The reyza lifted me with amazing gentleness. Around me the grove shimmered, and I smiled, feeling its touch like a caress.
I must have drifted off for a few minutes, because the next thing I knew, Gestamar was gently setting me on my bed. Mzatal entered, removing his suit jacket and draping it over the chair before rolling up the sleeves of his pristine white shirt. He moved to my side and ran his hands lightly over my torso.
“How…bad?” I asked, the effort of those two words exhausting.
Before Mzatal could respond, Idris entered. He stopped and gave a gasp of shock—inadvertently answering my question of how bad—then flinched at the reproving look from Mzatal. I wanted to laugh, but I knew it would hurt too much.
Mzatal returned his attention to me. “Your right leg is broken. You were impaled through and through on your left side and there is damage within. If you are not healed, you will die.”
“Oh…okay.” Well, he didn’t pull any punches. But at least, at this point, I was pretty sure he was going to do what he could to keep me from dying.
Idris audibly gulped and proceeded to edge around the room and out of Mzatal’s direct line of sight.
A faas hopped in, and Mzatal took the mug that was offered. In a smooth motion, the lord slid his arm under my shoulders and lifted me to a partial sitting position, supporting me fully. Pain flared behind the shielding wall of the sigil.
“Drink, Kara,” he said as he held the mug to my lips.
I suddenly realized how thirsty I was and did my best to drink. It tasted pleasantly sweet and refreshing and felt as if it permeated beyond the physical. It took some doing, but I drained the mug. “What was that?” I managed to whisper.
Mzatal set the mug aside and eased me down to the pillow again. “Tunjen juice. Replenishing both for the physical and the arcane.”
The demon realm version of a super sports drink, I thought with detached amusement.
I watched Mzatal as much as I was able, though between the pain and the sigils he was using to dampen it, I tended to drift in and out. He looked seriously fucking intense as he readied himself to work on me.
“What do you know of the groves?” he asked, placing a hand next to the wound in my side.
I frowned. He was going to get blood on a really nice shirt. And how the hell did he get tailored for a suit that nice in the demon realm? And what sort of cuff links did a demonic lord wear? And had he washed his hands?
“Kara,” Mzatal said with an undercurrent of command in his voice, reminding me of the tone cops used when trying to get and keep attention.
Oh, right. He’d asked me a question. “Trees. Lords travel…” Muzzily, I realized he wanted me to stay awake and interacting. Likely for my own good or something. Damn it.
Mzatal said a few words in demon to Gestamar. The reyza grunted and bounded out.
He looked back down at me. “You have never been in a grove before.” It was a statement, not a question, so I didn’t waste energy trying to answer it. He lifted my shirt above the site of the impalement. “Idris, lay support.”
The young man jumped at the sound of his name. “Y-yes, my lord,” he said, flicking a worried glance my way before beginning to sketch a complex pattern using nothing but shimmering threads of potency. I watched, fascinated, in a dreamy sort of way. This was the first chance I’d had to really see things happening without the collar on.
Idris finished and ignited the pattern. Instantly, I saw it dim as Mzatal drew upon it. A low warmth spread through my side. Now I understood Idris’s worried look. If the demonic lord needed a support pattern for additional potency, that meant I was well and truly fucked up. Then again, it wasn’t news to me at this point.
I pulled my unsteady attention back to Mzatal. His hair was braided in a complex weave that looked like it needed at least seven or eight strands. Did he do that himself? Or did he have a demon valet do it for him? And where did he get the tie that was currently tucked partially in his shirt to keep it clear of his work? And for that matter, where was I going to get new clothes? Especially bras. I knew the one I had on was pretty well soaked in blood.
“The zrila Anak fashioned the tie, and the faas Jekki braids my hair,” Mzatal said as he slid a hand beneath me to reach the entry wound. Pain flared at the movement, and I hissed a breath. “When we return to my realm on the morrow,” he continued, “the zrila circle will create what garb you require. They are quite skilled.”
I managed a slight scowl. “You’re reading…me.”
Mzatal looked from the wound to my face. “Yes, of course.”
“Rude.” I swallowed, breathing shallowly. “Stop.”
“That I cannot do,” he replied. “It is as impossible as stopping the taste of wine upon my tongue, or the feel of your skin beneath my hands.” In the next instant heat flooded the wound, and I gasped, hands tightening in the sheet. Gradually, it subsided into a warm pulse, spreading in gentle flows from the wound to the rest of my body. I exhaled in relief as the pain faded, noticing that it was already far easier to breathe.
“The sigils fascinate you,” Mzatal said almost conversationally, “but it is clear you do not know many of them. What training have you had?”
“My aunt,” I replied. It was a lot easier to talk and breathe now, but I was as tired as if I’d run a marathon uphill. Not that I had any intention of ever finding out how tiring a marathon was. “She taught me protocols…rituals. I summon demons…to learn…ask questions.” I caught myself drifting and dragged my focus back to him. I didn’t want to sleep. Too much chance I might never wake up. “I’m…getting better?”
Mzatal drew in a deep breath. He looked damn near as tired as I was. He shifted and placed a hand on my solar plexus. “Yes, better,” he said. “Gestamar will splint your leg. I have done much work with the impalement and the internal damage.” He gave me the barest ghost of an actual smile. “You will not die this day, Kara Gillian.”
I smiled weakly, then slid my hand over his. “Thanks,” I mumbled as I allowed my eyes to drift closed.
Chapter 8
I came awake abruptly. “Eilahn?” I called groggily, before realizing where I was and what had happened to her.
“Eilahn is not here, little one,” came a rumbled response. I blinked to focus and saw Gestamar crouched beside my bed, carefully knotting a splint around my injured leg.
“You know Eilahn?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“She was killed on Earth.” My brow furrowed. “Yesterday, I think. Is today the same day as when we fell?”
“Yes, it is the same day,” he replied. “You have been asleep for several hours. And yes, she has returned.”
“She has?” I exhaled in relief, smiling weakly. “I was so worried.”
Gestamar tightened another binding, then shifted and touched my cheek with the back of a claw. “Yes, though Ilana says that she will be in stasis for a time, to recover herself.”
“Good…good. What about Safar?”
“Mzatal tends Safar’s damaged wing now,” he replied calmly.
Pain shot through me as Gestamar shifted my leg. And Safar was messed up, too. Wow. Today was turning out to be an even shittier day than the one before. I hadn’t thought that was possible. And damn it, the fucking collar was back on. It’d been such a relief to have it off during the healing.
“You roused him,” Gestamar said, and it took me a couple of seconds to realize he was referring to Safar. “Neither of you would have survived had you not.” He shifted and returned to knotting bindings.
“Good thing he didn’t like having his ear twisted,” I said with an unsteady smile. The pain was beginning to make its presence known again, pulsing in waves like radio signals from my leg.