Sharing Hazel: Lick of Fire

by Kallysten

  She worried her bottom lip with her teeth for a moment as she watched him, finally looking away and taking another sip of cocoa.

  “He is hurt, actually,” she said quietly. “Paul, I mean. When we talked to him, he said they’d shot him. He didn’t look well.”

  “There you go,” Paris said matter-of-factly. “Now I have to come. Unless you or Petro picked up medic training during your last mission.”

  She still wasn’t convinced, and she wasn’t shy in saying so, but Paris wouldn’t relent. One way or the other, whether he liked it or not, he was linked to Hazel, Petro and his brother. He couldn’t imagine staying home now.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Pain.

  Throbbing, burning pain.

  Paul was no stranger to pain, far from it. Almost until adolescence, he’d been sure that he was a dragon like his brother and father—and he’d been sure that the way to finally force his dragon out and shift was to jump off always increasing heights. Small bruises had been followed by a twisted ankle, a broken wrist, a broken arm, and finally both legs broken at the same time. Stuck in a wheelchair for weeks and subjected to multiple interventions from his parents, Paul had finally needed to let go of that hope. And Petro, back home on break from university, had been all too amused.

  The pain was in his leg again… but only one leg. And different from when he’d broken it. And judging from the discomfort in his forearm…

  He forced his eyes open and confirmed what he suspected: an IV line was hooked to his arm. And no, he wasn’t eleven anymore, however small and weak he might feel right now.

  “Back with us?” a woman’s voice asked near him.

  It took him a few blinks before he could manage to focus on more than his own body. He was still in his cell, he realized at once. Still on that uncomfortable cot, on top of the scratchy blanket that smelled of his own sweat. But how much time had passed?

  An IV stand was next to him, one bag half-filled with clear liquid and a second one, almost empty, hanging from it. A middle-aged woman stood next to the stand, blood speckling the front of her green scrubs. She picked the stethoscope hanging around her neck and put it in her ears, approaching the other end to Paul’s chest.

  “Relax,” she said. “Let me have a listen.”

  “It hurts,” Paul said, rasping. “My leg…”

  He shivered when the cold metal of the stethoscope found his skin.

  “I know,” she murmured, bending low. “I’m sorry. They won’t let me give you anything for the pain. Good thing you were passed out because they wouldn’t have let me anesthetize you before I pulled out the bullet.”

  The way she said ‘they’ tickled the back of Paul’s mind. She could have simply meant ‘the deputies,’ but somehow he had a feeling it was about much more than that.

  “Are you one of—”

  Although his words had been barely louder than a breath, meant for her ears only, her eyes widened with fear and she hissed, “Shut up.”

  She pulled the stethoscope away from his chest and set it over her shoulders again. She busied herself with the IV bags, replacing the one that was now empty with a full one.

  “Why?” he asked softly, never taking his eyes from her.

  She huffed and shook her head. Her lips barely moved as she spoke.

  “Not everyone is stupid enough to flaunt what they can do. Especially in a town such as this one.”

  “Not everyone works for the bad guys, either,” he retorted.

  A flash of anger crossed her face, and she pressed her lips together into a thin line. She was done with the IV and looked like she was about to leave, but she seemed to change her mind and came to stand by his heavily bandaged leg. Paul flinched when she laid a hand right on the wound.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, bracing himself against the additional pain that was bound to come.

  Except… far from increasing, the throbbing slowly tapered off until he was virtually pain free. Her power, no doubt about it. He’d never heard of a para who could heal people like she was doing, but there were so many different powers, it didn’t surprise him he didn’t know of them all. Shifters were the most well-known, maybe because they’d been the first paras to be outed to the general public. Now the ability to heal, that was something else…

  “Just checking my work,” she answered his question in a carrying voice. “Don’t put weight on that leg, it won’t support you. You’ve got an infection, so don’t take out the IV unless you have a death wish. I’ll come change it again tomorrow.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “If you see an opening, run. They didn’t want me to heal you for the long term, they just want you conscious for two more days until your execution.”

  The last word was still echoing in Paul’s mind when she walked out of his cell. A guard locked the door behind her, the metal bars ringing like toll bells. He threw a nasty look toward Paul but looked satisfied that he wasn’t a flight risk any longer, and walked away with the doctor, chitchatting with her. Paul hadn’t asked her name, he suddenly realized. He wished he had.

  “Two days,” he murmured to himself. He had two days left, and then, if the sheriff and his people had their way, he’d be dead. He wasn’t too sure what was the point of treating his wound and keeping him alive for two more days when they could have just killed him right away, or let him die, but he wasn’t exactly going to complain about it.

  ‘Run,’ she’d also said, but it wasn’t that easy. He’d had his chance, and he’d blown it. If he’d been as slim as the likelihood that he’d manage to escape again, he could have walked right through the cell bars.

  Or at least… he wouldn’t escape again on his own. But with just a little help… say, the help of a half-ton dragon shifter who could set fire to the town in one long breath…

  Half-sitting up on the bed, he looked out and listened intently. He couldn’t hear the doctor and guard chatting anymore. He didn’t know how much time he had, but he had to try.

