by VK Fox
Eileen covered her mouth. She mentally pleaded, Please, don’t be dead. Please get up!
Movement! The blunt side of the axe snapped up and caught the giant’s ear, which must have smarted something awful. Minotaur man rolled to his feet, shouting in surprise. Eileen’s grin was almost as wide as her hero’s, and she sent him strength and enthusiasm across the windswept garden.
The giant rallied and grabbed Bunnyman’s arm, flipping him onto his belly and using the angle to bend his bunny elbow the wrong way. The noise was awful, like the sound a roast chicken leg makes when popped off the bird. His hand went limp and the axe clattered to the ground. Bunnyman rolled with the motion, sacrificing his shoulder too so he could come around and retaliate with a fist the size of a cantaloupe to the giant’s face. Like breaking a pinata, both titans were spattered with a shower of blood. The giant howled, staggered back, and fell to one knee, eyes streaming, bloody goop pouring from his nostrils. Yes! That was broken. Eileen would bet dessert on it.
Bunnyman rose, seizing the axe with his other hand. The machete was still lodged in his chest, and he’d lost some of the roundness from his middle. One arm hung shattered and useless at his side, but Eileen was sure a little TLC would set him right. He was such a trooper!
A gun barked and one long, tatty ear flew clean off, sending bits of torn skin in a dozen directions. Eileen thanked her lucky stars for the wind. One inch south and it would have been a headshot. Bunnyman was now a little lopsided but still just as charming.
The shooter corrected and unloaded five rounds into Bunnyman’s chest. The noise was deafening, but Eileen couldn’t help but smirk. Those oozy holes might sting, and the exit wounds would need some patching, but what was it going to do? She knew he could keep on ticking no matter how much metal he had in his chumbley trunk.
The antlered man was panting through his mouth, empty-handed and dazed, wildly grasping and coming up with a broken fence chain. He pulled a section free and wrapped his hand, leaving a four-foot tail dangling from his fist.
When Bunnyman came in again, the Minotaur was ready. The chain whipped out, wrapping the handle of the axe, and with a jerk, it went flying. The giant was right up against him now, one arm sinking to the elbow in Bunnyman’s open gut, grunting as punch after chain-wrapped punch connected with Bunnyman’s head, chest, and stomach. The force of the blows drove Bunnyman back, leaving a trail of reeking viscera strung between him and Minotaur’s gory hand. He couldn’t take much more of this. If his joints gave out or his darling head caved in, he’d be no good to anyone. Eileen knew it had to end now. Bunnyman tilted his head, bent at the waist, and lifted the giant over his shoulder like a disobedient child, limbs, chain, and intestines flailing.
Bunnyman pivoted to the three-tier fountain, aglow with violet light, and slammed the giant into the pool. The back of his head connected with the second-tier basin, and water poured through new cracks in the concrete. The giant’s head was fully submerged, and he thrashed, kicked, wiggled, twitched, and went finally still. Bunnyman released him, and he floated in the water, blood washing into the fountain and being sucked away by the pump, mixing with the water all over the gardens. Ick. Eileen hoped it was chlorinated.
Bunnyman stood, dripping and bloodied but otherwise nonplussed. Reclaiming his bits from the antlered man’s hand, he tucked them back in his belly. All better. He shouldered his axe and stooped to retrieve the end of the chain, still wrapped around the giant’s fist. Dragging his huge, soggy burden, he trudged along the walkway until he reached a footbridge spanning a side path. Eileen’s savior and his defeated foe were backlit by blue and green light in a strange shadow show. Bunnyman set the axe aside and tossed the end of the chain around the bridge support, wrapping the giant’s other wrist with the loose end. The Minotaur was trussed up like a deer ready to be field dressed.
Strolling back over to where Mothman lay, Bunnyman took the girl’s ankle in one hand, dragging her along the brick as he ambled back to the bridge. She regained consciousness during the ride and started screaming and crying again.
“Ian! Dahl! Mary! Someone please help! Help!”
Eileen hated that noise. Couldn’t she just shut up and accept her fate with some dignity?
