The Edge of Hell: The Mitchell Brothers Series Book One

24

Late the following morning, Wolstan awoke with a start from a deep sleep. His heart thundered against his ribs, blood rushed in his ears, and his limbs trembled as a growing sense of unease settled around him like a wet blanket.

Stumbling from his bed, he flung open his bedroom door, intent on checking Emerson's condition. But he stopped short when he came face to face with a worried Mae.

"He's feverish," Mae whispered, taking his hand and walking toward Emmaline and Emerson's room across the hall, the door slightly ajar. "And he's torn out several of the stitches, saying there's an ember stuffed inside, burning him alive."

Wolstan's stomach lurched as a nauseating rush of guilt slammed through him. His footsteps slowed, and he glanced at her as he asked, "Where's Declan?"

"Tying Uncle Em to the bed so he doesn't continue to hurt himself."

"Mama," Declan said, the concern in his voice carrying to Wolstan and Mae through the door, "move back—I don't want you hurt if he—"

The sharp smack of flesh striking flesh, followed by Declan grunting, brought Wolstan and Mae to a standstill.

"Emerson," Emmaline tearfully pleaded, "it's for your own good, darling. He's only trying to help."

"It's all right, Mama," Declan said, "I'd be madder than a wet hen, too, if I were getting tied to my bed."

"What if Uncle Em's right?" Wolstan whispered just outside the bedroom. "What if I didn't clean the wounds as thoroughly as I should have?"

"But you did," Mae said with a quick shake of her head. "I watched you—"

"It clearly wasn't enough," Wolstan quietly interrupted. He raked a hand through his hair and winced when he encountered the tender goose egg where Cyrus had hit him.

"WOOLY," Declan barked, "none of this is your fault, so quit yammering in the hall and get in here to help."

Wolstan's heart thudded dully, his stomach twisted, and against every nerve in his body screaming for him to do the exact opposite, he gripped Mae's hand tighter in his right hand. Pushing the door open with his left, he grit his teeth and entered the room.

Emerson moaned and grunted, tugging against the torn strips of sheets binding his arms to the bed. His wild gaze darted around the room, only calming when Emmaline perched on the edge of the mattress and attempted to bathe his fever-mottled brow.

"How long has he been like this?" Wolstan asked, approaching the bed.

Emmaline, pale and trembling, sniffled as she dipped her rag in the water bowl, wrung it out, and resumed bathing Emerson's face, neck, and bare chest. "I noticed he'd become feverish before dawn broke, but he started tearing out the stitches about twenty minutes ago."

Wolstan's eyes fell on Emerson's wound, and he grunted in dismay. What had been a tidy display of his needlework when last he'd checked now looked like a giant bug had been pulverized above his uncle's clavicle. Its little black legs protruded at odd angles from Emerson's raw, angry flesh.

"What do you want to do?" Declan asked, his hands perched on his hips.

"Me?" Wolstan replied, looking at his brother for the first time since entering the room, and noticed the darkening bruise near his left eye. "Why is it my decision?"

Declan frowned. "You stitched him up—"

"So, you are saying this is my fault?"

"No—"

"Seems that way—"

"You've watched him do what he does," Declan loudly interrupted with a shake of his head, "more than I have. That's all I meant. You're the better choice to take the lead... I'll only do more harm than good."