Feversong (Fever #9)(25)
She stood near the mattress, staring down, watching the virtually nonexistent rise and fall of his chest through narrowed eyes, hands fisted, accepting that she had a profound aversion to seeing him in pain. Irritated by the matter that had brought her here for the second time in a day, she snapped, “Are you awake?”
His head moved slightly beneath the fabric.
“You’re being illogical, you know. How long will it take you to heal this way? Days? Weeks? I watched you die. You came back as good as new. If you can die and come back whole, why don’t you? Are there limits to how many times you can do it, like a cat with nine lives? Or maybe you can only do it during a full moon? What are you anyway? Whatever it is, you’re useless in your current condition,” she said crossly.
He made a strangled sound that might have been laughter and puffed at the fabric. After a moment she knelt on the floor and lifted it from his face, bending near.
“Could. You. Not,” he said on a labored exhale.
She unraveled his comments. “You could die and come back but because of me you won’t?”
He moved his head in a minuscule nod.
“Well, that’s just insulting. I’m fine. I pulled it together. Won’t happen again.” She’d slipped. She’d recovered. Shit happened. Life went on. He’d burned himself to a crisp for her, and now was refusing to leave because he was worried about her. “Sorry you had to burn yourself for me.” She paused a moment then grumbled, “Thanks.” She absorbed his expression; though he had no eyebrows and his face was badly burned, he was somehow still managing to look at her like she’d just sprouted three heads. She clarified coolly, “I thank people when they deserve it. You just don’t usually deserve it. Don’t hang around on my account. It’s not like you could do anything for me in your current state anyway.”
He made a choked sound of laughter, terminated it abruptly then said, “Tattoo. Cell…don’t…use it.”
“Why not?” He’d completed the tramp stamp at her spine and told her if she called IISS he could locate her anywhere. But according to what she’d learned from Barrons today, the tattoo he’d inked into her skin enabled him to locate her even without her calling him. So, why was the phone necessary? “Because you’re injured?”
“Take…too many of us…out of…the game. Too…dangerous…now.”
She studied him in the low light, wondering again exactly what calling the contact labeled I’M IN SERIOUS SHIT on her phone would do and how many of the Nine her using it would impair. Wishing irritably he’d tell her. Obviously it did something more than merely locate her. But confidences weren’t his strong suit any more than they were hers. “I have two missions: Mac, and saving the world from the black holes, and I’d like to do them in that order as I suspect saving Mac could help us save the world. I have no intention of doing anything with your cellphone in the meantime. When you die, how quickly can you return?” It had been a while before she’d seen him again the last time.
“Varies.”
“But sooner than you’ll heal this way.”
“Yes.”
“So, die. I’ll be here when you get back.”
Bloodshot silver eyes locked with hers.
“I’ll stay in the vicinity. You have my word. You know it’s solid.” They might not get along, but she respected him and knew he returned the courtesy.
His eyes were a dozen shimmering, inscrutable shades of cool silver.
She shifted position, impatience making her restless. “What are you waiting for?”
“Not…that…simple.”
“Why?”
“Can’t…move. How…die?”
She got a sinking feeling in her gut. “Do you always come back? This isn’t something that doesn’t work sometimes? It’s a sure thing, right?”
He gave another of those nearly imperceptible nods.
She exhaled explosively. As a teen she used to brag about one day taking down the mighty Ryodan. But the day she thought she’d killed him by freeing the Crimson Hag had been one of the more miserable days of her life. “Figures you’d make me do the dirty work,” she said irritably.
His eyes crinkled and his lips pulled into a grimace of a smile.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Thought you’d…get kicks…killing me. Old…insults. Could…get Barrons. Hate…that fuck…doing it. Enjoys it…too much.”
“How do you suggest I do it?” she said tightly.
“Sword. Gut. Like Hag.”
She glanced around the room, as if a more acceptable alternative might pop out of a corner or from behind the desk, or manifest in the mirror; one less brutal, bloody, and personal. “Can’t I just give you an overdose of something?”
“Poisons…don’t…work. Chop…head?”
“Oh, you really suck,” she hissed.
“Techni…calities. You’re…right. Logical…I die.”
She dropped her head in her hands and rubbed her eyes. Killing came naturally to her. She could be ruthless, lethal, and without mercy, and considered it a strength. But Ryodan mattered to her. She’d made peace with that Silverside. She liked knowing he was out there in the world, alive, doing Ryodan-things no matter how much some of those Ryodan-things aggravated her. For the first year, she’d told herself stories while wandering worlds about the many interesting/irritating things he was probably doing in her absence, top on that list—hunting for her, having all kinds of adventures along the way. Those stories had always ended with him finding her; they’d swap tall tales and kick ass together all the way back to Dublin. She found the idea of killing him, even though his death would be temporary, abhorrent.