A vicious, snarling yelp snapped Eileen’s attention back to the wolf, who disengaged to run to its mistress. Morty seized it by the back leg. Its mouth was foaming and teeth were bared, but Morty had it. Every time the wolf snapped at Morty, he easily stepped aside, his jaws clamped firmly.
The giant stirred, and Eileen jerked her chin toward him as he vomited, a huge gush of liquid leaving his body and slopping onto the ground below. He retched several more times and shook his head. His eyes were slits, almost swollen closed, glittering in the darkness. His body tensed as his gaze fell on Bunnyman dragging the girl.
The Minotaur yelled, hoarse and ragged but building in volume into a savage, deafening, terrifying roar. No words, but the raw, primal noise raised gooseflesh on Eileen’s arms and neck. His head arched back, bound hands grasping the chain. Still screaming, he pulled his legs up, twisted around, and kicked at the support rod the chain passed over. It bent. He kicked again. It buckled. Again. The metal bar snapped under his weight as he crashed to the ground. His chained hands seized the axe.
Bunnyman turned the corner as the giant swung, the full force of rage, adrenaline, and hundreds of pounds behind it. The axe plowed into the gap between his darling round head and his bare slouchy shoulders. Eileen covered her eyes, peeking between her fingers as the axe rose and fell and reduced her best hope to hunks of meat and blood.
A painfully loud gunshot exploded, and this time Eileen was close enough to see the muzzle flash and catch the snappy scent of gunpowder. Her ears rang for a few seconds, and when they cleared, Morty was screaming. The wolf was running off, and Eileen’s companion lay on his side, four legs clawing the air as his head thrashed back and forth. Before Eileen realized someone shot him, it was over. Her faithful friend bled out into the grass.
They were coming for her, and they were going to silence her permanently. The colored lights multiplied in the arboretum. Another advancing figure was only a shadow on the glass, and through her tears, Eileen almost missed him. He was inching along the edge of the greenhouse not thirty feet distant. Yes, he was the second shooter, the dog murderer. He was the assassin. Eileen choked down a sob as he came into view. His baby face reminded her so strongly of . . . someone. Didn’t she know a boy about the same age? Only the up-and-coming generation, with no concept of respect or love, could produce a boy who would shoot her in cold blood. He was dressed in black, a gun gripped in both hands and pointed at the ground, and Eileen just knew the barrel was going to take aim at her and it would all be over. She was cold and damp. Her breath came in short gasps. She’d never get to report back to her friends, to warn them about what she’d found. No more time. She’d never get to tell . . . anyone . . . goodbye.
The sensation of something falling from behind her ear was so intense it caused her to stagger from the vertigo. Stars burst in her eyes, and her left foot lunged forward, keeping her from collapsing but bringing her fully into the multicolored light. Eileen’s head snapped around to meet the eyes of her killer. A bead of white light rolled across the ground and up his leg. It raced along his body and settled, illuminating his hands. His eyes went from cool and controlled to wide and glittering. He shouted. Eileen couldn’t make out the words with her heart pounding in her ears. The gun barrel glowed as it rose to take aim at her like a candle in the darkness.
Something struck her in the torso, and a wave of force exploded out her back, shattering the fifty-foot glass wall behind her. For a heartbeat, Eileen’s world was glittering shards and multicolored light, and then darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jane woke to the sound of beeping monitors and blinking lights. In the dark, stars peeked through her window. She could see again. Her hospital room was small, barely able to hold the bed and two chair
s with an IV stand and pulse monitor. Her eyes were crusty and her mouth tasted fuzzy. The air was scented with a combination of disinfectant and incense.
A plump young woman dressed in the sister’s black uniform was sitting next to her in a chair. She smiled kindly at Jane from a freckled face. “Hey, love! You doing all right? Anything hurt? You just let me know, and I can have them turn the meds up.”
“No, I’m okay.” Jane’s voice was gritty. She had spent far too much time in hospitals this month. “Is Ian okay? Where’s Dahl?”
