Kinked er-6

by Thea Harrison

  Quentin never left Aryal’s side. While the surgeon examined her, he gripped her wrists and talked to her telepathically while she flexed her hands and suffered the invasion of someone else’s Power coursing through her body. The harpy hated it and had to fight to keep from lashing out.

  “I won’t go under,” Aryal said. She stared fixedly at Quentin. “I can’t.”

  “You know that’s not a good idea,” Kathryn said. “I have to advise against it. It will be safer for you and for everybody else if I put you under a general anesthetic. Otherwise you are going to be fighting your instincts throughout the entire surgery.”

  “No,” growled the harpy. The thought of going blank while someone cut into her body made crazypants want to come out to play again. “You will use a local.”

  Kathryn and Quentin looked at each other. The surgeon asked, “Can you control her?”

  “Of course I can control her,” said Quentin nastily. “Every time she lets me.”

  Kathryn took the reprimand with a steady silence. She looked back at the harpy, her falcon’s gaze piercing and calm. “The only way I’ll consider it is if you’re heavily sedated,” she said. “If you endanger either me or my team, I will stop working on you immediately and you won’t get me back to the table. You must keep yourself under control. Understood?”

  The harpy bared her teeth and hissed. “Understood.”

  “See you in the theater.” Kathryn walked away, muttering under her breath, “God help me, I’m actually going to operate on a harpy while she’s still awake. Somebody better give me a medal for this.”

  “Coward,” the harpy snarled after her.

  “I think she’s probably the opposite of a coward,” Quentin told her. “Anyway, I’d go easy on her if I were you. You are looking a little like Freddy Krueger at the moment, punkin.”

  His grip on her wrists was so tight that her hands were beginning to go numb. Only then did she realize she was struggling against his hold. She forced herself to quit. She couldn’t bear to look over her shoulder at her wings spilled lifelessly down the exam table, or she might start struggling again.

  Then they waited, and waited. Aryal fisted her hands in the hair at the nape of her neck, held her head and closed her eyes while Quentin paced the examination room. She could hear people talking through the doors. They sounded like they were arguing, although she couldn’t hear what they said. She could recognize the voices though. One of them was Dragos. The other was Pia.

  So much came back around to Pia.

  Then a third voice joined the other two. Kathryn. The harpy’s gaze went to the scars on Quentin’s face. The muscles in her body were strung tight, but she forced herself to be still and wait.

  Finally a nurse came to tell them it was time, and led the way to the surgery room. Aryal limped down the hall, wrestling with panic the whole way.

  Quentin stalked beside her. They had both showered at the hospital, and while the harpy refused to don a hospital gown, he wore scrubs. As he had dropped a few pounds in Numenlaur, he looked sharper than ever, the strong elegant bones of his face standing out under the pitiless hospital lights.

  They had barely touched down in New York and people were already staring at him in shock and awe. Most of them were women.

  The scars on his cheekbone and brow gave a remarkable illusion, as if half his face was masked, and if that wasn’t an example of how blind fate could still on occasion strike with immaculate accuracy, Aryal didn’t know what was.

  To Aryal’s eyes, he had always looked dangerous. Now even the thickest, most insensitive of idiots could see it too.

  “Are you going to want plastic surgery?” she asked.

  He gave her a blank look. “Why?”

  “The scars on your face,” she said.

  He shrugged, patently indifferent to the idea. “If I were to take the time to do anything, to tell you the truth, I’d rather finally get a rooftop garden over my apartment.”

  One corner of her mouth lifted, because she loved the scars.

  She said, “Good.”

  Then they arrived. The nurse pushed open the doors for them and they walked into an alien place filled with medical machinery, an operating table and more masked people. Two of them, off to one side, were Pia and Dragos.

  The harpy stopped and scowled at them. “What are you doing in here?”

  The dragon looked at her, his gold eyes mesmerizing.

  Trust us, Dragos whispered in her head. Leave your panic behind. All will be well, Aryal. There is no need to fight anybody here.

  Ah. It was going to be that kind of sedation. She had wondered, since adrenaline would have helped her to throw off any medication before they could possibly be done with the surgery.

  She gave herself over readily to the dragon’s enthrallment, and climbed on the table to lie on her stomach, placing her forehead in the headrest as instructed. They wheeled tables in on either side of her to spread out her wings.

  Quentin sat cross-legged on the floor so that he could look up at her. He took her hands again in an unbreakable grasp. “Hold on to me,” he said. “Don’t let go.”

  “Okay.” She struggled not to hyperventilate.

  Power filled the room from more than one person, and she lost sensation from the neck down. The harpy cried out as a blind animal panic tried to take her over again, and the dragon whispered. Trust. No need to fight. All will be well.

  Vaguely she could sense tugging on her body. The smell of her own blood filled the air. They had cut into her. Then came other sounds, like a tapping of either a chisel or a small hammer.

  The surgeon said in a cool, calm voice, “I’m going to have to break this again.”

  Razor teeth. Her carpal joint crushed. Muscles torn.

  She was lost in a nightmare, lost …

  Aryal, the harpy’s mate said telepathically. Look at me. Look. At. Me.