  He reached down into his pants and held back a sigh of relief when he found the small box of matches still wedged behind the waistband of his boxers. Those amateurs hadn’t even searched him, even after he’d escaped right under their noses.

  He lost no time in drawing out a match, putting the box back in its safe place before he scratched it with his nail. He drew the flame into his palm and brought it close to his face as he started focusing. The image of the woman he’d seen with his brother jumped to the front of his mind, but he pushed it back, at least for now. He didn’t know her name—didn’t know anything about her, in fact, and this communication trick didn’t always work if he didn’t know the person well enough.

  When Petro’s image had solidified in his mind, he said his name, not daring to speak too loudly lest he’d attract the attention of the deputies.

  Immediately, an image appeared in the tiny flame, and relief flooded Paul. He’d been lucky the first time that Petro was near a functioning fireplace. This time, the flame was that of a candle, and Paul suspected it’d been lit in case he tried to contact Petro again.

  Petro was in bed in a small bedroom. And it became apparent when he jolted awake and sat up that he’d been sleeping alone. Somehow, Paul wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or saddened that the woman wasn’t there this time.

  Although he wouldn’t be able to see Paul in the flame of his candle, Petro leaned toward it and peered into the flame, frowning.

  “Paul? Tell me where you are. There are a dozen places called Freetown in—”

  “Iowa,” Paul said right way, just in case he needed to end the communication sooner than he wanted. “Right near the state line.”

  Petro’s expression relaxed ever so slightly.

  “All right. We’ll leave in the morning. We should get there day after next. Where are you being kept?”

  Two days? Paul grimaced. That was cutting it close.

  “Town jail. It’s in the sheriff’s office on the main square. There’s always at least one guard
in the building. Can’t you get there any sooner? I’ve been told they’ll execute me in two days.”

  If he’d hoped for Petro’s expression or demeanor to change at this grim piece of information, he’d have been disappointed. He might as well have told him he needed to come soon because the weathermen predicted rain. All he did was scrub a hand through his already hirsute hair.

  “Anything more specific than that?” he asked gruffly. “In two days at dawn? Midday? Sunset?”

  “I don’t know,” Paul said, gritting his teeth. Was that the sound of footsteps in the hallway or just his imagination? He lowered his voice and spoke faster. “You said ‘we.’ Who’s coming with you, then? The woman from the other night?”

  “Does it matter?” Petro asked, his voice expressionless.

  “Just curious, that’s all. She could hear me. And see me. Is she like me? I mean, her powers.”

  The gleam in Petro’s eyes when he grunted, “She’s nothing like you” was all too familiar. That was what he’d always looked like when they were growing up whenever the topic of tattoo mates came up. And if nothing else, it confirmed what Paul had wondered about.

  “It’s Hazel, isn’t it?” he murmured, talking past the sudden tightening of his throat. “You’ve found her.”

  Before Petro could reply, a voice rang out from just out of sight.

  “Who are you talking to, freak?”

  Just as Paul closed his hand, extinguishing the flame in his palm, the sheriff deputy reappeared outside the cell. He had his thumbs hooked behind his belt, his right hand on the side rather than in front, close to his gun.

  “To God,” Paul replied without hesitation. He’d been asked this same question before in similar circumstances, and trial and error had proved that this was the best possible answer. No one ever challenged it. “I was just praying. Will you pray with me, officer?”

  The man’s mouth twisted into a savage smile. “Do you think God has nothing better to do than listen to freaks?”

  Paul managed to smile pleasantly despite the churning anger in his gut.

  “No, officer, I just think that I have nothing better to do than talk to Him, seeing how I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

  Rummaging through the desk that stood across from the cell, the officer barked out a laugh. When he came closer to the bars again, he had a pack of cigarettes in hand.

  “Damn right about that,” he sneered. “You’re not getting out until sunset in a couple of days. But don’t get too excited, you won’t go far even then.”

  He was still chuckling when he walked away, presumably proud of himself for this not-quite threat. Let him laugh, Paul thought to himself. He’d just told him exactly what he needed to know.

  He waited until he’d heard a door close down the hallway. If the officer was off to smoke a cigarette, then Paul had a few more minutes to talk to his brother.

  Except that, when he lit up a second match—only one left after this one—and spoke Petro’s name, there was no answer, no image forming in the tiny flame in his palm. It looked like Petro had walked away from his candle.

  “Fuck,” Paul breathed. He laid his head back down on the pillow and started to close his hand again. He’d just wasted one of his precious matches.

  Unless…

  He sat up abruptly enough that his leg gave a twinge of pain. Not fully healed then, but he’d worry about that later. For now, he needed to clear his mind and focus.

  He tried to recall as precisely as he could what Hazel had looked like, sitting on that couch then kneeling by the fire. The shape of her face, the way her braids swung lightly when she moved. He tried to recall the exact sound of her voice, the worry in her eyes for him—a stranger!—when he’d explained he’d been captured. And then he thought of her name, of the elegant curves of it on his own skin, how they were just a little different from Petro’s.

