“You really did it this time, didn’t you? Always wanting to prove how tough you are.” He couldn’t check his rib cage, for his skin was so lacerated with whip marks. “Ever the mighty hunter, determined to prove yourself the bravest of us all. Well, now you’ve gone and done it.”
He continued to mumble accusations at Jude as if they were having one of their little skirmishes over breakfast, while he continued down one leg, feeling for fractures. When he gripped Jude’s left ankle, the foot twitched at the slightest touch. Jude’s brow pinched together in pain, though he never opened his eyes.
“Is it broken?” I asked.
“Possibly. Maybe a sprain, but we won’t know right now.”
He pointed to the smeared blood on the mattress by his torso. “Does that mean his back is as bad as his chest?”
“Yes,” I managed to say on a fast breath.
“What happened to him?”
George’s sharp aquamarine gaze narrowed on me, his anger seething for whomever had done this to Jude.
“It was Danté.”
“Danté?”
“But I finished him. For good.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, pulling the sheet up to Jude’s waist. I think George was uncomfortable, not with Jude’s nudity but with the sheer vulnerability of the strongest man he’d probably ever known. To be exposed in such a way—frail, weak, lifeless…
“I mean I killed him. Like I did that demon back at Glastonbury.”
Shaking his head in disbelief and giving me a crooked smile, he said, “It’s about bloody time. That’s one less wanker we’ll have to deal with come doomsday.”
“George, if this is your idea of levity in a time of mourning, I don’t think—”
“No more thinking, darling. Time for action. Give me the rag.” He took it from me and began to wipe Jude’s chest clean with a rougher hand that I ever would have.
“Be careful! You’ll hurt him.”
“Darling, he’s hurt quite enough already. We need to get him clean and sterilized and sewn up so he can heal. He’s a Dominus Daemonum, made by Uriel himself, which means he carries healing power in his blood. But he won’t mend with open gashes all over his body. So snap to, girl.”
I stopped staring all weepy-eyed and snapped into action. George was right. I was overthinking to the point of becoming useless. I ran to the bathroom and rummaged around till I found Jude’s first aid kit. I suppose his job warranted being prepared. And he always was.
I brought it back and opened it on the bed next to Jude. George stood on the other side, having cleaned nearly all the excess dried blood. While George searched for antiseptic, I twisted my hands together, unsure what to do next.
“How can I help?”
“You’re doing fine right there.”
“No, George. Tell me how I can help. Give me something to do. Please.”
He paused and lifted his stern gaze to mine. “He’ll need some sustenance of some kind, preferably broth, something we can get down his throat, if that’s even possible.”
“Right.”
I dashed to the kitchen and found the cabinet of canned vegetables and soups. I’d seen a few cans of beef broth. Mira perched on a chair, cleaning under her wing as if we hadn’t just traveled to hell and back.
I opened the can and poured the broth into a saucer, then set the pan on the old wood stove, taking several minutes to get the stove lit and burning hot. As soon as the beefy aroma warmed and the smell wafted up, my stomach growled. Dizzying nausea swept over me all at once, buckling my knees, though I caught myself.
I needed to eat before I took one more step. I hoped, with tears stinging my eyes and a shaky smile on my face, that the child in my womb would eventually meet the man I’d fallen in love with. I unwrapped a loaf of French bread, tore off a piece, then dipped a few bites in the bowl, soaking up the broth. What if Jude never returned? What if his mind was gone for good even if his body did heal?
Shaking dismal thoughts away, I poured a bowl of broth and joined George in the bedroom. George had cleaned Jude’s upper body and was now opening one of his clenched fists. A frown marred George’s face as he glanced up at me.
“What’s wrong?” I set the bowl on the dresser by the window.
“He has something in his hand. His fist is clenched so tight. Strange. The rest of his body is relaxed, but somehow he’s managed to keep his fist like a vise.”
I moved around and peered over the bed as George opened his fingers, one by one, pulling something from his palm I never thought to see again.
