Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(94)

Bran knelt before me. “I’d wager you can’t sew worth a damn. And as far as whoring goes”—he cocked a half grin—“I hear it’s an awful return on one’s investment. Especially during this age. You’d end up spending half your money on powdered goat balls, or whatever it is they use these days to get rid of the clap.”

“They didn’t have the clap in the twelfth century,” I rasped

“Syphilis, then.”

“Nope.” Wheeze. “That didn’t start until—”

“Either way,” he cut in, “I have to say prostitution wouldn’t be my first choice in career paths for you.”

Wheeze. Pause. One side of my mouth twitched as I met his eyes. “No?”

“No,” he said. “Decidedly not.”

In the uncertain yellow of the flame, Bran’s eyes burned like jewels in a face gone pale as porcelain, with beautiful, gaunt planes. The fever was eating him up from the inside. Without the proper treatment, the infection spreading from his wound would get worse. He’d get sick. He would die.

Die. The word tasted like poison in my mouth. I swallowed hard. Of all people on this godforsaken world, I could not—would not—let him die. We were the same, he and I, aliens in our own time.

His voice was fierce as he whispered, “Listen to me. You are the strongest, bravest person I’ve ever met. With barely any warning, you traveled a thousand years into the past to save your mum. And who do you know that would sacrifice their only way home for someone else?”

“I know you,” I said, softly.

“Yes, well . . . aside from my brother, I haven’t much to go home to.”

“Neither do I.”

Bran shook his head, staring hard into my eyes. “Untrue. Besides, no one can come close to matching that lovely brain of yours. You melted iron bars, for Christ’s sake.” That crooked incisor peeked out. “I think you’re a bloody superhero. Of course,” he said, eyebrows waggling, “you’ll need a cape and some tights.”

I tried to scowl, but I couldn’t hold it. He wrapped me up in his arms. When his lips grazed my ear, I shivered though I was no longer cold. Not at all.

When he pulled back, I skimmed the pads of my fingertips across his forehead. “Your temp’s getting worse.”

He stood, smiling down at me. “Then let’s go home and get some blasted ibuprofen, shall we?”

When I took his outstretched hand, electrical pulses sizzled along my nerve endings. He cocked his head to the side, studying me.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just imagining you in those tights. I’m not sure my heart could take it.”

A buzz of pleasure shot through me at the lazy look in his eyes. Somehow, I managed to whisper, “There you go with the talking again.”

Bran grinned and wrapped an arm around me again, tilting his head to rest against mine. We stood like that for a while, staring into the square of darkness.

“So,” I murmured, “crawling into the bowels of hell, huh? That should be fun.”

His chuckle rumbled through me. “Loads.”

When his knees wobbled, I held him up, giving strength for once instead of taking it.





Chapter 46


AS SOON AS WE ENTERED, I FELT IT. THAT ELEMENTAL, cell-invading tremor I’d first experienced under my aunt’s home. It quivered up the bedrock, through my palms and knees, and across my skin. This was it. The way back.

Just ahead of me, Bran struggled to push the torch out in front of him. He called back over his shoulder, “See? Not so bad, is it? Keep holding on to me. We’ll be out of this in a jiff. Just breathe.”

The bony skin of his ankle burned my palm as I clutched at it.

Keep going. Don’t think about it.

Choking on the dust, I moved one hand forward. Knee, hand. Knee, hand. Grit scraped my palms, but I focused on the dancing light that glowed around Bran’s slim body.

Just breathe. It became my mantra. Hand, knee. Just breathe. Hand, knee. Just breathe.

After an interminable time, I began to think maybe we’d make it.

Then we rounded a bend and the tunnel narrowed. On our bellies, we shimmied through inch by inch. The sensation of crawling down a monster’s throat became more pronounced as I sucked in air as thick as a tomb’s. My ragged nails dug into Bran’s ankle, but I couldn’t help it. The hot pulse of full-blown panic started to boom inside me.

Can’t do it.

“Bran?” I gasped.

He stopped, called back to me in a hoarse voice, “Almost there. I’d sing to you, but since my singing voice more closely resembles a scalded cat than anything else, it would likely only sour the experience. Learned that from the choirmaster when I was in second form.”

The image made me smile. And for a millisecond, I felt better. Forced myself to think of open spaces. The snow blowing over us as we stood before Westminster Abbey. The brutal beauty of the Scottish Highlands.

The press of stone brought me back, and I felt myself begin to shatter, one molecule at a time. I kept my eyes trained on the yellow glow as Bran squirmed forward. The tunnel curved downward at a sharp slope. Down, down, always down. Deeper we crawled. And then a prickling feeling hit the back of my neck, and suddenly I knew something was behind me.