“Mr. Dahl is fine. He’s asleep in a guest room upstairs. We’ll let him know you’re up. He wanted to stay, but he was getting a little loopy, so we sent him off. He’ll be happy to know you’re awake, though, I’m sure—”
Jane cut in. She didn’t want to be rude to a nun, but waiting for a break in the woman’s stream of consciousness didn’t seem like a viable strategy. “And Ian?” Memories from the fight were hard to pin down. Moth asshole had broken bones when he’d hit, including Ian’s spine, but she’d fixed him before blacking out. Ian had rescued her from being dragged somewhere while she was sort of awake, then she’d blacked out again. A big, resilient guy like him should be doing pretty well with a few bumps and bruises.
The little nun’s dark eyes grew somber. “Sorry, sweetie, he hasn’t woken up yet. It might not be a bad idea if you wanted to see him now. I could wheel you?”
Shit, that was bad. They wanted her to see him immediately? Bad. Jane let dizziness pass before responding. “Yup. Okay, let’s go.”
Five minutes later, her IV had been transferred to the mobile hook, and she was wheeled down the hall in her bed. The plump little nun, who turned out to be Sister Isadora Elizabeth Dominique, told her the bed was faster than a wheelchair. Jane was hooked up to various things that would take time to unhook, and this was much more efficient.
Jane’s sense of dread compounded. She probed for what had happened.
“Would you like the long version or the short version?” Sister Isadora asked.
“Short,” Jane said, because she didn’t know if she could cope with the details.
“Mr. Sendak’s one toughie, so keep that in mind. And we were able to airlift and get him into surgery right away, which helped. But he got real banged up. The biggest problem right now is he’s running a fever of 112.6 degrees. That is more than most people can survive. We’re working on it, but he’s barely responding to medication, and keeping him hydrated is a huge concern. Mr. Dahl said it’s the cost of his magic. He was able to dish out and take more punishment than any normal man, and now he’s paying the piper.”
When they finally reached his room, Sister Isadora parked Jane’s bed alongside Ian’s and used the electronic control to help her sit up. Two beds were strapped together to accommodate his bulk. Jane had steeled herself during the ride and still burst into tears. His face looked like hamburger: swollen and bruised beyond recognition. Sutures ran across the bridge of his broken nose, and his lips were split and crusted in scabs. Two drainage tubes had been threaded through surgical drill holes in his skull and stapled to a shaved patch of scalp. An oxygen tube was secured under his nose, and he was hooked up to so many monitors, she didn’t even recognize them all. Jane squeezed her eyes closed and wept. Why was it so hard to look at him? She should be able to do this. Sister Isadora patted her shoulder gently.
“Sister Mary said he was amazing. The thing he took down was a monster. He had four cracked ribs, a broken nose, a dislocated shoulder, a broken hand, a broken clavicle, and a fractured skull. He had an epidural hemorrhage and a lacerated spleen when they brought him in. We’ve been able to patch him up pretty well. The rest is in God’s hands.”
And that was the short version?
Jane reached through the guardrail on her bed and touched his hand where it lay on top of the sheet, painfully hot. The bed was drenched in sweat. He didn’t react to her touch at all; he just lay there, big, brave, and maybe dying while Jane searched inside for any scraps of power she might have left. She found nothing.
“I’m staying here.” Jane was ready for a fight about policy or inconvenience, but Sister Isadora nodded a few times, and after getting Jane’s equipment rearranged and handing her a call button, she left the room. Jane meant to stay awake, wanting to rally and heal whatever she could, but unconsciousness claimed her again after only a few minutes.
Pale morning light streamed through the window. Dahl was sitting in a folding chair crammed into the room. He was sketching in a small book, which he thrust aside as soon as Jane stirred.
“Jane! Finally. Can you do anything? Do you have any power?” The frantic tone of Dahl’s voice sent a new wave of anxiety through her.
“He’s still not better?”
Dahl rubbed his forehead. “Some minutes are harder than others.” He chewed his lip, resting his arms on the rails of Ian’s bed, gazing at him. “His heart stopped earlier today for fifty-two seconds. They were able to restart it.”
