Page 78 of Alchemised

In a week or so, she might try closing the incisions.

Survivable or not, it wasn’t sustainable for him to have a perpetually open injury.

As much as he tried to hide behind a routine, she knew he could barely move without excruciating pain.

She didn’t trust Crowther’s or Ilva’s charity lasting much longer if Kaine was unable to resume spying.

She rested her hand briefly on his shoulder. He shifted but didn’t flinch at all.

“You’re done,” she said quietly as she finished wrapping the bandages and helped him with his shirt.

He said nothing, just stood and poured himself another drink.

She packed up her bag, heading for the door. Usually the necrothrall opened it as soon as she was near, but tonight it remained closed.

She stood waiting for a moment before finally looking back towards Kaine, standing by the bar. “I never got around to training you, did I, Marino?”

Her mouth went dry. The room around her was suddenly very present.

She’d known that once Kaine began to feel better, he’d find it neces sary to remind her that he was in charge. He so obviously hated feeling vulnerable around anyone. He’d feel the need to put her back in her place.

She’d known, and filed it away as a future concern.

She took a step back.

“Come here.”

She shook her head. “I have—I have a procedure tomorrow. You can’t hurt me t-tonight.”

He stilled, and then his knuckles gripped the tumbler, turning white as his expression darkened. “I realise you consider me a complete monster,” he bit out. “But I do generally keep my word. I’m not planning to hurt you. Come here. I want you to try attacking me, so I can see what you know.”

“What?” She stared at him, incredulous.

“You’re travelling at night, outside of Resistance territory.” He was speaking through clenched teeth. “We’ve already established you’re shit at defence. Let’s see your offence. Come. Here.”

She glanced around the cleared space in disbelief. “I’m not going to attack you when you’re injured.”

He stared at her in confusion. “It’s not like I can die.”

She wanted to tell him he was insane but tried to be tactful about it. “Look, Ferron—Kaine—I appreciate the concern, but I’m a vivimancer. I’ll be fine.”

“Will you?”

She gave a sharp nod. “Yes. I might not be the best at defence, but I’ve always got that. So my fighting abilities aren’t something you need to worry about. But”—she drew a deep breath—“I appreciate that you did.”

“I suppose you have a point,” he said slowly, his eyes sliding out of focus.

She heard the door behind her open and gave him one last nod as she turned to go.

In the doorway, instead of the one necrothrall waiting for her, the passage was crowded with them. There were a dozen at least, some old and grey, others new, their wounds still red.

The blood drained from her head.

“Don’t worry, they’re all mine,” she dimly heard Ferron say. “Now then, let’s see you fight with vivimancy.”

He said something else but she couldn’t hear him anymore. Her eyes were trapped on the necrothralls that were all shuffling into the room towards her. Their faces blank.

There were so many.

They crowded towards her. She was trapped. Trapped with them. She couldn’t escape.

They’d all close in.

“You call yourself a vivimancer. Show me.”

She barely heard his words.

It’s not the hospital. You’re not in the hospital, she told herself, but every time she tried to breathe, her chest clenched tighter. She managed to step back.

She held one hand out, to ward them off, but it shook violently.

“Marino.” Kaine’s voice was annoyed. “Are you more afraid of thralls than you are of me? I’m actually offended.”

“F-Ferron, call them off,” she said, a tremor in her voice. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the necrothralls.

“No. I want to see you fight.”

“I don’t want to fight,” she said, backing away farther. “Stop it. You said I could say no to things. I’m saying no.”

Her voice was rising.

“They’re corpses. You said you can protect yourself. Show me!”

Her stomach clenched, her legs threatening to give out.

“Let them go.” Her voice shook.

“You take any out, and I’ll burn them.” His tone was sardonic, as if the whole thing were funny. “Come on now. Show me what you’ve got.”

The necrothralls fanned out, backing her into the corner. Her shoulders hit a wall.

“Ferron!” Her voice was sharp, a note of hysteria in it. “Call them off. I don’t want to do this!”

“This is war.” His voice came from somewhere beyond the bodies crowding around her. “You don’t get to want; you get to live or die.”

She shrank back, making herself as small as she could. Her throat was closing, as if fingers were already wrapped around it. They’d slit her wide open.

She screamed and shoved her hands out.

Everything turned red.

Everything.

