The Grimrose Path (Trickster, #2)(47)

Whisper was a healer I had helped months ago. “Whisper,” I said, “is in Louisiana. I can call her. Get her to fly back.” That was something, and I had to do something. That’s who I was. Created to do, teach, act, save. But forgetting all that, it didn’t matter what I’d been born to do; it was about what I had to do—anything I could. I was already standing and slipped my hand into my pocket for my cell phone again.

But sometimes it wasn’t my place to do.

“No. I’ll bring him back,” Zeke said without a shred of doubt in his voice.

“But, Kit, you’re not a healer.” He was many things . . . some good, some mysterious, some disastrous, but he wasn’t a healer.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll bring him back.”

“Zeke, you can’t pull someone out of a coma because you want to. No matter how much you want to.” I hated to be the voice of reason when it came to this, when what he needed was the voice of hope. But even more than hope we needed a healer, and I couldn’t ignore that, not for Griffin’s sake—not if we wanted him back. “You just can’t do it.”

“You f*cking watch me.” Zeke closed his eyes while I watched, and, equaling almost anything I’d seen in my life, he did. He actually did. I would never underestimate the bond between a telepath and an empath. I never had in the past, but this . . . This was some serious tough love if ever I’d seen it—tough and untouchable.

Zeke with his hand still on Griffin’s forehead, a bloodstained hank of blond hair falling across his knuckles, started. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it. Just as in the abandoned house he had lowered Griffin to me by the rope, hand over hand, he now did in reverse. I could feel him dragging him out of the void, hand over hand, with such power and strength—he was a half reclaiming the rest of himself to become whole. That the air didn’t shimmer with intensity put off by the profound effort surprised me.

For almost ten minutes . . . the air became heavier and heavier until it almost hurt to breathe, and then Zeke spoke.

“I know,” he said softly, a tone I’d never heard him use. But he wasn’t speaking to me. He was speaking to a Griffin who might not yet be awake, but was now having thoughts, if disjointed. Thoughts were good. You can get through life without them—I saw that every day—but there was no denying they were helpful. “No . . . no, Griffin. Not that way, this way. Come this way.” His forehead creased and overhead the lights flickered slightly; then he nodded. “Right. That’s right. It’s morning,” he lied. “Time for breakfast. Time to get up.” This time he shook his head minutely. “No. Nothing wrong. No demons. Just some eggs. With that fancy funny-tasting sauce on them. Your favorite. I’ll even make them.” He paused again. “No, Griff, no demons. No trouble. I promise. Everything’s fine. You can come home, okay? Come home, Griffin.”

“Now.”

“Come home.”

“Come home.”

Griffin’s eyelids fluttered and finally lifted, a confused blue haze wandering from Zeke to me and back to Zeke again. “Wha’ happened? Zeke . . . you . . . all right?” His voice was thick and his lips barely moved, but he spoke. He was awake and talking and Zeke had done that. Quicker than a healer and more certainly than any doctor. I’d seen a lot of things in my wandering days, but I’d not seen anything like this.

I’d always known he was a miracle.

Zeke moved his hand aside to rest his forehead against Griffin’s for a moment, a damn wonderful moment, before straightening. “All right? No, it’s not f*cking all right. After what you pulled, I am never speaking to your ass again. You got that? Never.” He swiveled around in the chair to face the wall full of monitors and shelves of medical equipment. “Give me your hand, goddamnit.” He took Griffin’s hand before it had more than a chance to twitch, linked fingers, and then closed his mouth tightly. I didn’t think he actually meant “never,” especially as he squeezed the hand he held—a hand, dried blood under its short fingernails, that gripped back tightly.

Griffin blinked and he opened his mouth. Zeke cut him off, that “never” being somewhat shorter than even I anticipated. “Jackass.”

“Idiot.”

“Asshole.”

“Mega-friggin-*.”

“You left me. Damn it to hell, you left me.”

With the last insult on his list, Zeke was right. Griffin had left him. Inadvertently, but he’d left him. He’d left his brother-in-arms, his best friend. Some would call it his best friend with benefits and more than just sexual, but that would be an insult to what they had. The description fell so very short. Yet Griffin had walked out the door on that and disappeared. That hadn’t been part of his plan, but it had happened.

Worse, though, he’d taken his bucket when he’d gone, leaving Zeke sinking fast. There was no Zeke without Griffin—the same as there would be no Griffin without Zeke. They both had a responsibility to each other that they thought they understood, but they didn’t, not entirely. There was no one without the other and when they fought demons, it was something they had to remember. Saving your partner was pointless if you didn’t save yourself too, because, in the end, it was one in the same.

“Griffin.” I bent down and cupped his cheek before kissing the corner of his mouth. “I had no idea you were such an idiot.”