Kelly Meding - Requiem for the Dead

Things got fuzzy for a while. Lots of voices talked around me. I struggled to identify them. Astrid. Kyle. Marcus, thank God. Elder Rojay.

Kismet.

What's Gina doing here?

Sudden movement made my stomach clench. I wanted to be violently ill, but my gorge never rose. I held on until the movement stopped, only to be replaced by a steadier motion.

Car.

Oh good. Home. Bed.

I wanted to sleep for a month, but I couldn't. Not until I knew Tybalt was okay. He had to be okay. "Tybalt." Getting that word out hurt my throat.

"He's in another car." Kyle. He sounded close. "Relax, okay? You did good."

"Vale?"

"Which piece?"

I think I smiled. I'd have cheered if I had the energy.

"John's fine, too," Kyle said. "He'll be back with his family very soon."

More good news. Wyatt would be thrilled. Then he'd get pissed at me for coming home wounded again. The man should have been used to it by now, but no.

I allowed the motion of the car to rock me to sleep, and I didn't wake up again until Wyatt's voice and heat surrounded me. He touched my face, whispered in my ear, was everywhere, and I basked in how wonderful it was. The antiseptic odors of the infirmary placed my location before I peeled my eyelids apart. Wyatt hovered above me, his relief plain, but still unable to mask the bitter frustration at having to worry over my near-death yet again.

"Hey, beautiful," he said. "There's my kick-ass warrior."

"Got her ass kicked," I rasped. My throat itched like crazy as my healing ability took over. The wound in my gut ached, the itch of healing on the cusp of becoming real, not quite there yet because of the depth of the wound. The headache was hiding behind a haze of drugs that made my tongue feel thick, my brain fuzzy.

"You did good this morning. Autumn was given orders to shoot Marcus from her position if Vale lost."

"Then Tybalt."

"Yeah."

"How is he?"

Wyatt's eyes shuttered. "In surgery. Dr. Vansis is doing what he can."

"It's bad."

"Yeah, it's pretty bad."

He brushed his lips over my cheek. "Thank you for bringing John home."

"Didn't Marcus technically do that?"

"Yes, he did," said the man in question. Marcus hobbled over to my bed, leaning hard onto a crutch. White bandages swathed his chest and abdomen, and long claw marks scored his left cheek. He looked worn out and wrung dry, but very much alive.

"Should you be up?" I asked.

"Probably not, but I'm an impatient patient. Thank you, Evangeline, for finding Tybalt. Vale was a formidable opponent, and twice I forwent a killing blow in order to buy you time. The tactic paid off."

"Maybe."

Marcus frowned. "We brought Tybalt home, as we intended. The Prince of Cats is quite strong. He'll pull through this."

"Anyone else hurt?"

"Astrid took a bullet protecting Elder Rojay from a sniper round. She's resting, awaiting her turn with Dr. Vansis."

Astrid was shot because I was too damned slow in taking Autumn down. Perfect. "Where was she hit?"

"Lower back."

"God, we're a mess. Tell me Kyle, at least, wasn't injured."

"Kyle wasn't injured."

I looked at Wyatt. "Is he telling the truth?"

"Yes, Kyle's fine," Wyatt replied. "Marcus, on the other hand, has a chest that looks like raw hamburger, and if he passes out from blood loss I'm not hauling his heavy ass onto a bed."

Marcus grunted, then slumped down into the plastic chair that Wyatt had probably been using while waiting for me to wake up. The verbal exchange was one of the most normal they'd had since Wyatt was infected. It actually bordered on friendly, which they'd always been until their warring genes made them snap and hiss at each other on a regular basis.

"What time is it?" I asked.

Wyatt checked his phone. "A little after nine."

Tybalt had been holding on for two hours, and that gave me hope. "Hey, what happened to Vale's posse?"

"Elder Rojay is taking them to the Assembly for trial and punishment," Marcus said. "Their roles in the events of the last few days will be evaluated during this morning's meeting."

"Are they going to pick a new Felia Elder?"

"Perhaps. Much has happened in the last twenty-four hours."

"No kidding."

I was getting tired of laying there like a salami, so I made Wyatt into my personal pillow. He scooted onto the bed behind me and helped me into a sitting position. Pain shot through my abdomen, followed by a deep throb with the vaguest hint of itching. Healing always took longer to start when I'd overextended my Gift, and boy had I overextended today.

He brushed my hair behind my ear, then rested in his chin on my shoulder. A perfect heat all around me. "Still not used to this short hair of yours," he whispered.

"Me, either."

A shuffle-creak, shuffle-creak beyond the curtain got my attention. Low voices murmured. I couldn't figure it out, but Marcus perked up, head snapping in the direction of the noise. He tried to rise, grimaced, and stayed put.

Below the fall of the curtain, two pairs of feet appeared, one sneakered and one slippered. The slippered feet stood between the front wheels of a walker, and I started grinning before the curtain was drawn back.

Milo held the sides of the walker in a white-knuckled grip, his arms trembling with the stress. He wore loose pajamas that hid the bruises giving him pain even as he stood there, in front of us, on his own two feet. Kismet hovered next to him, grinning like a proud mama whose cub had taken his first steps.

"Should you be up?" Marcus asked.

"Doc's orders," Milo replied. His voice carried the strain of standing. A line of sweat trickled down the side of his face. "Circulation or something."

"He isn't supposed to be up for long," Kismet said.

"Walked to the bathroom a few hours ago. Surely an announcement was made." Milo's mock outrage and returned sense of humor was a beautiful thing.

I laughed. "I'd go over there and kiss you, but getting up seems like too much trouble."

"Save your strength. You look like hell."

"Thank you."

"You, on the other hand," he said to Marcus, "look like shit on toast."

Marcus snorted. "You're too kind."

"You almost got yourself killed." Milo's frustration was palatable, and it seemed to reach six feet across the cubicle and slap Marcus in the face. Because Marcus did the impossible—he actually looked chagrined.

Marcus didn't hide the pain it caused him to stand up. He wobbled a bit, and Kismet's hand jerked toward him, as though she wanted to help. She drew back instead. Marcus was too proud to lean on her, and this was something he seemed determined to do. Each step was an effort for his battered, abused body, but I'll be damned if he didn't seem to stand taller the moment he was in front of Milo.

"Vale deserved his fate and more for what he did to you," Marcus said. "I would suffer this and worse to see your pain avenged."

Milo was dumbstruck. He blinked at Marcus, a little saucer-eyed, until something clicked home. The blank stare became a tender smile, and suddenly I felt like an intruder on a private moment. Even Kismet shuffled away from the pair, coming closer to the side of my bed. Wyatt's arms tightened around my waist, and I squeezed his hands.

The moment stayed suspended in time, a beautiful thing shared by two lonely souls who'd found something that made them happy. And then Marcus brushed his knuckles across Milo's cheek on his right hand's trip around to clasp the back of his neck. He kissed Milo. An action both consoling and possessing, gentle and harsh. Marcus was making a statement to everyone that Milo was his.

And Milo, bless his battered heart, kissed right Marcus back.

Wyatt stayed with me long after Kismet and Marcus took Milo back to his room to rest. We sat together while my body slowly healed itself. The cut on my throat was long gone, the various scrapes and bruises distant memories. My gut, on the other hand, felt like someone was pinching and twisting the skin and muscle, with tingling for good measure.