Page 15

Just Hold On

F uck.

Bright lights shone in Nikhail’s vision, blinding him even from behind the safety of his eyelids. He groaned, trying to force his eyes open, but they were rebelling against him. Refusing to move, they stayed firmly shut.

Nikhail cursed in his mind. He would’ve done it out loud, but his mouth wasn’t listening either. That was a damned shame. His throat was incredibly dry, as if he’d had the misfortune of being outside during one of the many sandstorms that plagued the Southern Region.

On top of all that, a mallet was pounding inside his head. It was as if someone was installing a dozen paintings in the interior of his skull.

By the Black Sands, this was bad. It felt like he’d been hit by a gods-damned truck.

Well, actually, this felt worse than that. A few years ago, while on a mission, Nikhail had been hit by a truck. The vehicle had been slow-moving, and he’d obviously survived, but the experience had been awful.

This, though.

This was far worse than that. An all-encompassing pain started in his abdomen, spiralling outwards until it consumed every part of him.

Every inch of his body hurt. Every breath felt like he was inhaling fire. Every heartbeat felt strained.

Which brought him back to his original thought: fuck.

Nikhail was slightly aware that something was happening all around him. He could sense movement, even if he couldn’t see what was happening.

People were yelling, but their voices were indistinguishable. Garbled sounds, nothing more. A rushing was in his ears, like an endless gust of wind. Hands touched him, but he didn’t know who they belonged to.

Dark shadows flickered in and out of the bright lights, as if people were standing above him. He attempted to open his eyes, but they still refused to work.

A thousand curses that would have his mother smacking his arm ran through his mind. Copper was thick and syrupy in the air, and he was lucid enough to know that the scent, coupled with the pain radiating through his body, was bad.

Fae were long-lived, but even they couldn’t survive everything.

Nikhail couldn’t remember what happened. He’d gotten up for work this morning at precisely six a.m., as usual. After running his normal track around the neighborhood, he’d showered, gotten dressed, and grabbed a latte from Grind and Go, the coffee shop near his house.

And then…

Nothing.

The pounding in his head worsened, and an obsidian wall blocked him from his memories. Try as he might, he couldn’t find a single crack in it or figure out what had happened to him.

Time slipped on, and the scent of copper grew stronger.

Nikhail should be worried; he knew that, but he wasn’t. At some point, the air had shifted once again. The smell of blood remained, but it was no longer the only scent tickling his senses.

He was surrounded by fresh, pure, powerful rain. The welcome aroma seeped into his pores, grounding him in a way that nothing ever had before. Slowly, the pounding in his head faded. The gusting wind died down. Even his magic, which had been a maelstrom in his veins, was no longer as volatile.

Eventually, he made out snippets of words being spoken around him.

“What happened…”

A light as bright as a beam of sunlight shone in his vision.

“Hand me that scalpel…”

Something prodded his arm, and fire raced through the limb. Flames licked his muscles. Had his tongue not felt as though it was made of sandpaper, he would’ve groaned.

“…get me that…”

A clatter of metal.

“He’s going to need…”

More beeping machines. Someone cursed. The scent of rain grew stronger. A storm enveloped him, trying to pull him to safety. But the pain… gods, the pain was getting worse.

“Bleeding everywhere.”

“Fuck!”

“… call… need help…”

There were so many people touching him, so many voices speaking all at once, that he couldn’t concentrate on a single one.

The pounding in his head returned with increased vigor, and the steady presence of rain was the only thing he could focus on.

He held on to it with all his might, somehow knowing that if he let go, it might be the last thing he ever did.

Time, which had been acting strangely ever since he woke up, marched onwards.

It seemed impossible, but the pain worsened. Fire devoured him from the inside out. If he could open his mouth and scream, he would.

What was happening?

Something sharp poked his arm, and cold flooded his veins.

A soft, cool hand cupped his cheek. The scent of rain grew stronger, and he wished—oh, how he wished—he could move closer to it. He needed that scent to envelop him, to wrap around him, to consume him.

“They’re going to take care of you, okay?” The soft words were whispered in his ear, meant only for him. “Just hold on, Nik. Please.”

Before he could open his eyes—because he fucking needed to open them, dammit—coolness washed through his entire body. Even though he tried to hold on to consciousness, tried desperately to remain alert, he careened headfirst into darkness.

When Nikhail woke next, the pain was somehow better and worse.

