Sandy Williams - The Shadow Reader

“Well, it’s that or nothing.”

His expression hardens. “Is this your new escape strategy? To let me bleed to death?”

“It’s not a bad idea.” In fact, that’ll be my backup plan if I can’t lure him away from the car.

“Fine.” He peers into the kit. “Which one of these will disinfect the wound?”

“The antiseptic wipes.”

“Which ones?” He takes off the ripped-up shirt he wrapped around himself no more than ten minutes ago. It’s dyed completely red now.

“They’re on the left.”

He tosses the shirt to the ground and pins me with a frustrated glare. “I can speak your language, McKenzie, but I can’t read it.”

I huff out a breath and grab one of the white packets. “It’s this one.” I rip the top off and take out the wipe. “You’re going to need more of these than we have.” He’s covered with dirt, sweat, and blood.

“Just clean it as well as you can.”

I run the towelette across the hole in his shoulder and down over his incredibly firm chest. God, he’s in shape. He’s thinner than Kyol, but has the same mouthwateringly toned physique. I try to ignore the hard muscles beneath my hand as I clean his wound. Mostly, the towelettes only smear the blood around. This isn’t going to prevent an infection. “You need a doctor.”

“I’ll be fine once we rejoin the others.”

“So fissure out. We’re not driving anymore. You can send someone back to this location in two minutes.” Two minutes would be enough time for me to jump into the driver’s seat and speed off.

He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”

I stop cleaning his shoulder to frown suspiciously into his eyes. “You can’t fissure, can you?”

“I can.” His jaw clenches. “I just can’t fissure very far, right now. The tech’s poison will fade by the time we reach the gate.”

“In your condition, you won’t make it to the gate.”

“It’s not far.”

“You can’t judge distances when you’re in a car.” Kyol can’t, at least. “We might be miles away from the river.”

“I’ll make it.”

“You’ll bleed to death.”

A smile breaks through his fatigued expression, and damn it if those chaos lusters don’t spring to life again in my stomach. You’d think my awareness of the whole Stockholm syndrome thing would make me immune to its effects, but no. It’s worse than ever.

“Your concern for my well-being is heartwarming,” he says. He oomph s when I slap a new wet wipe against his wound.

Sosch drapes himself across the ledge behind the backseat. His blue eyes blink, watching me work. I clean Aren off as well as I can, but don’t feel like I’m making any progress. Every time I put pressure on his shoulder, a new river of blood pours out. When I’m down to my last two towelettes, I decide it’s time to do what I can for the exit wound. The exit wound’s on his back, though, and short of sitting in his lap, there’s no easy way to get to it.

“Get out of the car.” I move so he can stand.

He grips the edge of the BMW’s roof, hefts himself to his feet, then turns and leans his forearms on the trunk. Damn, he has a beautiful back—minus the bullet wound and blood, of course. His shoulders are broad and the muscles to either side of his spine ripple when he adjusts his position. A chaos luster zigzags down his right rib cage and disappears beneath the waistband of his pants. The urge to trace its path with my hands is despicably strong, but I force myself to focus on the hole in his shoulder.

When I toss the last blood-soaked wipe into the backseat, Aren dips back into the car. He rummages through the first-aid kit for a needle and a spindle of something that looks more like floss than thread. He holds both up to me.

“I didn’t volunteer for that,” I say, keeping my eyes on his face.

He watches me a moment, then says softly, “You didn’t volunteer for any of this, did you?” He strings the thread through the needle himself, then, without hesitation, sticks it through the flesh beside his bullet wound. I grimace and look away.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

I keep my eyes on the dirt under my feet. He’s not what I expected either, but I won’t admit to that.

“I thought you’d be heartless,” he continues. “Cold, like Sword-master Taltrayn. You’re not.”

“The sword-master isn’t cold,” I say before I think better of it.

He pauses with the needle sticking through his skin. “Do you ever get tired of defending the Court?”

I shrug off the question. He almost has the wound closed, but his blood-slick fingers struggle to hold the needle and he can’t see what he’s doing anymore, no matter how far down he tries to tilt his chin. He won’t be able to sew up his back either.

“Here,” I growl and take the needle. Before I can back out, I stab it through his skin. I tug the thread tight, slip it under a few of the other stitches, then tie it off. “Turn around.” I grab his arm and spin him to face the car again. A few minutes later, he’s all stitched up. I wipe as much of the blood off him as I can before I tape gauze over the bullet’s entry and exit points.

Aren smiles. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“It was horrible,” I say, letting my gaze travel over him. He’s lost a lot of blood. Surely that’ll weaken him, slow him down some. “You sure you can make it to the gate?”

“I’m sure.” He leans inside the car, grabs my backpack, and then clucks to Sosch. The kimki darts inside the bag.

I step to the side and motion for Aren to lead the way. He slips one strap of the backpack over his good shoulder, then holds out his hand.

“I don’t need my hand held.”

“McKenzie,” he says, his tone ever so patient.

I grind my teeth when I realize what he wants. Rolling my eyes, I take the keys out of my back pocket and chuck them at his chest.

WITHIN THE HOUR, I’m wearing the Sosch-filled backpack and half carrying Aren through the forest. He resisted my help at first, and I watched him stumble along our weed-clogged “trail.” When the underbrush became too thick to pass, he used his sword to carve us a path. It wasn’t until he overswung and almost hit me that I finally ignored his protests and took the sword from him. He managed a weak laugh and said he was worried I’d strike him down with it. He’s not laughing anymore. He hasn’t said a word in more than twenty minutes, and I’m too exhausted to attempt conversation.

He rests his weight across my shoulders. My arm encircles his waist. His body is hot. I can’t tell if that’s from his edarratae leaping to my skin or from a fever. Most likely, it’s the latter. How long does it take for an infection to set in? His lips are pale and he’s sweating. I’m sweating, too, and my back aches from supporting his weight. My boots sink into the wet earth and I’m seriously regretting not taking the time to put on socks. I feel like I’m shuffling ankle-deep in broken glass, my feet hurt so badly. Aren’s not complaining about the hole in his shoulder, though, so I endure the pain.

Sometime later, I hear the murmur of a river. Sosch must hear it, too. He shifts in the backpack; then, with his signature chirp-squeak, he climbs onto my shoulder before leaping to the ground.

The forest thins enough to see the morning sun glittering across the river’s surface. Sosch scurries to its edge and then laps at the water.

“Is it safe to drink?” I ask, hobbling to the bank.

“It shouldn’t hurt him,” Aren says, but he doesn’t look anxious to try it himself. Is he not as thirsty as I am? I’m absolutely parched.

He takes his arm off my shoulder, stands on his own. “We’re not far from the gate. Once we fissure, we’ll have water.”