Page 56 of Fat Sold Mate
She floors the accelerator before the door is fully closed, tires spitting gravel as we fishtail onto the road. In the side mirror, I glimpse our pursuers breaking from the tree line, their howls of frustration fading as Ruby pushes the old truck to speeds it was never designed to reach.
“You're hurt,” she says, eyes flicking between the road and my bloodied torso.
“I'll heal,” I manage, though the burning spreading from the bite suggests otherwise. Shifter healing is remarkable, but corruption is something else entirely—a magical infection that our bodies aren't equipped to fight.
Ruby drives like a woman possessed, taking back roads seemingly at random, doubling back occasionally to ensure we've lost pursuit. I focus on breathing through the pain, watching the darkness that edges my wounds slowly spread like ink in water.
“Something's wrong,” Ruby says finally, glancing at my shoulder where the bite marks now surround a patch of skin mottled with black corruption.
“Just need time,” I lie, knowing full well this isn't a normal injury. The burning has intensified, spreading down my arm and across my chest in a network of black lines visible beneath my skin.
Ruby pulls over abruptly, a roadside turnout hidden from the main highway by a stand of pines. Before I can protest, she's out of the driver's seat and circling to my side, pulling open the door to examine me properly in the dome light.
“James,” she breathes, horror evident in her voice as she traces the air above the corruption without touching it. “This isn't healing. It's spreading.”
The concern in her eyes cuts deeper than any physical wound. “It's fine,” I insist, though we both know it's not. “We need to keep moving.”
“Not until I fix this,” she says with surprising firmness. “I've seen this before—in Sera's journal. It's how the corruption spreads.”
Before I can argue, she's retrieving her pack from the backseat, pulling out the leather-bound journal with urgent purpose. I watch as she flips through pages, her expression transitioning from worry to focused determination.
“Here,” she says finally. “A cleansing ritual. Smaller version of the main counter-ritual, designed for early-stage corruption.”
“Will it work?” I ask, the burning now crawling up my neck toward my jaw.
“It has to,” she says simply.
Ruby works quickly, clearing the truck's bench seat to make room, positioning me in the center. She pulls out her mother's grimoire as well, cross-referencing something between the two books with a concentration that momentarily transcends our situation.
“I need to channel energy into you,” she explains, setting the books aside. “Draw out the corruption before it spreads further.”
“You can do that?” I ask, remembering her failed attempts at magic back at Sera's cabin.
“I have to try,” she repeats, meeting my gaze with steely resolve. “The ritual requires... physical contact. Skin to skin.”
Something shifts in her expression—uncertainty warring with determination. Through our bond, I feel her conflict, her reluctance to initiate the kind of intimate contact that led to our night in the cave.
“Ruby,” I begin, not sure what I'm going to say.
“It's fine,” she cuts me off. “It's just magic. Just a ritual. It’s what I was born to do.”
In that moment, to me—despite everything, her trembling, her fear, her uncertainty—she has never seemed so powerful.
She positions herself on the seat beside me, close enough that her thigh presses against mine. “I need to touch the infection directly,” she explains, her clinical tone belied by the flutter of pulse I can see at her throat.
I nod, unable to form words as she places one palm directly over the bite on my shoulder, the other over my heart. The contact sends a jolt through our bond, awareness sharpening between us like a live wire suddenly completing its circuit.
“Clear your mind,” Ruby instructs, her voice steadier than I expected. “Focus on the connection between us. Let it open.”
I do as she asks, closing my eyes and concentrating on the bond that hums between us, always present but rarelyacknowledged. It responds immediately, pulsing stronger with each heartbeat, growing from a thread to a rope to a current that flows between us.
Ruby begins to chant, words in a language I don't recognize flowing from her lips with surprising confidence. Her hands warm against my skin, the heat building not just physically but through the bond itself, like sunlight spreading through my veins.
The corruption fights back, a cold burning that clashes with Ruby's warmth. I grit my teeth against the pain, focusing on her voice, on the connection between us that strengthens with each word she speaks.
Through half-closed eyes, I watch in astonishment as her hands begin to glow—a soft amber light that matches her eyes, seeping into my skin where the corruption spreads. The black lines recede slowly, drawn toward her touch like poison being extracted from a wound.
The bond between us flares brighter, stronger than it's ever been, and suddenly I'm aware of Ruby in a way that transcends physical proximity. I feel her determination, her fear, her strength—and beneath it all, a current of something deeper, something neither of us has been willing to name.