Jane shook her head. The words couldn’t possibly apply to Ian, to the heart she listened to while she drifted off to sleep.
“What happened? At the garden, I mean. I didn’t see.”
Dahl described a nightmare. He did it without drama or excitement. In a dry, sterile tone, he recounted the fight between their group and their foes. He told her he’d shot Eileen and Ian had collapsed. Sister Mary had called in an airlift to take Jane and Ian to this hospital that the sisters owned.
“I’ve been here all night waiting for either of you to wake. Passing out and sleeping for hours at a time is a side effect you failed to mention. It’s inconvenient.” Dahl rubbed his face with one hand. His voice softened with worry. “This is the worst I’ve seen him. In the Epic, Enkidu survives for twelve days before succumbing to the disease, but I have no idea if that’s what we should expect. He’s running extremely hot. He may have brain damage.” Dahl stared at the floor, eyes unfocused. “Can you heal brain damage?”
Jane’s face was expressionless. The light was too bright, the sheet was too scratchy, the beeping monitors were too loud. “I have no clue.”
Dahl met her gaze. “Can you do something? Can you try?”
Her answer was never in question. Ian said he would stand in front of the danger with her. She could do the same.
She reached for his hand. Light swelled and poured through her fingertips. He glowed softly for a few heartbeats as his wounds closed, flesh knitting together smoothly and evenly, expelling sutures, surgical staples, and drainage tubes. Jane let a shaky smile slip through as exhaustion set in. He looked so much better! Like he was resting easy. Maybe she could talk to him when she woke up.
Dahl prodded her awake again. Dahl’s clenched jaw and tense eyes doused her surge of hope. Jane’s hand was hot, and her arm was at an uncomfortable angle. She realized Dahl was holding her hand to Ian’s forehead.
“Do it again.” His voice was the iciest sort of calm.
Jane’s mind was scrambled. She could sense brain damage. Old, old damage, and a newer, much more dangerous injury spreading . . . taking over.
“You can’t fix the fever.” Dahl’s tone said he’d already completed the math. “But you can fix the damage it’s causing. The injuries he lived through, no one should be able to survive. His magic kept him alive. The fever is the price for that, but we can keep it from being what takes him out.” Dahl unsuccessfully tried to blink back tears. “Do it again.”
The following days were a haze of blindness and exhaustion. Sleep. Wake. Heal whatever she could. Repeat. The only voice she remembered was Dahl pushing her, prompting her to keep going, keep trying, rest and do it again. Jane lost track of everything. She didn’t eat. She didn’t get out of bed. She didn’t have the energy to ask about Ian or find out if she was even making a difference. As long as Dahl kept urging her on, she knew he wasn’t dead. So she kept going.
And then she woke, knowing she had been allowed to sleep far longer than usual. Jane opened her eyes
, refreshed and alert. Bright, soft moonlight cast deep shadows across her white blankets. Her arm was sore around the tape holding the IV in place. The chair next to her bed, where Dahl had sat for days, maybe weeks, was empty. Icy dread spread through her body. They hadn’t needed to wake her. Only two explanations were possible, and one of them . . . but she had to know. Jane fought through the tightness in her chest, her heart pounding as she clenched her jaw and sat up. She’d done her best. Now she had to face whatever came next.
“Hello, sweet girl.” Ian was awake and watching her with kind eyes. He reached for her hand.
They spent most of the night talking. Ian said he was fine, thanks to her, and her magical sense reassured her he wasn’t putting on a brave face. The early hours of morning sped by in tender conversation. As the horizon blushed orange, Jane dozed for a few hours.
When she woke again, it was time to say goodbye. Sana Baba had recalled Ian and Dahl after receiving the report about Longwood Gardens. Now that Ian was stable enough to travel, they had to go. Ian assured Jane that this was normal procedure after a major event, and Jane told him exactly what she thought about the kind of normal procedure that meant he was required to leave her alone for the next six months. He kissed her, apologized, and promised to think of her, but he didn’t stay.