  Then he said softly, “Hazel. Can you hear me?”

  He said her name again, but the flame remained void of any images. Paul let out a quiet sigh. Of course. It’d been too much to hope—

  “Paul? Is that you?”

  The words were tentative, almost wary, but it was her voice, all right. Hazel’s voice. His mate… or was she?

  “I can’t see you,” he blurted out, and at once wanted to kick himself. As though seeing her was the most important thing right now! He only needed to tell her—

  “Just a minute,” she said, a little more assured. “Let me find…” Her voice changed a little, suddenly more distant, and he immediately understood why: she was talking to someone else. “Do we have any candles?”

  So… she could hear him even though she wasn’t near a burning flame? The realization left him speechless. Never before had he managed to talk to someone like this when there was no fire close to them. But Hazel… she’d heard him even when he was trying to talk to someone else, she’d seen him in the flames, and now she could speak to him even without a flame on her end…

  He’d had at the back of his mind the vague thought that he needed to ask her if by any chance his name was tattooed on her skin, but he didn’t need to, did he? Who else but his mate would be able to do these things?

  Her delicate features soon appeared in the small flame in his hand. Her tentative smile vanished right away.

  “Are you crying?” she asked urgently. “What’s wrong? Did they hurt you?”

  Paul’s face flushed in embarrassment and he quickly passed his free hand over his cheeks, wiping away tears he hadn’t even realized were falling.

  “Not crying,” he said even though it was obvious he was lying. “And I’m okay. Better than I was last time we talked.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she peered toward him.

  “Is that an IV attached to your arm? Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “They had a doctor look at me,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, but it didn’t last long seeing what he had to say next. “Not to heal me, just to keep me alive for a bit longer. They’re going to execute me in two days at nightfall. I told Petro it’d be in two days, but I didn’t know when exactly and I couldn’t reach him again, so I thought I’d try to reach you and tell you because he said you were coming to help me, so I wanted to thank you because that’s really kind of you seeing how we’ve never even met and—”

  “Breathe,” she cut in with a small smile. “And you’re welcome.”

  His face felt so hot, it was a wonder he wasn’t self-combusting. He was babbling like an idiot and making a fool of himself in front of her! He’d never been shy with girls, not a single day in his life, and now that he’d found Hazel he sounded like a kid in front of his first crush. What was wrong with him?

  “I’ll tell Petro about the deadline,” she said. “We just needed to know where—”

  “Iowa. I already told him.”

  She nodded. “All right. Good. We’ll be there on time. We’ll get you out of there, okay?”

  Even as Paul nodded, movement next to Hazel caught his attention. He’d been unable to take his eyes off her since she appeared in the flame, but now he could see a man standing next to her. A bare-chested man, tall, dark-skinned, with his arms crossed in front of him and a short goatee framing his lower face. A man who wasn’t Petro.

  “What is he saying?” the man asked.

  When Hazel half-turned to him to reply, Paul wanted to demand that she turn back to him and let him look at her some more. Who was this guy? Why was he with her right now, at night, instead of Petro?

  Did that mean…

  He’d wondered over the years what it meant that he and his brother both wore the same name on their wrists. He’d asked their parents, and their best guess had been that they’d fall in love with two women who happened to have the same name. But Petro, with his repeated warnings and glares, had made it clear that he believed there was only one Hazel for them—and that when it came to it, she’d choose him over Paul. After all, what woman would choose someone with a useless power like Paul’s
when she could have a dragon shifter instead?

  Paul had hoped his parents were right, but deep down he’d worried that Petro was. What he’d never considered, however, was that both he and Petro might have to compete with someone else.

  As Hazel returned her full attention to him, a new certainty rose inside Paul and he just had to ask.

  “Hazel? How many mate tattoo names do you have on your wrist?”

  It was her turn to blush, and in the fire it gave her complexion a glowing golden hue.

  “Three,” she murmured, not quite looking straight at him anymore.

  “One of them is mine?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

  She looked up again and gave a slight nod.

  “And one is Petro’s,” he continued, and this time didn’t wait for her nod. “And the last one…”

  “His name is Paris,” she said, inclining her head slightly to one side as though to indicate the man near her. “He’ll be coming with us to help you, too.”

  Despite everything, despite the dire situation he was in and the almost miraculous way he was talking to his mate after hoping to meet her for so long, Paul felt a grin push to his lips. In the flame, Hazel grinned too and rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

  “No, not like the city,” she said, anticipating what he’d been about to say. “Like the Greek prince in the Iliad.”

  Vague souvenirs of school and literature classes rose to the surface of his mind.

  “Like the Greek prince that stole another man’s wife?”

  Her grin turned a little wistful.

  “That’s exactly what Petro said. I guess you two really are brothers, huh?”

  “And I’m guessing he’d never told you he had a brother called Paul with your name on his wrist.”

  Was that sadness now creeping up in her eyes? Shit. First conversation he had with his mate, and already he was hurting her.

  “I didn’t mean—” he started, but cut himself short when a door banged shut somewhere down the corridor. “Someone’s coming,” he whispered urgently. “I’ve gotta go.”