She blinked and couldn’t see anything but the dark coagulating blood dripping down her face. It covered her skin, sticking to her lashes. There were no necrothralls now, just bits and pieces of bodies.

Her knees gave out, and she slid down the wall to the floor, gripping the strap of her satchel.

She could taste the blood in her mouth. The scent of decomposition was thick in the air. She was still suffocating, choking on blood and viscera as she tried to breathe.

Two hard hands gripped her shoulders.

She shoved outwards with her resonance, but it was met and shoved back in so violently that it was like a cannon going off inside her head.

Her vision went white, and when it returned Ferron’s face swam before her, except he was glowing. His eyes had gone bright silver.

“What the fuck, Marino?”

Her head was ringing, and she couldn’t form words. She just knelt there, staring at his living face.

“I told you—I didn’t want to,” she finally said. Then her face crumpled, and she burst into tears.

There was a pause.

“Perhaps I did slightly underestimate you.” He pulled a handkerchief out and wiped her face until there was no more blood clotted in her lashes.

She sat, numb, until he dragged her up from the floor, his arms nearly giving out as he pulled her along to the bathroom.

He pushed her in, twisting a tap to turn on the shower before opening a cabinet and pulling out several towels and some fresh clothes.

“Clean up,” he said.

Helena looked down at herself. She was covered in viscera. It smelled worse than the hospital. All the decomposition. Her throat convulsed.

She stepped into the shower with her clothes on, fingers trembling as she forced herself to remove them, peeling off the wet layers like skin.

It was as if Ferron had found a festering wound and jabbed his fingers into it. Cocooned under the water, she could barely bring herself to step out.

She knew she was only delaying the inevitable as she slowly dried and rebraided her hair, pinning it carefully back into place before looking at the clothes Ferron had left. They were his. Trousers and a shirt.

Did he live here? She pulled them on slowly.

As she stood, carefully fastening the familiar buttons, her shock thinned, her mind resurfacing raw with anger.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she braced herself for the nightmare of blood and gore, but the room had been cleaned. She’d been in the bathroom longer than she’d realised.

The floor had been mopped. Even the furniture had been put back. The scent lingered, but visual traces were all gone.

Ferron was seated backwards on the chair, the fingers of one hand pressed against his forehead as if he was dealing with an intense migraine.

She hoped he was.

He looked up, hand dropping languidly away.

“Well,” he said slowly, his enunciation precise. His eyes still had a strange silver gleam to them. “You really are full of surprises.”

The sight of him so unapologetic only added to her brewing rage.

She went over to the bar, pouring herself a generous amount of something from a very fancy-looking bottle.

She sipped it. It was sharp and bitter. She wished she’d chosen something else; she’d always preferred wine, but Ferron didn’t appear to keep any. Likely not strong enough for his taste.

She braced herself and gulped it, not caring at all about the way it curdled her tongue, burning down her throat and into her empty stomach.

She squeezed her eyes shut and then poured more, drinking it almost as quickly.

She wanted to get drunk as fast as possible. She swirled her fingers, feeling her own body with her resonance, prompting her digestive system to absorb the alcohol a little faster, to get it into her blood before she did something like throwing every single bottle on the wall at Ferron’s head.

She closed her eyes, sinking hard into the warm, blurring relief.

She rarely drank alcohol, and now she was reminded why. It felt so much better to feel like this than the way she actually felt all the time: like a raw nerve.

She gripped the glass, pouring herself a bit more.

“I think that’s enough,” Ferron said behind her. “I don’t believe your liver regenerates.”

She’d only intended to add a little, but at those words she upended the bottle, pouring all the rest into her glass. It sloshed over the side, spilling onto the rug.

“Fuck off,” she said.

“I didn’t know you could swear.” He sounded amused.

Her jaw clenched, and she turned and told him to fuck off in three more languages.

He arched an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to take you more seriously now?”

“I hate you.”

He gave a strained laugh. “I am aware.”

She looked down at the drink. She wanted to leave—she was tired, jittery, and knocked completely off kilter—but the door was closed again. Ferron clearly intended to keep her. She went over and curled up at the end of the sofa, as far from him as she could get.

“I hate you,” she said again.

“I hate you, too.”

The alcohol had set her tongue loose. “This war is your fault. Everyone who’s died. It’s on your head. And now, because of you, even when it’s over, I’ll still have nothing.”

“Am I supposed to care? Do you think that ruining your life is the worst thing I’ve ever done?”

She looked away.