102 - A Message Made From Bones

17

I lean against the tiny sink as Jay brings the shower water to temperature. The space is tight between the sink—which barely has a countertop—and the bathtub. The wood panels and floorboards are bowed from years of humidity. An unlit pair of candles is set in sconces on either side of a mirror so dirty that I can barely distinguish the mirror film from what is on my skin, and the only source of light comes from a single privacy window.

I squint, trying to get a better look at my reflection in the mirror while he fiddles with the shower knobs, checking for crusties on my nose ring, not surprised at all that Moira and Faith have kept me clean, and then taking in the area around my eyes, mottled purple and red. It has been a while since I've looked so bad... but it'll be gone in a day or two's time.

I knew that I'd end up like this when I'd taken those punches from Quinn to begin with, but his strength was also infused with magick, and it did so much more damage than what I was prepared for.

My eyes fall to my body, seeing all the bruises in their inky beauty. Patches large and small are visible on every exposed inch of me, many already in the healing phases. Some of them—the deeper yellow ones—I can account for, and there are dark olive ones in places where Quinn had magickally gripped me: my core, my shoulders, wrists, along my forearms. A bruising pattern coils around my legs in a lighter green.

I tug at the hem of the shorts, attempting to cover some of my ass with it, but then the waistband dips below my hips, flashing the wounds there.

I give up when Jay turns toward me, seeing his reflection in the mirror.

"See if this is good for you. I'll get you a towel," he offers, moving aside so I can test the water. We brush against each other as we swap places, and I'm hit with that clean, soapy scent from my dreams.

The water bites at the bruises on my arm—just the way I like it. But I know they consumed as little power as possible to keep costs low, which means... "How much time do I have before it's out?"

He's shuffling around in the barely-a-linen-closet, his head obscured by the thin door. "Don't worry about it."

"Payment for saving your sister's ass?"

His head pulls back, a flat look on his face. "Time's ticking."

Footsteps pass by the door, reminding me that it isn't just us. I offer a half-smile. "Thanks." The word is foreign on my tongue, and it surprises me to hear how sincere I sound.

Every muscle is tight and aching as I turn my back to Jay. A sharp pain twists my ribs before I can pull my shirt over my head. I can't help the hiss that escapes me, my arms lowering.

If I'm to do this myself, it's going to be a slow, slow process.

Jay sets a towel down and tosses a washcloth into the shower before he reaches toward me—then freezes.

"May I?" he asks.

I cast him a brief look over my shoulder, scanning his face for any hint of danger. Wondering if I can trust him with the task despite knowing I could lay him out flat in two swift movements if need be.

With a small nod, I face forward.

The first touch of his fingers sprouts goosebumps along my skin. He peels the shirt off by the hem with such careful tenderness, exposing my back to his warm front—though he maintains a respectful distance—and I dare lean into it.

He lets go once it slips over my head, leaving it in my grasp without so much as stealing a glimpse at my front or uttering a sly remark. Instead, his breath hitches once he beholds my back—the peppering of scars across gold-brown skin. I hold the fabric against my chest—as if that hides the fresh, pink tracks the glass left... and the older marks I've picked up in my four years of slaying: the claw marks that mirror the ones Jay has on his lower back, faded stripes scattered randomly from metal shrapnel.