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WHEN WE PEEK OUT FROM THE BASEMENT, we find the halls quiet. Tattered tapestries hang precariously from the ceiling and the paneled walls are marred with tiny holes, but no one is in sight. In Erik’s quarters, I run the faucet until the water is warm, but when I reenter the bedroom, the harsh scent of whiskey prickles my nostrils.
He gestures to the bottle of liquor on the table.
“No, thanks,” I say with a shake of my head. “Should you be drinking?”
“Disinfecting,” he says as he pours some over his bloodied biceps, wincing as it hits his skin. He immediately covers it with the wet washcloth I’ve dropped on the bed.
“Should I lock this?” I cross to close the door, wanting to be helpful as much as I want to avoid looking at his wound.
“If the attack is over, security will do a sweep. Might as well leave it open or Kincaid’s goons will break it down.”
“I wish that made me feel better.” I force myself to go to him and tentatively lift the cloth to examine his wound. A blob of red blood oozes not far from his muscle.
“Flesh wound,” Erik says in a casual voice, but I catch him wince again as the air hits it.
“Is there a bullet in there?” My words are strangled with some unrecognizable emotion. I want to cry and kiss him at the same time.
“It went straight through,” he says. “It’ll be fine once the bleeding stops.”
“I can fix it,” I remind him.
“I wasn’t going to ask. I could do it myself, but two hands are better than one when patching,” Erik says. “If it makes you uncomfortable—”
I stop him. “Walk me through it.” Taking a steadying breath, I pour a little whiskey on my fingers. I’m less convinced of its disinfectant powers, but there’s no harm in trying. Further inspection reveals an exit wound on the other side of his arm.
“Concentrate,” Erik says. “See the strands.”
It sounds so serious and profound coming from Erik that I giggle, but he balks at my nervous titter and draws his arm away.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can do this.”
“Once you stop laughing and see the strands,” Erik begins, a bit sourly. “Draw together the damaged ones and connect them. It’s like the loom, Ad. Fix the hole.”
I close my eyes and focus on the fear pounding its war song in my chest. When I reopen them I can see the strands that weave together to make Erik’s arm and a stream of pulsing red fibers on his biceps calls out to me. I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, but I work at the shrill, off-key notes of the damaged strands until they grow harmonious, knitting together and healing.
“Not bad,” Erik says when I step back to survey my work, the room resolving into a world of physical objects.
Suddenly exhausted from the effort, I drop down on his bed. I roll onto my stomach, clutching the pillow to my chest. He wipes the excess blood from the newly patched wound and takes the ruined washcloths to the bathroom. As he goes, I consider what to say to him about Dante and my mother. I don’t have to talk about it, but I want to. I’m just not sure why. To make myself feel better? To talk through it? Those reasons make sense, but one thin
g holds me back. An unspoken tension that hangs between Erik and me. Talking about my mother and Dante means I’ll have to talk about the issues that he and I are constantly skirting around.
I mention it anyway.
“It’s not too late to stop him,” Erik says.
“Should I?” I ask, confusion infusing my voice. I know I should stop him, but deep down, I don’t want to. I’m not sure why though.
“No,” Erik says in a firm voice.
“Why?” I ask, wondering how he can be so certain.
“Because he loves her,” he says.
“I know that. But loving someone doesn’t mean you make the best decisions about them,” I point out.
“No. Love can be blinding,” Erik agrees. “But if he believes she’s in danger, he’s already thought through his options. He’s chosen the best one.”
“Maybe someone who can be more objective should be making the decision,” I say.