“My necklace!”
Actually, the chain was gone. But Jude had somehow found my opal pendant—his first gift to me—and kept it hidden within his clenched fist. I lifted it from his unfurled fingers, which finally relaxed, then quickly flipped over the opal to read the inscription on the back.
Mea luna in tenebris. My moon in the darkness.
I choked on a half laugh, half sob. “How in the world did he find it?”
“Where was it last?” George’s stern tone and gaze darkened as he stared at the object.
“In the Void. The chain broke. I thought it was gone forever.”
“Jude found it. And managed to train his body not to let go. He must’ve been holding it the whole time.”
“But how?”
“Give it to me.”
I frowned, wanting to pull away and refuse, but something in George’s manner told me not to disobey. I handed it to him. He flipped it over to examine the opal, whose bluish-purple markings mirrored that of the moon. A hairline crack divided the opal in half. I didn’t care that it was damaged. I was so happy to have it back, but now George’s odd silence had the hairs standing up on the back of my neck.
“What’s wrong?”
“There is essence of evil in this object. Entity spawn.”
“Entity spawn?”
I couldn’t believe it. This was the most subtle of demon creations, but in my mind the most sinister. It could work it’s dark magic on humans without anyone ever knowing, not even the one infected by the spawn.
Face drawn tight, he asked, “This is from Jude, you say?”
“Yes. And it’s definitely mine. The inscription on the back proves it.”
“I need to take it with me. I’ll have Uriel take a look and see if he can identify who might’ve put their essence here. Sometimes spawn leave a trail or aura that we can follow.”
“But why would a demon put their essence in an object floating in the Void?”
George didn’t answer, his full focus on the opal as he rubbed his thumb over the fissure dividing it. “I’ll try to get more answers. In the meantime, you don’t want it near you or him until it’s been purged of the essence and cleansed.”
He was right, of course, though some part of me wanted to reach out and snatch it away from him. I’d just gotten it back, and my heart had broken the day I’d lost it, tumbling through the Void with Thomas.
“How could a demon’s essence get inside it?” I couldn’t understand how my beloved possession was lost, only to find it in the palm of Jude’s hands. And now to discover it had an entity spawn tainting it.
“It’s been floating through the Void,” said George. “No telling who picked it up. I’ll bring it back to you,” he said, tucking the object into the pocket of his coat hanging over the back of a chair. “But for now”—he rolled his sleeves up higher and pulled the first aid kit closer—“we have more important work to do.”
I stood closer to help George in any way I could, but my thoughts drifted back to the opal I’d lost the night I’d made the mistake of kissing Thomas. I never thought to get that beloved possession back. Refocusing my attention on Jude, I decided I’d worry about that tomorrow. Right now, Jude needed me. And I needed him. The rest of the world could wait.
Chapter Twelve
“Try to get some rest,” said George, winding up the stitching thread and placing it back into Jude’s first aid kit.
Not your ty
pical kit. Rather than Band-Aids and aspirin, there were such things as stitching needles and casting plaster. George closed it, and we both looked at his patient.
It had taken hours for him to meticulously stitch every gash too large or wide to heal on its own. He wanted me to leave and rest in the front room by the fire, but I couldn’t. Though Jude had never fluttered an eyelid or twitched a finger, I couldn’t leave his side for a second. I think George didn’t want me watching. I’d seen where parts of Jude’s flesh had been ripped out altogether. The stitches puckered the skin tight. I knew there would be many ugly scars on his body, and I didn’t care.
The most difficult feat was changing the bloody sheets, which Jude’s seeping wounds had soiled. Flipping him to one side, then the other, George and I managed to get the job done without too much difficulty. It was worth it to rid myself of the shocking evidence of his suffering.
Seeing him now, covered to his waist, the lamplight casting a soft glow on George’s handiwork, Jude seemed at peace. George had matched the lines of the Celtic cross tattoo as best he could. Entwined by thorny vines and now slashed with scars, Jude’s flesh was an example of the true pain of sacrifice. He’d sacrificed himself for me. And look what had become of him. It should’ve been me. I’d be dead by now if I’d been in Danté’s hands. Truly dead. Wiped from the existence of any and all dimensions.
