The Hellhound Duke [Part1/2]

Chapter 3

Asa

     I've died before, but this time, it's different.

     I'm lucid for every second of the coma, simply wishing I could open my eyes and peer through the shifting darkness, but I'm not strong enough. I can barely think through the searing pain in my head, let alone move or talk.

     Although, I do feel. Like when they open my mouth to pour in lukewarm water, I feel the metal canteen and their talons scrape against my lips. I feel them when they carefully change my clothes and the watery rag on my forehead. I feel them when they bathe and groom me.

     I lose count of how many times this happens; it feels like thousands.

     Thankfully, I sleep, yet it's restless, tossing and turning on the hard bed. I shiver through my slumber, yet burn with curiosity from the second I regain what I think is something close to consciousness. I wish I'd dream, just to escape the cycle for a few seconds. To dream of Ester; I want to see her now, in case she's not in the room when I wake up. 'But,' I wonder. The pain is suddenly bearable now, slowly fading but I hardly notice. There's a few crimson blemishes in the darkness too, getting brighter. 'If she's alive, why would the servants need to care for me? Satan would insist they...'

     Then reality overtook like a rogue wave and the wall of darkness suddenly grew deeper. I blink twice before I bolt upright and gasp, choking on my spit and sputtering while my eyes adjust to the surroundings. The wet rag falls. I'm in a brown sleeping bag, the slanted roof of the triangular hiking tent surrounding me feeling a thousand feet tall. Not a hospital bed, nor an operating room. Neither a nurse nor flowers rest at my side to comfort me.

     I clear the saliva from my lungs in loud hacks, pull my arms from underneath the blankets, and look at my hands. The skin's singed and the paint on my jagged nails is gone and the silky black fur looks regrown. It hits me;      

     Ester didn't make it and I'm not with her.

     I cry for a few long minutes before my servants come in, the shadows in the tent morphing under the moonlight shining in from the mesh windows on either side. I'm naked and shivering as I clutch my stomach, tears pouring from my eyes. The Frysiya unzip the fold in front warily, but surge forward once they're certain it's me.

     They hardly make a sound, but their actions speak for them. One holds my hand and sits next to me. Another offers a box of tissues, which I make use of, throwing the ones I soil next to the few empty pill bottles in the corner.

     I sob and heave. The cries hurt my lungs and heart as they tear through me, like twists of a dagger lodged hilt-deep in my chest. I can't form words, but choke out broken syllables, sputtering. She's not there, yet I gasp her name as if she might hear my broken pleading. As if I'm merely alone instead of lost.

     An hour passes. Snot and tears coat the sleeping bag. I swallow the clumps of saliva in my throat. My eyes and nose are raw, my cheeks and jaw sore and stiff and my face damp with salty tears. I can feel the heartbeat in my chest, pounding as I take deep breaths to taper its pulse. Eventually, it obeys, and I find my way out of my grief. At least, for the moment.

     "Where are we?" I sniffle and toss away the umpteenth tissue into the heaping yellowish-white pile, looking at the servant who holds my left hand. "In Treason?"

     The other two stand at guard by the entrance, the one on the left carrying a satchel in a strap under his shoulder. The hoods of their shrouds are down; I can see their furry ears stick out and swivel around as cars whizz by in the distance. They make a point of staying out of the light, though.