Page 28 of Awry
I’m seriously testing the coziest offerings among the limited items I stuffed into my suitcase for this trip.The silk robe and anything that isn’t size adaptive is pretty much useless.Presh is able to cinch the waist of the sweatpants enough that they don’t fall down, but she still has to roll up the cuffs.My only pair of hand-knit merino-and-cashmere-wool socks are too large, but she just pulls them on and hums contentedly.I go barefoot.
Had I had any inkling that I was about to be caught up in a knowing involving shifters, I might have packed more oversized sweaters.Or a gun and some silver shot.Not that I own any sort of weapon, and not that the pistol I took off Chains even worked on Breaker in berserker mode.But I had followed the impulse to drive down the coast without thinking much about it.
Ironically, if I had planned it out, I would have booked a flight instead.I could blame it on my inheritance still settling in.Except that abruptly fleeing the city, or the country for that matter, isn’t all that out of the ordinary for me.
I once wandered into the airport and randomly caught the next international flight to depart, finding myself flying to New Zealand, then living there for over six months with only my backpack, passport, and the clothing I was wearing.There had ultimately beenreasonsfor that trip — a milder version of the knowings that grab hold of me far more strongly now.But I wasn’t one to dwell on the past.Or even luxuriate in the present, really.So when I needed to leave New Zealand, I did, almost as abruptly as I’d arrived.
Presh curls her warm fingers around my wrist, and I realize I’ve been standing in the middle of the bathroom for so long that all the steam has faded from the air and cleared from the mirror.
“Do you want … to sit down?”She tugs on my arm a little.
I shake my head.“Not yet.”Once I sit, I know I’m not getting back up.
I not-so-carefully repack the suitcase with everything I’ve pulled out except the rest of the healing patches.I wipe the drain and pull out any loose hair I can find, using a washcloth that I’ll add to the pile of wet clothing at the front door.I’m hoping we’ve both washed off the last of the blood, but the tub is going to need to be bleached.
“Rath will look after it,” Presh says, her tone gentle as if she knows I’m barely holding the newly gathered pieces of myself together.
“Did you …” I frown.I might have lost time between the door and the shower.“Text him?”
“Yes.Right away.”
She tugs at my hand again, and this time I allow her to pull me to the bed nearest the door.But I don’t sit down until I’ve bundled all the discarded clothing and used towels in one larger towel, knotting it at the corners.It will need to be burned to be really safe.Fire destroys essence residual, along with blood and DNA.
“Can we sit?”Presh asks, utterly exhausted.
“Yes.I’m just going to check your patches.Are they still working?”
“Still tingly?”
“Yes.”
She nods, letting me check the patch on her hip, then perching on the edge of the bed.I can reach the others while she’s sitting.
“Healing,” I say, pleased to confirm that she isn’t resistant to magecraft.At least not beneficial craft.A good thing, in this case.An issue to tackle in the near future, for all other cases.The patches are the work of a powerful healer, though, and Presh in her current unawakened state wouldn’t draw the attention of a mage of that caliber even if placed directly in her path.
I’m adept at steering people’s paths.Usually.
“Thank you.”
“Do you want to lie down?”I ask.
“Will you?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll stay up with you.”
I sit, finally, on the edge of the bed facing the door.I tuck Presh on the side next to the wall, which makes it easier to shield her with my body but not as easy for her to run.“You roll back,” I say.“If someone comes through that door you don’t recognize, you roll back and drop between the beds.”
She nods.
Remembering Rath’s final directive, I reach around her and pass my hand under the side table.I find the gun — a lightweight energy weapon of some sort, not projectile.Wrapping my fingers firmly around the grip and keeping it pointed away from Presh, I yank it free from the tape.It’s black, snub-nosed, and essence-fueled at best guess.Likely requiring little to no accuracy when wielded by a novice, but good for only three or four full-powered shots.
“Right,” Presh murmurs.“I’m just so tired.”
“It’s the adrenaline.And the healing patches.”
I set the gun beside me on the bed, pressed under my hand and pointed toward the door.Other than instinctively using what weapons come to me — when guided by a knowing — I’ve never trained to handle guns of any sort.I have a feeling I should pass the weapon to Presh.A feeling that despite being easily fourteen years younger than me, she has the experience I lack.Except she snuggles into me, tucks her arm around my bicep, threads her fingers through mine, and sets her head on my shoulder.
