I need to find this Shaman and thank him, I think.
“Kellan couldn’t find you, though,” she continues. “Nobody could. The Council was in chaos; so many of their leaders were hurt, dead, or missing. So Zthane stepped up. Organized search parties.” Her smile is grim. “Let’s just say Kellan was a mess. He was terrified to leave Jonah’s side, refused to even let go of his brother’s hand while they were working on him. But, he was scared for you. Said ...” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “Said he felt you, too. Said that, for all Jonah went through, you were put through hell, too.”
Connections: Fate’s worst invention ever.
“He found you. I don’t know how he did it, but thank goodness he found you, too.”
He found me and then died. I tell her, “He should have never come.”
Her scorn is immediate. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
My guilt tells me otherwise.
It’s nearly midnight on my third day in the hospital, and I’m staring at the ceiling again because every time I close my eyes I relive what happened to my Connections. Watching movies doesn’t help; neither does reading. During the day, I stay strong for everyone. Word has gotten out that I took out all the free Elders, including Enlilkian. While people are pleased about this, they’re also brokenhearted about how many loved ones got hurt or died during the battles. They do not need to see me falling apart. They need to see me strong right now, so I give them that.
It’s such a joke.
Zthane and Karl have been by a few times to debrief. I tell them about Sophie Greenfield and what she did to Maccon Lightningriver. I tell them I want her head on a platter, and that they better find her within the week or I will personally hunt her down. Then I do what I should have done days before; I go and see Cora just down the hall. Raul is not doing well at all, despite Shamans working on him. Even his wife can’t get him stabilized yet. I expect her to rage, to hate me, to blame me for him being in the bed he’s in, but she just holds me close and says, “This is who he is. He’s a risk-taker.”
Her heart, I think, is more forgiving than mine.
I still don’t tell any of them that Kellan died. I ... I don’t know why. It just won’t come out, like ... maybe if I just never say it, admit it, it’ll simply stop being the truth. His heart would have never left his chest, he never would have stopped breathing. He was simply hurt in the final battle we shared with Enlilkian.
How strong he must have been to hold that madman off as long as he did. He’d stood on a tiny fragment of wood, holding onto a broken pipe meant for the ground below, and he’d kept that motherfucking bastard immobilized on the ground until I got there.
He came for me.
He came.
He came for his brother, and he came for me. We’d broken his heart into tiny, painful fragments and he still came for us. And now, Jonah’s in a coma, Kellan, too, and I want so badly to do something, but I have no idea what that is. Outside of Sophie, there are no more bad guys for me to hunt down and slay. All I can do is wait.
One a.m. rolls around, and I’m knitting in bed—badly, because I don’t really know how to knit, but the book Astrid brought me is propped up against my knees so I can reference what to do with these needles. It’s hard work, and I’ve more than once screamed in frustration (well, silently screamed at any point), but it keeps me busy and focused when I fear I’m going to just dissolve.
Just to be clear, I’m making the worlds’ ugliest scarf.
Another ruined row has me ready to chuck the needle across the room when I hear, “Since ... when ... do you ... knit?”
The words are slow and scratchy, so unbearably soft I think for a single second I must have imagined them. But no. Jonah’s eyes are open, albeit sleepily, and he’s regarding my scarf like he also thinks it’s the worlds’ most hideous one.
I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
A hand reaches out to finger the misshapen scarf; it’s trembling just a little, but ... he’s moving. He’s awake. Oh my gods, Jonah’s awake.
I toss the scarf and needles anyway, kick the book off the bed. I’m straddling him, my hands cupping his face as I stare down at those sublime cerulean eyes. “Jonah?”
His smile is drowsy, too. Amused. He mimics my wonder, albeit slowly: “Chloe?”
Nonsensical words of relief and happiness fall out of me as I pepper his face with kisses.
He’s alarmed, immediately confused by what must be an overwhelming amount of extreme emotions tearing through me, but then little details all too soon start to sink in. This is not our bedroom. We are not in our bed. Neither of us are in our normal pajamas or lack thereof. We are in a strange room and I was knitting and now weeping happily as I can’t stop touching his face and he has no idea what is going on.