Page 65 of Her Dreadful Will
The car screeched to a halt. Soleil snapped forward and backward, her skull bouncing off the headrest behind her.
She couldn’t open her eyes. They seemed to be glued shut, just as her fingers were cemented to the tooth.
The car door slammed, and then, distantly, Soleil heard something crash. Through the tether, through the window of Florence’s eyes, she saw Achan stride into the bedroom. A flick of his hand sent Zillah crashing into a corner, unconscious. Then he knelt beside the old woman, and it felt as if he were looking straight into Soleil’s own eyes. He was so beautiful, so kind, so powerful—Soleil wanted to cry, to melt before him and hold his feet and weep.
“Dear Florence,” he said softly. “Thank god you’re alive. Is anything broken?”
A fragile voice croaked, “I don’t think so.”
“Let me help you get back into bed,” Achan said. “And then I have to get my friend. She saved your life, and she’s in bad shape. Once I care for her, I’ll have a look at you, okay?”
“Sure, boy. Whatever you need to do,” said Florence.
Achan leaned in, and Soleil’s window into the room shifted to a partial view of his throat, his angled jaw, and his profile. He laid the old woman on the bed with a gentleness Soleil could sense through the tether, and then he was gone. Like Florence, she was staring at the ceiling again, alone with her ragged breath and the hum of the slow-spinning fan blades.
A sound blasted Soleil’s right ear, loud as an explosion, and she shuddered, registering a moment later that it was the car door being opened. Carebear snarled.
“Hush, boy.” Achan’s voice carried a commanding weight, the word of the alpha. “I’m helping her.”
Carebear’s snarl faded to a worried rumble.
“Soleil, you beautiful idiot, what did you do to yourself?” The pain and horror in Achan’s voice reached Soleil through the numbed glaze of her thoughts. She still couldn’t open her eyes.
Pain ripped through her fingertips as the tooth was pried loose from her grip. Once it was gone, her window into the bedroom vanished. All was black now, inky gloom pulsing with lurid green cracks like forked lightning. She felt wet stickiness dribbling along her fingers, pooling in her upturned palm.
Her body was being compacted, or gathered. She was being carried in lean arms. A voice near her face ordered, “Come with me, Cerberus. Come.”
A scratch of doggy toenails on pavement. The slam of a car door. The scrape of shoes against concrete, quickly muffled by carpet.
And then Soleil was eased onto something soft, her head propped on a pillow.
Even the sounds faded then, sinking into a swirl of disconnected words and impressions. She thought someone wiped her eyes and dabbed under her nose with a damp cloth. She felt fingertips at her temple. Some of the darkness drained away, and clarity returned to her thoughts. But still she was weaker than she’d ever been. She couldn’t manage to lift her eyelids.
“Damn. I shouldn’t have let you touch that tether,” Achan whispered. “Should have known you’d go too far and hurt yourself. This is why I’m here—because without me, you would kill yourself for them. Do you understand that? Will you let me teach you?” Warm fingers glided through Soleil’s hair, moving it back from her face.
Then a cold nose pressed against her scratched arm, followed by a sandpapery tongue.
“Nice, Cerberus,” said Achan, sighing. “Look, doggy slobber isn’t necessarily the best medicine, okay? Let me see if there’s a first aid kit stashed around here. I also have an elderly lady to reassure and a piece of trash to deal with.”
24
The darkness in Achan’s voice alarmed Soleil and gave her the strength to open her eyelids a slit. Through her lashes she saw him walking away.
A piece of trash to deal with? He must mean Zillah Dean.
Achan should call the cops and let them handle the situation.
But how would Achan rationalize his own presence here? He’d have to explain how he and Soleil had known something was wrong. Or Soleil would have to mind-flex the officers so they wouldn’t ask too many questions. That wouldn’t count as a selfish use of magic, since one of her townspeople’s lives was at stake, but Soleil doubted that she had even a shred of radiance left—certainly not enough to turn aside an inquisitive cop.
Of course, Zillah was one of the townspeople too. Soleil could have fixed her during dinner at the restaurant, but she had made the wrong decision, as usual. She had been too keen to keep her date magic-free. If she had tweaked Zillah’s will that night, would things have unfolded differently? Or would rushing the mind-flex have made it worse?
Before Soleil could tie more guilty knots into her thoughts, Achan was back, supporting an elderly woman who looked vaguely familiar. He escorted her to a chair not far from where Soleil lay immobilized.
“Florence, this is Soleil,” he said. “Your neighbor, remember? She’s a witch like me, and she saved your life today. Sit tight, and I’ll get you some water.” He disappeared again.
Neighbor?
Soleil forced her eyes open a little wider. Her lashes were gummed together in places, sticky with something dark—maybe blood? She surveyed the old woman’s floral housecoat, her wispy white hair, sagging cheeks, and bright eyes.
