Boundless (Unearthly, #3)(73)

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says as I gasp. “But I probably shouldn’t have showered without tending to it first, because it’s opened up again.”

It doesn’t matter what he says—it’s bad, a deep nine-inch gash from the top of his left rib to his hip, black on the edges like the sorrow dagger burned him as it cut.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” I say.

He shakes his head. “And say what, exactly? That I was attacked by a pair of evil twins who cut me with a knife made of sadness?” He winces as I make him lean over the counter so I can get a better look. “It will heal. It should have closed already. I normally heal faster than this.”

“It’s not a normal cut.” I look up at him. “Can I try to fix it?”

“I was kind of hoping that you would.”

I have him sit on the edge of the counter, and I stand in front of him. My mouth is dry with sudden nerves, and I lick my lips and try to concentrate.

Focus.

Strip away everything, all the thoughts, the feelings, the silent accusations, and burrow down to my core. Forget what’s happened. What all I’ve failed to do. Just be.

Call the glory.

A few minutes later I glance up at Christian apologetically, sweat shining on my forehead. He rests his hand on my shoulder to help, to add his strength to mine, and I try again to bring the light.

Again, I fail.

Web wakes up and starts screaming like somebody poked him.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Christian.

“It’ll come back to you,” he says.

I wish I had his certainty. “We can’t leave the wound like this. This needs professional care.”

He shakes his head again. “If you can’t fix it with glory, we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. I’m sure they have a sewing kit around here somewhere.”

Now I’m the one who’s queasy. “Oh no. You should see a doctor.”

“You want to be a doctor, Clara,” he says. “How about you start now?”

After the hard stuff is done, he falls into a deep sleep, thanks in part to the little bottle of hotel whiskey he drank before I started sewing him up. I can’t help but feel that the world is ending, that this is just the first act of something horrible to come, and I curl up next to him.

I watch Web sleeping in his crib. His breathing seems labored and uneven, and it scares me. I lie on the bed on my stomach with my feet dangling over the side and observe his tiny chest moving up and down, afraid that it will suddenly stop, but it doesn’t. He keeps on breathing, and pretty soon, exhausted, I fall asleep.

I’m woken up by my cell phone ringing. For a minute I’m completely disoriented. Where am I? What am I doing here? What’s happened? Web starts crying, and Christian mumbles something and swings out of the bed, groans and clutches his side like he forgot he was hurt, but stumbles over to pick Web up.

I find the phone. It’s Billy.

“Oh, Billy, I’ve been so worried. Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” she exclaims. “What happened to you?”

I tell her. After I finish, she stays quiet for a few minutes. Then she says, “This is bad, kid. The Garter is all over the news. They’re reporting that Anna and Angela Zerbino are dead, the victims of arson.”

“Wait,” I interrupt. “They think Angela’s dead?”

But then I get it. The firemen would have found two bodies in the Garter: Anna and Olivia, and Olivia is nearly the same height and weight as Angela. They’re sisters, if Asael is to be believed, and I think he is. It’s a natural assumption for the authorities to make. I wonder how long it will take for them to figure out their mistake.

“The congregation is also reporting sightings of several suspicious-looking figures lurking in Jackson and the surrounding area, poking around where they shouldn’t be,” continues Billy. “Corbett even spotted a couple of them skulking around the house. They’re definitely looking for you. Where are you?”

“Nebraska.”

“Oh, lord.”

“We didn’t know where to go, so we picked somewhere random,” I say defensively. It might not be the most glamorous place in the world, sure, but it’s also not anywhere that anybody would think to look for us.

“Are you all right?” Billy asks. “No one’s hurt?”

I look at Christian. He’s standing by the window, holding Web flat against his chest and talking to him in a low murmur. He turns and meets my eyes.

“We’re alive,” I answer. “I think that’s pretty good, considering.”

“Okay, listen,” Billy says. “I want you two to sit tight for a few days. I’ll call an emergency meeting of the congregation, and we’ll see if we can come up with some kind of plan. Then I’ll call you. You good with that?”

“Yeah. Sit tight. We can do that.”

“You did the right thing, getting out of here,” she says. “I want you to be extremely careful. Don’t call anybody else. I mean it. No one. Don’t be friendly with anybody. I will feel a whole lot better knowing that I’m the only one who knows where you are. I’ll call you as soon as we have a plan of action.”

A plan of action sounds so good I want to cry.