs to match. “Morning.”
Marion slipped into the seat across from him. Her hands were folded in her lap, posture hunched. Her usual arrogance had faded.
“Marion,” he began.
“How does your injury feel this morning?” she interrupted.
&n
bsp; “Fine,” he lied. “Better.”
She nodded and didn’t offer to heal him again. He was grateful for that. “How will I reach the summit in time with this snow?”
That wasn’t where Luke had planned to begin their conversation, but it was probably better. “There are Snowcats we could borrow. If we can just get out of the valley, we should be able to get another truck to take us the rest of the way.”
Or he could touch Marion long enough to give her the magic to heal him and then burn their way out.
Much faster, but much more dangerous.
She rose from the table again without eating. “Would you like to see something I discovered last night?” She didn’t wait for a response before ducking into the bedroom and returning with a box. He recognized it even before she opened it.
Marion had found an old battery-powered TV. Its screen was the size of Luke’s palm.
“That doesn’t still work, does it?” he asked.
She turned it on, fiddled with the antenna.
The news faded in. Luke could make out reporter January Lazar’s blurry features.
“—the summit beginning tonight, the final members of the participating factions are arriving,” she said. “The infernal delegation arrived in its entirety yesterday, along with Deirdre Tombs and Jolene Chang, leaders of the American Gaean Commission, representing non-sanctuary gaeans. There’s no sign of the sidhe from any court as of yet.”
Marion kept swiveling the antenna, trying to bring the signal into focus. “I spent an hour watching the news after going to bed. They’ve been talking about the summit nonstop.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Everything,” she said. “Unfortunately, all that I’ve learned isn’t enough to write a new speech.”
“We’ll have to get you into the United Nations before we can even worry about that,” Luke said. “I was awake last night, too. Doing some planning. The sidhe will be around the UN, trying to catch you before you get inside. We’ll have to sneak you past them.”
“That means I’ll have to disguise myself without magic.” Marion smiled a little. It wasn’t as bright as her usual smiles had been, as though she’d lost some of her spark. “I don’t suppose you have a fake mustache in here somewhere?”