  He had a surfeit of his own Power, and his words penetrated both her panic and the dragon’s beguilement. As she looked at him, he stroked her face, and she knew that he would do anything he had to so that they survived.

  Tell me again the promises you told me in Numenlaur, he said.

  Her lips shook. You need reassurance now? You really are high maintenance, aren’t you?

  You know everything’s always all about me, he told her, the steady, concerned look in his eyes belying their attempt at banter. Please. Tell me again.

  There were so many words to that promise, and people were making noise and doing things to her, and she almost screamed at him to fuck off, all of it swirling in her head like a tornado looking to break out of her body.

  Then something clicked inside, and she could focus on him.

  She said, I made a promise to you before you came into my life.

  I know you did, he said. There was so much love in his eyes. So much. And I’m so grateful for it.

  I will never betray you, she said to him. I will never endanger your life with my carelessness or impetuosity. I will fight for and with you. I will—I will—

  Out of her sight, someone started a tiny saw, and her expression twisted.

  Quentin rose up on his knees. The intensity in his blue gaze burned into hers, pushing everything else away. He said to her strongly, I will always have your back whenever you might need me.

  Realization hit. He had memorized every word of what she had said.

  That was when she found her center.

  She whispered, I will not leave you, and I will not lie to you, and if you will be patient and forgiving, I will learn how to forgive too. Because you’ve become the most important thing in the world to me. I’ll give everything I have to you, along with everything I can be, if only you will do the same.

  And remember, there’s more, Quentin said. Because somehow it’s going to be okay.

  She rested in the adamancy in his gaze. Then she said, Because I could never endanger my mate by throwing my own life away.

  He smiled at her. She didn’t
understand why he looked so proud, because she still felt whacked-out and slashy.

  And paragliding is not stupid, he said. He tilted his head and kissed the harpy’s lips. As long as we do it together.

  That’s a bargain, she whispered.

  The best bargain of all. He was a magician, all right. By using only smoke and mirrors, he had somehow managed to banish the last of her panic.

  That was when something really odd happened. Speaking with brisk authority, Kathryn ordered the rest of the surgical team out of the room. Murmuring in puzzlement, they filed out. As the last of them left, the scent of someone else’s blood—Pia’s blood—filled the air.

  Aryal said out loud, “What the fuck are you guys doing back there?”

  “Hold on a few moments longer, Aryal,” said Kathryn somewhat breathlessly. “You’re doing an awesome job. We’re almost finished.”

  A new Power began to fill Aryal’s body, and it was simply ravishing, cool like moonlight and exquisitely clear, like the finest crystal. It filled her entirely and took all the pain away, all of it, and bathed her spirit tenderly with the finest hope.

  “My God,” Kathryn said. “Will you look at that.”

  While Aryal heard the words, they didn’t hold any meaning for her. She was lost in rightness and a floating sensation like freedom. Through it all she watched Quentin as he swallowed hard.

  Vaguely she grew aware that Dragos was speaking again. This time, quite unlike his beguilement, his tone was harsh and commanding. “Nobody speaks about what just happened in this room. Not to anyone, do you understand?”

  Quentin’s gaze shifted from Aryal’s face to the people who stood behind her. She watched as his expression turned careful. He nodded.

  “I’m bound by doctor-patient confidentiality, and I’ve already given you my promise,” Kathryn told him. “I won’t say a word.”

  “See that you keep it,” Dragos said. He never had to say “or else.”

  Aryal turned her head as Dragos and Pia walked out.

  Then Kathryn laid a hand at the back of Aryal’s neck and squatted to look her in the eyes. The surgeon pulled down her mask. Her honey brown gaze was teary, and she was beaming. “We’re done,” Kathryn said. “Everything looks so much better than I could have hoped.”

  She shivered spasmodically. “It looks good?”

  “It looks more than good. It looks amazing.” Kathryn kept a steady, firm pressure on the back of her neck. “But I’m going to tell you something before I let you up, and you need to listen. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “What happened just now is a miracle, and I do not use that word lightly. From the hopeless mess that I first saw to what I sense right now—there’s no comparison.” The surgeon’s expression sobered. “So pay attention when I say this to you. Do not take any chances with this opportunity. Your wings were so bad I was convinced you would never fly again. Now you have a real shot, but you must stay out of the air for two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?” she whispered. Her mind went blank. She had never been out of the air for two weeks in her very long life.

  Kathryn’s eyes were sharp and stern. “You’re a big girl. You can make your own choices, and I don’t order my patients around. It’s up to you whether or not you decide to take my advice. But you have injured and then reinjured your wings. If you don’t give your body a real chance to recover, you might rip away everything of the very great gift that has just been given to you. You are not cleared for work. No crises, no excuses, no exceptions.” The doctor paused to let her words sink in. “Do you understand what I have just said?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good.” Kathryn patted her. “Now I’m going to release the numbing spell and let you sit up. I want you to shapeshift back into your human form and stay that way for fourteen days.”

  Aryal and Quentin looked at each other. Quentin said, “She will.”

  It would be fourteen days before she knew for sure whether or not the miracle had taken hold.

  Before she knew if she could fly again.

  Fourteen days.

