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"Hungry?" he asks.
I shake my head. The urge to eat is gone, along with the incessant thirst that accompanied being his anchor, and that's worrying to me. Hell, who am I kidding? It's all worrying and I've got a fucking gaping wound in my chest. Nothing's going to be normal anymore.
The healer arrives, a young woman in a simple brown dress, a belt covered with pouches, and her hair pulled back in a hood. She bows to Kassam and then to me, then pulls up a stool beside my chair and inspects my wound, saying nothing. Finally, she presses the towels back against it and gives me a long, knowing look. "Your heart has been pierced. Twice."
"I know." I lick my lips again, but they're bone dry.
"I can wash and sew up the wound and pad it to prevent more bleeding, but that's about all I can do." She pulls a pouch onto her lap and produces a needle and some bright red thread. Then she bows her head. "If this pleases my Lord Kassam, I will get to work."
Kassam gives me a jerky nod, and when the girl reaches for her needle again, he growls and turns away.
She hesitates.
"It's okay," I whisper. "I don't think he likes seeing me hurt." Which…I don't like being hurt, either, but it's nice to see how concerned Kassam is. He's fussed over me and made everything about me and my injuries, not about how it affects him and his plans. It's like I'm really his wife and he's frantic for my well-being. I watch the girl as she wipes my skin down and then carefully inserts the needle, beginning to stitch. It doesn't hurt, but I can feel the cold needle moving in and out of my skin, and the tug of the thread, and that freaks me out, so I focus on her face. She's young, no more than a teenager, but she seems to know what she's doing. "How come you're not freaking out?" I ask, curious.
"I have stitched up many wounds in my time," she replies smoothly, not looking up from her work.
"To people with pierced hearts?"
That gets her attention. She gives me an uneasy look, then returns to her stitching. "The Anticipation has brought with it many strange happenings," the healer says, her voice low. "I have been called to many houses where people were dead but did not die. Their bodies continued to move, their eyes watched all, even when the head was removed from the neck."
I gasp. What the fuck?
She purses her lips, then nods and continues. "Lord Rhagos was not in his realm to receive the fallen. Thank the gods he has returned, and the dead no longer scratch at their coffins, crying for release."
I swallow hard. Okay, so Death is now back home, and I'm still here because Lachesis decided to creatively interpret the rules. "So…what happens when Death finds out I'm an overdue delivery?"
"Nothing," Kassam says in a fervent voice, interrupting. He moves to my side and takes my hand in his, kissing my knuckles. "You remain with me. Rhagos will not touch you. I will not let him." His silver eyes glitter with such intensity that they take my breath away. "He would not dare to take my wife. Do you understand me, Carly?"
I nod.
"Good." Those gorgeous silver eyes narrow. "Now tell me who did this to you so I can feed them to the griffins." He pauses and then adds, "In very small pieces."
I hesitate. On one hand, I worry that Kassam is going to go after Seth. And while Seth himself can die in a fire for all I care, Margo is blameless. Margo also can't die, like me, so there's no point. Punching a few holes in Margo won't solve anything or make Seth go away…and what if Seth is right and we need him? I don't want to protect him, but I've also never seen Kassam so enraged. "I'm tired," I say. "Let's talk about this tomorrow."
"Do you not wish me to avenge you?" Kassam asks, frowning darkly.
It's entirely possible that vengeance is what got him exiled in the first place, and it might be a bad idea to encourage that. "I just want to get stitched up," I say, giving an awkward smile to the girl working on my wounds.
Kassam makes an annoyed sound but continues to hold my hand as she finishes up. She bows to us both, hesitates, and then looks at me. "No sudden movements lest you tear your stitches for at least a week…maybe longer." Her pained smile tells me that the “longer” is more likely. She gathers her things and leaves, and then I'm alone with a cranky, glowering god and two conmac who watch us both with remote yellow eyes. Something tells me I'm never going to have a moment to myself again, and the thought doesn't fill me with as much irritation as it should.
