The Host (The Host #1)(157)

Jared was breathing too hard. I had to be fast or he would stop me.

Just pretend it’s a shovel opening the ground, I told myself.

I jammed the knife into my arm.

The headrest muffled my scream, but it was still too loud. The knife fell from my hand—jerking sickeningly out from the muscle—and then clunked against the floor.

“Wanda!” Jared rasped.

I couldn’t answer yet. I tried to choke back the other screams I felt coming. I’d been right not to do this before driving.

“Let me see!”

“Stay there,” I gasped. “Don’t move.”

I heard the blanket rustling behind me despite my warning. I pulled my left arm against my body and yanked the door open with my right hand. Jared’s hand brushed my back as I half fell out the door. It wasn’t a restraint. It was comfort.

“I’ll be right back,” I coughed out, and then I kicked the door shut behind me.

I stumbled across the lot, fighting nausea and panic. They seemed to balance each other out—one keeping the other from taking control of my body. The pain wasn’t too bad—or rather, I couldn’t feel it as much anymore. I was going into shock. Too many kinds of pain, too close together. Hot liquid rolled down my fingers and dripped to the pavement. I wondered if I could move those fingers. I was afraid to try.

The woman behind the reception desk—middle-aged, with dark chocolate skin and a few silver threads in her black hair—jumped to her feet when I lurched through the automatic doors.

“Oh, no! Oh, dear!” She grabbed a microphone, and her next words echoed from the ceiling, magnified. “Healer Knits! I need you in reception! This is an emergency!”

“No.” I tried to speak calmly, but I swayed in place. “I’m okay. Just an accident.”

She put the microphone down and hurried around to where I stood swaying. Her arm went around my waist.

“Oh, honey, what happened to you?”

“So careless,” I muttered. “I was hiking.… I fell down the rocks. I was… cleaning up after dinner. A knife was in my hand.…”

My hesitations seemed like part of the shock to her. She didn’t look at me with suspicion—or humor, the way Ian sometimes did when I lied. Only concern.

“You poor dear! What’s your name?”

“Glass Spires,” I told her, using the rather generic name of a herd member from my time with the Bears.

“Okay, Glass Spires. Here comes the Healer. You’ll be fine in just a moment.”

I didn’t feel panicked at all anymore. The kindly woman patted my back. So gentle, so caring. She would never harm me.

The Healer was a young woman. Her hair, skin, and eyes were all a similar shade of light brown. It made her unusual looking—monochromatic. She wore tan scrubs that only added to that impression.

“Wow,” she said. “I’m Healer Knits Fire. I’ll get you fixed up directly. What happened?”

I told my story again as the two women led me down a hallway and then through the very first door. They had me lie down on the paper-covered bed.

The room was familiar. I’d been in only one place like this, but Melanie’s childhood was full of such memories. The short row of double cabinets, the sink where the Healer was washing her hands, the bright, clean white walls…

“First things first,” Knits Fire said cheerfully. She pulled a cabinet open. I tried to focus my eyes, knowing this was important. The cabinet was full of rows and rows of stacked white cylinders. She took one down, reaching for it without searching; she knew what she wanted. The small container had a label, but I couldn’t read it. “A little no pain should help, don’t you think?”

I saw the label again as she twisted the lid off. Two short words. No Pain? Was that what it said?

“Open your mouth, Glass Spires.”

I obeyed. She took a small, thin square—it looked like tissue paper—and laid it on my tongue. It dissolved at once. There was no flavor. I swallowed automatically.

“Better?” the Healer asked.

And it was. Already. My my head was clear—I could concentrate without difficulty. The pain had melted away with the tiny square. Disappeared. I blinked, shocked.

“Yes.”

“I know you feel fine now, but please don’t move. Your injuries are not treated yet.”

“Of course.”

“Cerulean, could you get us some water? Her mouth seems dry.”

“At once, Healer Knits.”

The older woman left the room.

The Healer turned back to her cabinets, opening a different one this time. This, too, was filled with white containers. “Here we are.” She pulled one from the top of a stack, then took another from the other side.

Almost as if she were trying to help me fulfill my mission, she listed the names as she reached for them.

“Clean—inside and out… Heal… Seal… And where is… ah, Smooth. Don’t want a scar on that pretty face, do we?”

“Ah… no.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be perfect again.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

She leaned over me with another white cylinder. The top of this one came off with a pop, and there was an aerosol spray nozzle underneath. She sprayed my forearm first, coating the wound with clear, odorless mist.