  The wait was going to kill her.

  TWENTY-TWO

  When Aryal shapeshifted back into her human form and sat at the edge of the operating table, Quentin was ready with a clean set of folded scrubs. He helped her into them. Then he stroked her hair as she leaned against his chest.

  Dragos and Pia had already disappeared, and so had the surgeon. The door opened, and a nurse approached with a wheelchair. “I’m here to take you to your room now.”

  Aryal’s head snapped up. She stared at the wheelchair with wide-eyed repugnance.

  Quentin told the nurse, “Hospitals are for sick people, and we’re going home.”

  The nurse’s face froze. “Okay,” she said uncertainly. “Just wait a few minutes while I get some release forms for you to sign. I’ll be right back.”

  They didn’t wait. Instead they walked slowly down the hall, arms around each other’s waists. He asked, “Your place or mine?”

  “There’s awesome delivery in the Tower,” she said, enunciating each word with the carefulness of the extremely tired. “No need to cook.”

  “There’s pretty awesome delivery over the bar too,” he told her.

  “Then I don’t care.”

  “We’ll go to my place.”

  While he had waited for Aryal as she had gotten x-rayed, Quentin called Dragos’s assistant Kris, who had shown up shortly afterward with a new iPhone for each of them, each one already downloaded with all of their contacts, along with two slim wallets with expense cards and cash.

  He pulled his phone out of his back pocket. The time on the screen read 8:32 P.M. He thumbed the lock off and dialed Rupert at the bar. “Hey boss,” the half troll rumbled. “Glad you’re back in town. Aren’t you a little early?”

  It took a few moments for Quentin to connect. Rupert was referring to their original two-week ban from New York. He said, “Never mind that, things have changed. I’m on my way home now. Stock my fridge with food from the corner grocery, would you?”

  “Sure thing,” said Rupert.

  “Thanks.”

  “Since we’re talking, can you answer some bar questions?”

  “No.” He disconnected.

  A hospital representative caught them before they could slip out one of the exits, and Aryal had to sign release forms after all.

  By the time their taxi pulled up to Elfie’s, it was past ten o’clock. After the summer heat in Numenlaur, the early April evening was pleasantly sharp and chilly. The bar was going strong, which was a good thing because he just remembered he didn’t have his keys. They could slip upstairs through the interior entrance, except …

  He looked at Aryal’s pale, angular features as she watched the crowd in the bar. No way was he up for that kind of explanation. Not until tomorrow. Or maybe next week. “Are you all right with waiting on the stoop while I go inside and let us through?”

  “Yep,” Aryal said. She looked kind of dreamy, like she was stoned.

  “Are you okay?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Yep,” she said again. “I feel pretty good, considering.”

  He left her and went through the bar. People hailed him, and everybody hitched to a stop, staring at his face and at the scrubs. He waved to them all, ignored the chorus of comments and shocked questions, strode through to the stockroom, let himself into his private stairwell and found Aryal sitting on the stoop outside, leaning against the corner of one wall.

  He opened the door and bent over her—and found her sound asleep.

  He gathered her up gently, carried her upstairs and put her, and himself, in bed.

  His exhausted, overstimulated mind ran compulsively through the survival list.

  Food, water, shelter, clothing.

  Love.

  He pulled Aryal’s sleeping form against him, tucked her head into his shoulder, put his face in her soft, clean hair and slept.

  Somet
ime in the middle of the night, they both woke. Their body clocks were all screwed up. They made love with silent urgency and fell asleep afterward while Quentin was still inside of her.

  That dictated the pattern of the next few days.

  Waking, making love. Eating, making love. Sleep. There was a disjointed rhythm to all of it, like tacking in a zigzag pattern in a sailboat against a crosswind.

  He lost himself in the sensual evidence of her, her scent, her skin, her deadly, sleek muscles, the startling softness of her breasts and the incredibly lush prison of her inner flesh as she gripped his penis. And he moved, and moved, and moved inside of her until they both sobbed for breath and shuddered helplessly from the ecstasy of it. That wild, dangerous part of him that had been running so hard knew that it had found what it was looking for, and had finally come home.

  When they talked, there was no beginning or end to the conversation. It was as if it had gone on forever. He began to wonder if that was a little bit like what Aryal had referred to the night of the sentinel party, when she had talked of immortality.

  His father had always sworn that while Quentin could change into a Wyr form, his energy felt Elven. He had a feeling he was going to find out with Aryal what immortality was like.

  “What could Pia be?” Aryal asked. “Did she bleed when she healed you too?”

  “Yes,” he said. They lay with their limbs tangled, and she cradled his head on her breast. He mouthed her nipple without urgency. They had already spent each other. “I can only think of one creature.” He said it slowly, because the idea was so outlandish. “But I thought they were a myth.”

  “A myth like dragons, or harpies?” she asked, her mouth tilted, and he had to concede her point. “If she is one, then I understand now why she hasn’t revealed her Wyr form to the public. She’ll be hunted for the rest of her life if she does, and what about the baby? No, that’s not right. We know his Wyr form is a dragon. That’s why they thought her gestation period was going to be so long, until he managed to flip into a human baby before she went into labor.”