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“Chill!” I ordered. “Sheesh.”
He snorted, but subsided. I pygahed, and after a few minutes his posture shifted subtly. He drew a deep breath, though his eyes remained closed.
“Here,” Szerain said in a small, near breathless voice.
Relief swept through me. “We need a better drawing of the ring I saw when Idris was sent to Earth.” My mouth twitched. “I’ve been told that my art skills are, ah, less than optimal. Can you help? I have paper and a pencil.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “Yes, I’ve seen your drawings.” But then his throat worked in a swallow. “I do not know if I can help.”
“Would you please try?” I asked. “I know this is a big request.”
He remained silent for long enough that I decided it was a refusal. I started to thank him and get up when he finally spoke in a soft voice.
“Show me.”
Settling back down, I took his hand and placed it against my cheek, aware that physical contact improved reading ability. I closed my eyes and called up the memory of the ring. Dual stones, dark red and onyx, set in intricate gold filigree.
“It is enough,” he said after a moment, though he still didn’t move.
Uncertain, I lowered his hand and set the paper and pencil in his lap. “Do you need me to do anything?”
“Help me to grip the pencil,” he said, voice wavering. “Difficult. Specific blocks are in place to deter. Will attempt.”
A pang sliced through me at the cruelty upon crue
lty. His prison had been fitted with a goddamn anti-art filter. For what purpose other than to twist the knife? I curled his fingers around the pencil, then placed the tip on the paper. Silently willing support, I reached to take his other hand. Yet he remained inhumanly still, his hand ice cold in mine. I extended, touched the mini-nexus and waited silently. This had to work.
An odd ripple went through my body, and I realized he was using me as a conduit to draw potency from the mini-nexus. Controlling the flare of uncertainty, I allowed it, though I kept a damn close watch for any sign of him using that potency for anything other than the task at hand.
The pencil jerked across the pad in shaky, short movements. I remained quiet, pygahing for him and supporting. My eyes dropped to the pad. Little more than scribble marks on it.
Sweat dripped from his face to splop onto the paper. “New . . . page,” he said, voice intense and strained. I quickly turned to a clean sheet, and he began to draw again.
We repeated this process half a dozen more times, each sketch gradually improving on the one before, all while his other hand maintained a hard, ice cold grip on mine. Finally he began to move more fluidly, and he created a sketch of the ring far far better than my horrible rendition.
“Again,” he croaked. I flipped the page, though I took more care with this one to avoid smearing it. He drew a deep breath. “Pygah. Please,” he whispered in desperate determination.
Focusing, I mentally traced the calming, centering sigil, consciously facilitated the flow of potency to him. He sketched the ring one more time, then dropped the pencil. “All . . . I can do.”
I pulled the pad to me and let out a delighted laugh. “Hot damn! Thank you! That’s ten billion times better than mine.”
Szerain jerked, and his head lolled for an instant before Ryan straightened and blinked. I quickly closed the pad to hide the drawing of the ring.
“Did it work?” he asked with a puzzled frown, completely Ryan in voice and manner. “Felt like I went out for a while.”
“You did,” I said and gave a low laugh. “You fell asleep.”
He flexed his hands, puzzlement flickering in his eyes. “I’m freezing. In Louisiana. And sweating. Weird.” He shook them out. “What did you do?”
“Oh, I tried to call up your past lives,” I said with a casual wave of my hand.
Ryan laughed. “You are such a liar.” He started to say more, but his face abruptly took on an I’m gonna barf look. I let out a curse as he rolled from cross-legged to hands and knees, and I shifted away barely in time to avoid the splatter of lasagna and who knew what else.
“Shit, Ryan.” I moved to his side—avoiding the barf—as he subsided into dry heaves. I rubbed his back as he barfed again, though it was little more than bile at this point.
After about a minute he shakily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grimaced and scrubbed the hand on the tarp before shifting away from the splatters to sit again. “Well,” he croaked, “I’m not a fan of whatever you did.”
“Sorry.” I winced. “It was, um, an aversion, but it wasn’t supposed to do that.”
