The Survivors

Chapter 17: Forever, pt. 2

  "You need to lie down," he said. "I know you're playing brave, but I can tell you're in pain." I hated that he could see that.

  He motioned for me to climb into the bed. I slid between the cov-ers, the soft sheets gliding over my skin. Everett was beside me, propped up on his side, in a fraction of a second. "How is it?" he asked.

  "The bed or the injury?" I asked.

  He laughed. "Both, I guess."

  "Well," I sighed, "the bed is soft and comfortable, and I suddenly forget why I don't spend more time here." He laughed again. "And the injury is...bearable," I said. It was the best I could do without completely lying.

  He furrowed his brow. "Can I see it?" he asked. "I want to see how bad it is." I thought it would be good for another set of eyes to look at it to determine if I needed to do anything about it.

  "I guess you should look at it," I said. "Unless you get skittish around blood," I joked, smiling deviously, the first time I was able to use humor when referring to his...kind.

  "Very funny," he said, rolling his eyes.

  I lifted the hem of my shirt and pulled it back over the wound carefully. He helped me, sliding the part of the shirt underneath me out of the way so he could see the entire wound. His eyes studied it carefully, clearly very concerned. It was evident that it was much worse than he had anticipated. He leaned in to look more closely at each puncture wound. Most of them were bright red, open patches of skin. Others had blackened around the edges.

  "This is not good," he said.

  "I'll be fine," I said. He moved his face close enough to the wounds that I could feel his breath, dry and cool, on my skin.

  He looked up at me. "I can fix them," he said.

  "You what?" I asked.

  "I have the ability to help them heal a little faster," he said. "You'll have to trust me," he said, his face pained.

  "Okay," I stumbled. I had no idea what I was agreeing to.

  He leaned in closer to my stomach. My anticipation of his touch mixed with fear of whatever he was going to do to me. Tentatively, he opened his mouth and gently ran his tongue over the wound closest to my ribcage. My nerves were instantly electrified by his mouth on my bare skin. I knew this effect wasn't his intention, but I had stopped breathing entirely. He looked up at me to make sure I was okay. I nodded, encouraging him to go on to the next one. Again, his cold tongue slid delicately over the opened wound. This time I could see a pale, shimmery, gold residue where his tongue had been. He continued downward across each of the individual puncture wounds until he got to the lowest one, near my hipbone. When he pulled away, next to the lowest one I saw a trickle of thick gold, metallic liquid, more opaque than the sheen over the wounds. He quickly rubbed it away with his finger. Another shock to my system came as his cool fingers brushed my soft abdomen.

  He seemed to be struggling. One of his hands was gripping the bed so strongly that it looked like the material was giving way underneath his grasp. Was this causing him pain, trying to alleviate mine?

  "Is it helping?" he asked, hopefully.

  "It tingles kind of," I said, "but it hurts less."

  "I need to get the rest of them on your back," he said. He put a gentle hand on my hip. "Can you roll on your side?" he asked. I nodded and obliged.

  He let out a very low growl. He was just as careful with my back, but he seemed to be hurrying. The pain in his face was still there.

  He rolled me onto my back and then sat up. He pulled my sliced hand to his face and repeated the same process. His face was still pained.