Page 27 of Survivor
“There may be another way.” My father moved closer, the warmth of his hand tightening on my shoulder. His calloused fingers, worn from years of hard work, pressed gently against my skin. I knew he wanted to offer me comfort, but nothing could comfort me. Not his steady hand, not his quiet strength, not even the unwavering devotion that remained despite our years apart. Only Lucy opening her eyes and smiling at me would erase this ache in my heart. Only knowing she was well and whole would stop the gnawing ache I feared might consume me entirely.
“What?” I demanded. “I’ll do anything to save her,” I said, and I meant it without hesitation, even at the cost of my own life.
My father sighed, the faint lines that creased his skin deepening. “Our legends say that a Zarpazian who has shifted for his true mate holds healing power within the blood,” he explained, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper.
“What good does that do Lucy?” I snorted, almost angry that he had devolved into ideas of legend and fantasy. The sound escaped my lips before I could stop it, harsh and dismissive. I knew my father only wanted to help, but I could not bear false hope. Not now when Lucy lay so quiet and pale, death hovering in the shadows.
My father seemed stunned for a moment, and then a slow smile curved his lips. “Look at yourself, my son.” His voice was barely above a whisper, filled with a mixture of pride and disbelief.
I glanced downward, intrigued by his smile, and noticed the swathe of teal and purple scales that ran from my shoulder to thigh gone. Instead, black iridescent scales covered every inch of my body. I raised my hand, letting my fingertips trace across the edges of where color used to define my lot in life. They fluttered under my touch but remained resolutely black. I had shifted.
“H—how?”
“Don’t you know?”
My head was reeling, recalling the months of grueling, painful training I’d endured for years. The disdain of my mother and others who thought me less than. The shame I’d heaped upon myself. And now, I’d shifted without even realizing it had happened.
“The quasat hurt me,” I muttered, going over the events in my mind. “I actually thought it had killed me, but then I heard Lucy scream, and I felt... stronger somehow. All I could think about was protecting her. Shifting didn’t even cross my mind.”
In retrospect, saying I’d felt stronger didn’t do it justice. I’d felt not only stronger, but energized and different. Like a completely different being, one not concerned with foibles of a mortal warrior—invincible. The creature should have easily killed me. I’d not only matched it, I’d been its master.
There was something primal and electric coursing through my veins. My muscles tensed with a power I’d never known before, my reflexes sharper than any blade. My senses focused to an almost painful degree. What should have been my end instead became my awakening. The strength that flowed through me wasn’t just physical. It was something deeper, something ancient that had been sleeping inside me until the moment Lucy’s scream awakened it.
“It is a gift from the goddess. Lucy is your true mate.” My father’s gaze touched on Lucy, his eyes shimmering with a mixture of reverence and deep affection.
Hearing the words said aloud stunned me. Yet the truth of it reverberated through my very soul. I’d thought of Lucy as my mate for what felt like forever, but to have it blessed by the goddess herself... a wave of conflicting emotions crashed through me—profound joy intertwined with gut-wrenching fear. What if Lucy, my soul’s other half, my reason for breathing,didn’t survive her injuries? The idea was too impossible to consider.
“Do you think the legends of blood are true?” I asked softly, letting my fingers trail along the curve of her cheek. Her skin was flushed and feverish, but still impossibly soft.
“There is only one way to find out,” Vysar murmured.
Only one way to find out. Only one way to know if the goddess’s blessing infused my blood with the power to heal her. My fingers trembled as I stretched my hand toward the angry, pulsing wound. The black gunk festering along the edges of the gash seemed to bubble more intensely, as if sensing my intentions. As if it were a living, malevolent thing that knew exactly what I intended.
My heart hammered as I positioned a razor-sharp claw against my palm, ready to slice open my own flesh. For Lucy, I would give every drop that flowed through my veins. I would drain myself dry if that’s what it took to save her.
Before I could make the cut, my father’s fingers encircled my wrist, halting my desperate motion. I snapped my gaze up to his face, my heart thundering in my chest. He looked as ravaged by worry as I felt, deep lines etching his forehead, but there was something else shadowing his eyes—a profound sadness that chilled me to my core.
“Know this, my son,” his voice rumbled, deep and hoarse with emotion. “If you give Lucy your blood, it will bind you to her as surely as a claiming. She is human. The mating bond will not mean the same to her as it will to you. She may reject it, reject you.”
“And if she does?” The question escaped my lips as a broken whisper, the very idea crushing my heart with such unbearable pressure that I could barely draw breath.
“Once bound, a life lived without one’s true mate is misery,” Vysar said simply,
“Did you feel that way at all about Mother?” I knew my parents’ union had been a political mating. But I hoped there had been some affection between them, at least for a while.
The laugh that barked from my father’s lips told the truth of their mating without words. Still, he added, “Not hardly.”
I stared down at Lucy, my heart constricting painfully in my chest at the mere thought of a world without her warm presence. The ache spread through me like a cold shadow, making it hard to breathe as I contemplated a future suddenly stripped of her light.
“Even if she wants to live her life without me. She will live,” I said, my voice breaking as a vice crushed my heart. “That will be enough.”
Without another word, Vysar unsheathed a knife from his hip, the metal catching the dim light with an ominous glint. I extended my hand, watching as the blade’s sharp tip sliced through my palm. A line of blood welled up, warm and viscous, pooling in the center of my hand. I forced myself to wait, letting the precious liquid gather before gently, reverently pressing my bloodied palm against the jagged gash in her leg. The connection felt intimate and sacred. Almost immediately, the angry wound ceased its bubbling. Lucy moaned softly, the deep furrow of pain that had creased her brow finally easing like storm clouds parting.
Ceeka climbed through a nearby window, her lithe form silhouetted against the fading light. She carried a large, glistening purple leaf on which rested a pile of bright yellow mash that smelled faintly of citrus and earth. Her luminous eyes focused intently on my hand as I smeared my blood across Lucy’s wound. After a tense moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, she gave a short, decisive jerk of her head in approval, her whiskers twitching with satisfaction.
She waited with practiced patience until my blood completely covered Lucy’s wound before motioning my hand away with gentle insistence. Her furred fingers, delicate yet sure, covered the wound with yellow goop, then applied the leaf as a makeshift bandage, securing it with a vine that she wove with remarkable dexterity. Moving swiftly, she gathered soft cloths and thin furs, drenching them with cool water that dripped between her fingers as she placed them on every exposed inch of Lucy’s feverish skin, all the while chattering to my father, her voice rising and falling like a distant song.
“Ceeka says the cloths need to be re-wet every time they become warm,” he translated, his voice tight with worry. “We need to keep Lucy as cool as possible.”
