Page 136 of Bride of the Enemy Alien

“Yes.”

“Good. Pain I know what to do with.”

She reaches for a jar. I have survived enough jars to know that, no matter how innocuous they may appear, they can contain things to be afraid of. Very afraid. I clench my hands and focus on my breath. In and out. It is the best way to contain fear.

Outside the door, Kessa’s voice rises as Renn tells her she needs stitches. I hear her threatening to beat him with a spoon. Merra smiles without looking up.

“She will still be there when you wake.”

“I know.” The knowledge is new enough that I test it. It holds. Then I realize what Merra just said. “When I wake?”

“Yes,” she says, pausing in her preparations to look at me. “Your injuries are extensive and I want to see if I can remove those implants. I cannot do that while you’re awake.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head and standing up.

Merra does not argue or debate. She looks at me and slowly arches one eyebrow. Beyond the door Kessa is loudly and angrily handling Renn. Though she is not yelling at me, I find comfort in it. In her voice. In her strength and certainty.

And she trusts Merra.

“Fine,” I say, sitting back onto the table.

I lie back when Merra tells me to. No restraints close over my wrists. No command tells me to stay. I stay anyway.

31

Kessa

The morning after the City survives, people go back to work.

Rations are handed out. Braces go up where walls cracked. I barely notice any of it. I only need one answer.

Is Rhazek alive?

I’m standing outside Merra’s workroom with a clay cup of bitter-root tea cooling between my hands. There are nine new cracks in the wall opposite me. I’m certain of it because I’ve counted them six times. When I started to count them for the seventh time, I decided counting them again would qualify as a personal failure and stopped myself.

The door scrapes open and Merra steps into the corridor with blood on one sleeve and dark circles under her eyes.

“He’s alive,” she says, holding up one hand before I can ask.

Relief nearly drops me. I brace one hand against the wall.

“Good.”

“I told you to drink that,” she says, looking at the untouched tea.

“I did,” I say.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m an excellent liar, but the tea is terrible.”

“That’s why it works.”

“That’s what bitter-root wants us to believe.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, giving up.

“He will live,” she says. “The burns are ugly. The damaged wing will take time. I got the blood relay out from under his ribs. The command anchor is still inside him, but it looks like most of the active pathways are burned out. I can’t remove what remains without risking his throat, his spine, or several things I only understand well enough to know better than to mess with.”