The White Angel's Prayer

13. Wilted Flowers

Screams echoed up and down the expanse of the storage lot, ghastly and sinister; a calling, reverberating promise that dripped with whispers of agony and emotional turmoil. The familiar call of infected rattled Lucy down to the bone — or maybe that was a result of the shivering that pinched her skin. She couldn't differentiate the difference anymore; she was just glad Bhu'ja rushed into the building on their right.

The glass double doors clicked shut, and they were shrouded in a looming but not full effect of silence. They hadn't gone far, in fact, if Lucy had looked over Bhu'ja's shoulder, she would still be able to see the storage sheds that had been refurbished to accommodate the Vultures. It was frustrating, but anger was the last thing on her mind when her stomach twisted and turned at each new throb of pain.

"I'm cold," Lucy said quietly. She didn't take much notice of the lobby that Bhu'ja practically tore through. It wasn't much warmer in here; she could feel an icy draft from somewhere.

Bhu'ja grunted in acknowledgment. His feet crunched on debris, leftover ruin from days gone. Weeds swished against his calves, having long since broken through the cracked ground. The male walked quickly, carelessly, as if he already knew there would be no one waiting for them inside.

As Bhu'ja ascended the stairs, he moved around a chunk of plaster awkwardly caught between the metal handrails. His movements jostled Lucy, and she loudly groaned. Fresh throbs of pain that felt much more intense stilled her hand and shot up her arm, making the brunette jointly tense as she made a noise.

"Almost there," Bhu'ja said lowly. Lucy barely registered his words. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them when she felt her feet brush a doorframe.

There were two beds in this room; stripped, dirty, and stained with dried blood. It smelt stale, and mould had begun its silent journey up the curtain that covered a frosty window. There was a dresser where the dust had been disturbed, and her bag and bow were neatly discarded on the surface.

Bhu'ja gently placed her down on the cleanest bed, though Lucy distantly worried about the infection she'd surely get from being anywhere near the disgusting furniture. She sat back against the headboard, and her skin briefly crawled with revulsion at the feel of it.

There was a quiet rustling as Bhu'ja knelt beside the bed and pulled out his medikit. Lucy tried to regulate her breathing, steadily sucking air in and out as she squeezed her eyes shut again.

"How did this happen?" Bhu'ja eventually asked. His voice shocked Lucy back to reality, and she wearily stared at him. She swallowed thickly, trying not to throw up as Bhu'ja inspected her hand. She winced.

"Um." Lucy hesitated, exhaling shakily. "They tied me up."

"Ties do not do this," Bhu'ja said. He disinfected her hand with a spray, and the brunette gasped at the blinding stinging that it caused. Lucy kept her eyes trained on the mouldy wall opposite them, refusing to look at the mangled excuse of flesh that barely clung to shredded muscle. If she looked at the white bone of her metacarpals one more time, she'd pass out.

Bhu'ja's shoulders were tense as he delicately placed the spray into its moulded slot. He picked up a small spatula and wound clamps. "This will hurt."

"Great," Lucy said. She ignored the pinch in her chest at Bhu'ja's coldness, though she distantly wondered if he was angry at her for her stupidity. Her oversight had compromised them in a way she'd never imagined — just the idea of what the Vultures did to outsiders sickened her deeper than the pain did.

Bhu'ja leaned forward, his amber eyes burning holes into her hand — when did he take that off? Oh, Lucy didn't really remember, but now that she could look at his face again, she stared at it. From the oddly placed maroon shape on his crest to the way his brows pulled tightly together. His skin, so different and so alien, but so smooth and beautiful and coloured.