Better, because he could feel his body. He was, ostensibly, in one piece. That was good.

Worse, because it felt as though the flames from earlier had moved into his abdomen. They were making a concerted effort to consume him from the inside out, and he feared they would do just that .

When he finally managed to open his eyes, which was a feat that felt like it took hours to accomplish, pain lanced through his head. Had someone been hanging pictures in his brain before? Now there were hundreds of mallets being thrown in synchrony against the confines of his skull.

Gods above. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in such pain. Maybe he never had been.

In an effort to distract himself, Nikhail groaned and took in his surroundings. Well, damn. This was definitely worse than being hit by the truck.

Bright pot lights were nestled in a suspended ceiling, the kind found in two places: schools and hospitals. Since Nikhail hadn’t set foot in a school since he graduated from high school when he was seventeen, he knew it had to be the latter.

The stiff white sheets, glistening tiles, and machines on either side of his head confirmed his suspicions. He lifted his left hand, frowning at the needle in his hand. It was connected to a clear tube, which led to a bag hanging on a hook near the bed.

“Fuck,” he groaned, the word raspy as it slipped from his dry throat. His mind swirled, and he struggled to hold on to reality.

Everything was… a lot.

How had he ended up here?

Nikhail couldn’t remember the last time he’d been injured badly enough to warrant a stay in the hospital.

Even after the mess with the rebels during the Reunion a couple of years ago, when Ryker and the other men who’d participated in the Choosing had been in danger, Nikhail hadn’t needed to go to a hospital for healing.

It was rare for fae to require medical attention, and rarer still for them to require medicine delivered through an intravenous line.

Nikhail’s skin crawled, and he shuddered. Ignoring the way his vision spun and his head swam, he tried to push himself up. He needed to get out of here.

The black wall was still in place over his memories, but it was cracking. He’d been at work when something went wrong. He wasn’t entirely sure what had gone wrong, only that something had.

He could figure that part out later, after he left. That was his first priority—his only priority.

Pulling back the thin hospital blanket and sheet, Nikhail shivered.

The air was cool, and as he swung his legs to the left side of the bed, a breeze tickled his bare feet.

He glanced around the room, frowning when he realized he had no shoes.

In fact, all his clothes were gone. He wore a blue-and-white hospital gown that seemed less designed for modesty, and more for ease of access.

Well, that would make leaving awkward. Even so, he couldn’t stay here. He’d been hurt at work, which meant his team could be in danger.

He had to help them.

First things first, the IV would have to go. Ripping off the clear tape holding the needle in place, Nikhail cursed and yanked the instrument out of his hand.

That probably wasn’t the smartest move. Pain radiated from his hand, a sharp spear cutting through the hammering in his mind.

“Gods above,” he groaned. That fucking hurt.

Blood welled where the needle had been moments before, and the machines started yelling at him.

He ignored their ire, placing his feet flat on the ground.

His lack of footwear was less than ideal, but once he got out of here, he’d find a phone and call his assistant. She’d bring him everything he needed.

A low groan escaped him as he found his balance. It felt like daggers were being stabbed into his stomach, and his knees were buckling beneath his weight.

Muttering a slew of curses that would have even the most battle-hardened soldiers blushing, he placed a hand on his side. It was softer than normal, and he traced the rough edges of a large bandage beneath his hospital gown. The material was damp, and when he pulled back his hand, it came away red.

“Fuck,” he groaned, apparently incapable of saying much else.

He took a step, the doorway swimming in front of him. His hands shook, and lifting his foot took far too much effort.

“Mr. Galebringer!” The shout came from outside his room, but the distraught voice sounded like it was coming through a tunnel. “Stop! You need to remain in bed.”

“No.” He tried to say it with confidence, but the word was far too quiet as it slipped from his lips.

What was happening? Why wasn’t his fae body healing? He had a job to do, people relying on him. He had a mission to complete, even if he couldn’t remember exactly what it entailed.

Determined to get out of here, Nikhail ignored the shouting and the pain. Placing his hand on the growing wet patch on his side, he walked out the door.

Or at least, that’s what he meant to do.

In reality, he took a single step before his knees gave out. He tumbled to the cold floor, his head smacking against the tile. Black swarmed his vision.

His last thought was that the fabric of his hospital gown didn’t reach all the way around, and an exceedingly frigid breeze was traveling up his legs and bare back.