“I’ve given you something to help you relax,” somebody whispers softly. “Don’t try to move too much.”
I have to blink a few times to focus on the person standing next to me. It’s a man, his face mottled black and purple, one eye partially swollen shut. He’s no longer wearing a white coat; instead, his blood stained dress shirt has sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the buttons at the collar open.
We are alone in a bedroom I don’t recognize. One that looks like a tornado redecorated it. Walls are cracked, the light over us is splintered, furniture is torn apart.
The man sets a syringe down on the broken, teetering nightstand next to us and leans over me. He gently pries my eyes open and peers in, waving a small flashlight back and forth.
“Your concussion is quite bad,” he whispers. “Try not to move too much.”
He’s an Elf, I think. Middle Aged. Scared; his hands are shaking.
“I’ve set your leg and arm,” he continues, voice barely discernable in the heavy silence of the room. “Wrapped your ribs as best I could. Tried to set your cheekbone, but ...” He leans down, his face so close to mine as he peers at me I feel soft hair swishing across the tip of my nose. “I’m a neurosurgeon. My last ER rotation was two decades ago.”
It takes a lot of effort to lick my cracked lips. “Wh-where?”
The man glances around the room guiltily before leaning back down toward me. Close to my ear, he barely breathes, “Saer?ier.”
I have no idea where this place is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not Annar.
Footsteps sound in the hall; the man yanks away from me, stumbling back to a metal folding chair a few feet away.
Nivedita appears in the doorway. Or, at least, the Elder wearing Nivedita’s decaying, once stunning face. Eyes settle on me and then the man before it turns and leaves.
Tears slide down the man’s cheeks; he glances toward the closet before shutting his eyes entirely, deep breaths shakily pulling through his nose.
He is just as much a prisoner as I, I think. And then, more clearly, I need to get out of here. I need to get back to Jonah and see—
Everything around me starts to shake again. The man is wailing, and all those cored holes in my chest open up wide before blackness finds me again.
The man is no longer in the room, at least from what I can tell. Instead, there’s a young girl with a tear-streaked face, cowering in a corner. She’s Elvin, too—or at least, I think she is. She’s so young, it’s a little hard to tell.
The Elder wearing Earle Locust-tree’s face is in here, too, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. “Get to work,” it barks at her.
She winces, sniffling as she drags the back of her hand across her nose, smearing the snot coming out across her sweet face, but she stumbles toward me. There’s crusted red streaks in her hairline, a chunk of curly blonde hair missing.
Fury curls through my veins. They tortured a child?
She turns toward the Elder and says, words tripping out of her quivering mouth, “But ... she’s got casts. I need to touch her skin.”
The Elder simply stares at her, unmoved.
“I can’t ... I have to touch someone to fix them.” The little girl hiccups as a fresh set of tears streak through the dirt and snot on her face. “Have to touch her skin, feel her owies. I can’t do that through a hard cast.”
She’s here to heal me. Gods, they kidnapped and tortured a child, just so she could come and heal me?
I want to tear the Elder apart bit by bit. Destroy them all for what they’ve done.
“Work,” it snarls at her again, but the girl starts bawling in its vehemence.
I force my words out, past lips that don’t feel like mine. “Sh-she ... c-c-can’t.”
But here’s the thing. I can. Outside of the holes in my chest, I think I’m drugged. Maybe the man gave me more of his Elvin medicines, because—
Jonah.
The nightstand next to me splinters apart completely; the end of the bed I’m in, carved and beautiful explodes into tiny slivers of kindling. The girl screeches bloody murder and retreats until she’s up against the far wall, before sliding down and hugging her knees.
Must. Focus.
All I want to do is cry myself. Curl into the same ball. Drown in the blackness threatening me. Destroy everything around me. But ... there is a little Shaman here that needs me who is missing part of her hair because some monster in this house most likely ripped it right out of her head to get her to do what they want.
I force myself to breathe. In. Out. Count to ten. Twenty. Thirty. The room stills.
The Elder leaves his post by the door, grabs the girl’s arm, and yanks her up until her toes dangle against the carpet. I force the fury howling in my chest back. I can’t lose this opportunity.
He drags her toward me. “Fix her now, little bitch.”
One of her tiny hands trembles as it reaches toward me. Mine doesn’t hesitate like hers, though. My hand shoots out and latches onto Earle’s rotting shirtsleeve and I will that asshole’s existence straight into oblivion.