From the Stars, to the Stars

From the Stars, to the Stars: Chapter Twenty-seven

I wake feeling as if my skull has been sawn open, and my bare brain has been given a good thumping. The skull aches like crazy, but the brain has taken no notice, except to acknowledge a keen awareness of two things: One, I can't move a single muscle (not even my eyelids), and two, the first thing doesn't seem to have any effect on my ability to see and hear everything perfectly clearly, anyway.

This includes seeing Jules bent over my body, cradling my hand in her own, and muttering something about someone doing something to make me feel better.

"Can't you do anything to help with the pain? She's been crying for hours," she says, her tone accusatory. For a second, I wonder if I've died, but then I remember dead girls don't cry, so I decide I must being having an out-of-body experience.

Then Tristan answers Jules, and his voice bongs around in my cranium like a gong, so I figure I'm not exactly out of body exactly, just out of my body. My subconscious must have jumped ship to the nearest Dionadair when I passed out, and now . . . what? My consciousness had finally caught up?

Tristan sighs, sounding tired and defeated. "You know I wish I could, but no one's got a clue how to treat an energy overload like this in a human; it's even chances another dose would make things worse. Besides, Seb made us swear on our own souls not to touch her until she wakes up."

Well, that kick-starts up the Weirdness Meter. Since when did Jules know anything about Dionadair abilities? And what was up with feeling my hand in hers, but seeing her from two or three feet away?

Okay, so I can see Jules, but I can see Tristan, too, even though his voice is rooting around in my head?

Judging from the hollow ache in the muscles stretched from sternum to back, the body numbness is something to be grateful for. I've never been drunk, but I imagine it might be the same kind of thing; clueless to the pain at the time, but acutely aware of its full force the next morning.

"Fine," Jules says, as if concluding the most logical of choices. "Maybe it's best Joss not come around until Sebastien and Bronwyn get back, anyway."

Tristan runs a hand through his hair. His anxious habit feels strange, my nerve endings interpreting the signals his fingers receive; softness, the slight tickle of individual strands tugged out of place for a moment before springing back, or catching under his nails.

"Yeah, but they could be bringing back bad news. If Joss wakes up, she can talk to the Curiae, show 'em how she and Seb are such a great fit. That'd shut up that sorry excuse for a Dionadair."

"For goodness sake, Tristan! Joss isn't the only human you know, or who knows about you. I've been one hundred percent Homo sapiens my whole life. Why isn't anyone suggesting I testify to the feasibility of our races coexisting?"

Tristan clears his throat nervously while I mentally giggle at the heat I can feel filling his cheeks. "Listen," he says. "It's not the same. Hell, it took three—three—of the strongest Dionadair alive, with their powers wide open, to knock out this chick. Besides, no other human/Dionadair pair has . . . Uh, proved sustained immunity to negative effects in spite of repeated, persistent physical exposure. Erm."

Jules arches one of her brows, her expression as dry as Sudan. "'Repeated, persistent exposure'? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

There go the fingers through the hair again. "It's just, y'know, Joss and Seb are practically connected at the lips, and so they make a pretty good Exhibit A. Or they would, if Joss woke up in time."

Jules tucks my hand under the blanket, and very deliberately swivels around on her stool to face Tristan. The smile on her face makes him nervous. It isn't a 'nice' smile. In fact, it reminds him a bit of the expressions of the faces of the hunt-lust driven girls at Baldwin.