Ikelos (The Ephemeral: Book 2)

Chapter 16

Victor's crew lay scattered about The Alehouse attic, speaking in hushed whispers and drinking themselves to sleep.  Strawberry cracked a joke that launched the group into another round of drunken titters, and those half-asleep threw their belongings toward the noisemakers in hopes of shutting them up or knocking them unconscious.  The scene brought me back to the bonfires with Tom's soldiers, when Jaden's whiskey had run its course and the tipsy men would drag their incapacitated peers back to the cots for the night, like the blind leading the comatose.

While Duke offered up his establishment for our sleeping quarters, the citizens of Primm had donated blankets and pillows to the crew, and I couldn't help but marvel at the amiable relationship between Victor and our hosts. That mutualism wasn't confined to the people of Primm, though; it applied to Rheans throughout the kingdom, citizens who traded their hospitality for protection, for peace. Over time, that reciprocity built trust, and in Victor's case, friendship.

Exhaustion tugged at my eyelids, compelling me to join the sleeping, but I feared giving in to the impulse. I knew the moment I closed my eyes, I'd succumb to a realm of nightmares and unaddressed trauma, and I wasn't ready. The last two nights had been bad enough.

Losing Harmon and Nova so abruptly...I just couldn't bear to relive our last moments, to see their faces again so soon. I couldn't risk plunging back into the flooded dam.  Facing the heartless shell of my brother. Living through a scenario in which my power failed me, and the demon spiders chewed me to pieces.

I wished Fudge were here with us.  He'd know exactly how to comfort me, or at the very least, join me in my grieving. Even Valerie and her mawkish reactions would suffice. But instead, I had Mason and a slew of strange men.

"Planning to kill us in our sleep?"

Torian walked up to me with a teasing grin, and I scoffed. "I wouldn't need to plan that."

He snickered and slipped off his satchel, sitting down against the load-bearing wall beside me. "No. I suppose you wouldn't." 

I watched him stretch his long, thin legs in front of him and remove a notebook from his bag—some kind of medical kit, by the looks of it.  Then he began pulling out an assortment of bandages and mysterious vials, examining the contents and jotting down short notes in his booklet.

"Inventory," he explained, sensing my confusion.

My gaze traveled over the sleeping men.  "Does the crew sustain a lot of injuries?"

"Only when they're outnumbered.  Most of the time, I'm patching up civilians."  He shook a dark bottle with no label and clicked his tongue at the suspected quantity.  "Rheans are a prideful people. It's why so many of us have stuck around; we don't scare easily, and we don't go down without a fight."

I thought of Harmon's sacrifice, his valor, his tenacity, and a thick, suffocating sadness filled my chest.  "I'm glad they have someone looking out for them."

"It's not much, but it's all I can really offer.  I'm not a warrior.  Not like Victor, and definitely not like you."  He glanced at the hands in my lap, and a ravenous curiosity burned in his eyes.  "How does your gift work, exactly?"

"Well, I wouldn't call it a gift," I said. "The moment the gloves come off, my palms become the kiss of death. Suck all the living memory out of people. It's a curse."

I felt him studying my face, digesting my comments, but I refused to meet the judgmental gaze of a healer. "It's saved your life plenty of times, though, right?" he reasoned. "The lives of your friends? Your comrades? It can't be all bad."

I grimaced, thinking of my mother, the numerous Pans I'd slaughtered in Holly. I'd killed more souls than I'd saved with these palms, which was why I had to master this power and use it to save the soldiers trapped in Godric's clutches. Only then could I live with myself and the terrible things I'd done.