“Genevieve.”
“What?” I snapped my attention to George.
He picked up his designer trench coat and slipped into it, combing a hand through his disheveled hair before piercing me with a look. “Get some sleep. That’s an order.”
I gave him my best version of a smile. “I’ll try.”
He glanced at his silver watch. “It’ll be morning soon anyway. I’ll be back midday.” He walked around the bed and took me by the shoulders. “You did it.” The gratitude shining in his eyes made me want to cry again. He pulled me into a tight hug. “Good girl. Please rest. If he wakes, contact me immediately.”
“I will,” I muttered into the shoulder of his coat.
He pulled away and gazed at Jude’s still figure one last time before he marched through the front room, opened the door and banged it closed. Though Jude had been away for some time, the wards he’d mounted around our little cottage still held so strong, not a soul could sift in or out. I ambled to the door and bolted it tight, tucking the little towel at the bottom to keep the blistering cold from seeping in.
After stoking the fire in the den and adding another peat log, I stroked the top of Mira’s head. Her eyes closed. She never moved, accustomed to my quiet attentiveness. Making my way back into the bedroom, I added two peat logs to the fire, and returned to Jude’s side.
Flat on his back, unmoving, the only hint he was still alive was the slow rise and fall of his bruised and stitched chest. I bit my lip, refusing to have another breakdown. Though I finally had him safe in our cottage, he was still so very far away.
I pulled the layer of quilts up over his chest and tucked the covers around his torso, letting his arms lay atop the quilt. I brushed his black hair away from his face.
“Jude…please open your eyes.”
Yearning for him to look on me with that familiar spark of fire in his golden gaze, I touched his face again, brushing my fingertips across his high cheekbone, trailing down the sharp angle of his jaw, drifting to the cleft in his chin. I kissed my forefinger’s tip and pressed it to the dimple there as I so often had done in the past, a playful gesture he endured only from me. Jude wasn’t the playful kind of guy. Too much darkness in his world. But when we were alone, he often let his carefree spirit rise to the surface. I wanted to see that man again—strong, courageous and ready to conquer the world.
“Rest now,” I said. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
I’d have to find a way to wash his hair for him tomorrow. It lay dirty and matted where the whip must have caught him on the back of the skull—dried blood proved the wound had closed on its own. I wanted to wipe away as much of that dismal place as I could. One eye was still swollen shut, one cheek still purple and bruised.
I walked over to the dresser and pulled out a pair of flannel pajama pants, opened another drawer and pulled out one of his T-shirts. From habit, I put it to my face and inhaled his scent—faint but still there—then slipped it on before climbing into bed next to him.
Not wanting to hurt him but yearning to be near, I rolled on my side and wrapped my hand over his bicep. Warm. His body was so warm. Gazing at his sharp profile in the lamplight, I wished with all my heart that he’d roll over and tease me for worrying so much or be angry at me for risking harm by going after him, or that he’d love me to sleep and whisper in my ear that I owned his heart. I wished that he’d hold me tight until I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep and awoke to him cooking me breakfast in the morning, saying sexy remarks that would make me blush.
But he didn’t. Wherever he dwelled inside his mind, he wasn’t aware of where he was now, that he was safe. I curled my fingers around his arm a little more and lay my cheek against his shoulder. He never moved.
“Please wake up, Jude. We just found each other, and I can’t…” A tear slipped. “I can’t do this alone.”
No movement. No sign of life whatsoever.
“I’m a selfish coward, really, if you want to know the truth. Yes, I went to hell and back to get you…but it’s because I’m incapable of going on without you. And now there’s—”
I remembered an article I’d read that coma patients can still hear what’s going on around them, and thought better of the confession that nearly slipped from my lips. I wanted him conscious for the news that he was going to be a father.
“There’s something important I need to tell you.” I burrowed my cheek into the pillow, pressing my lips to his shoulder. “Please come back to me, Jude. Please.”
Unable to hold it in any longer, I wept silently. The heartache, like a gaping wound inside of me, reopened as if I’d just watched him leap into Lethe’s arms. I had his body, but had Danté already destroyed his soul? The fear that I’d been too late, that I’d condemned him to this comatose state forever because I’d listened to the lies of Thomas, stabbed me in the heart.
Thomas. Did he know Jude could and probably would be found and taken prisoner by Danté in the underworld? Was that his plan the whole time?
Fury, bright and hot, lanced through me. I loosened my grip when I realized my fingers dug into Jude’s bicep. Not that he responded to my touch. Another slap in the face. Jude had made me feel like the only woman on earth, the way he responded to my touch. With a deep groan or heavy sigh, he’d pull me tighter and make me feel as if nothing else mattered. But that Jude was still gone, no matter that I’d brought him back from that den of torture. He was still gone from me.
I forced my eyes closed. George was right. I needed to rest. Jude needed me strong and alert. I couldn’t be the weak girl seeking his constant protection as I had been in the beginning. I needed to be the one to protect him, to nurture and help him heal. He was a lost ship wandering a wide, distant sea. I needed to be his lighthouse in the dark, to guide him home.
“Don’t worry, Jude,” I said, pressing another kiss to his shoulder. “I’ll be stronger than ever. For both of us.”
It’s funny what paths change the course of your life. Take one, and you might be just fine, drifting through the world with a normal job and a normal life, dreaming your normal dreams of a blissful future. But take another, where a man with fire in his eyes and steel in his touch leads you down a perilous path with him, and the world is exactly as it always should’ve been. Come hell or demons or death or the end of the fucking world, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. He was my world. And the grief and pain and loss churning in my breast for what had happened to him, to us, would never make me regret choosing him.
Never.
Chapter Thirteen
I’d hardly slept for thirty minutes at a time until I finally pulled myself out of
bed before dawn. Stoking the fires, which had died down to glowing embers, I busied myself as best I could. I carefully inspected Jude’s dressings and stitches. George had covered a horribly mutilated part of his back with patches of gauze over his crisscross hatching of stitches. A normal human would’ve needed skin grafts to help this wound heal faster, as some of the flesh had been taken off. Danté had abused without end the part of his full-back tattoo bearing the face of St. Michael the Archangel.
The second my mind drifted to a vision of Jude bound between the iron posts being whipped and beaten relentlessly under the hate-filled lashes of Danté, I wanted to vomit. Struggling to wipe the image from my mind, I set to washing his hair.
In order to keep the sheets somewhat dry and clean, I propped his neck up with a rolled towel and an empty bowl underneath his head. I shampooed and rinsed half of his head at a time. It took forever. I combed through his dark locks, then set about shaving the shaggy beard that had grown in his time away. Once the job was carefully done, I admired his beautiful face. Though more stark and lean, it was the face I knew and loved. Yet he gave no sign he was aware of my presence. I tried not to think what that might mean. At least he was breathing.
I set about making myself some breakfast. Mira had gone out for her own along the beach. I’d taken my shower and dressed in jeans and a Loyola University sweatshirt, then slipped on my black-and-gold fuzzy Saints socks, and was brewing a pot of coffee when the door swung open. In stepped George, Kat and Uriel and a whirl of blustering snow. A frigid storm of ice and snow had swept up on the island overnight.
“Good morning,” said George.
Kat bounded across the small room and wrapped me in her arms. “Thank God you’re okay.”
I hugged her too, knowing how much she’d worried I’d never return. She pulled back and scanned my face and neck. “You didn’t get a scratch, did you?”
“I’m fine.”
Uriel—all golden-hued, his glorious wings tucked against his back—greeted me with a nod. “I’m glad to see you safe, Vessel. I’d like to check on our patient.”
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