Page 143 of Roses Are Dead
He shrugged. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On how long your visit is going to take. She wants to see you.”
35
Roishin
Despite the pain and the blurry vision through my swollen eye, the marks on my hands and arms were beautiful. I held my right arm up to see the spidery red lines better.
The door opened and closed, a large, dark figure slipped in, blocking the light from the hallway temporarily. By the size, it was John or Bear. I’d asked for Bear, but could have sworn I heard John’s voice.
As he came into range, I realized it was Bear and held my hand out for him to admire. “Tattoo this.” It came out as a raspy, slurred command. I didn’t dare talk more than that because my throat and my jaw were in agony. I didn’t know what caused it—Carl or the storm, or the horrible way my whole body clenched in seizure an hour ago. But I was alive.
And I’d stay alive as long as I could.
We’d made it to the hospital, and Carl wasn’t dead yet. Which meant I couldn’t die. Not now, not soon. And certainly not before I had a chance to run my dagger through his chest.
Bear took the hand I offered and carefully turned it, but avoided the padded bandages at my wrist. The other arm had a similar dressing where the nylon cord melted deep into my skin.
I couldn’t feel that side, however.
“They look like tree roots.”
“Lightning.”
His jaw went tense. “Yeah.” Without thought, his free hand covered the hammer hanging from his neck.
“Let me see.” I couldn’t sit up, so Bear leaned close so I could finger the tiny symbol of his faith. I’d prayed to him. “Thor.”
Bear caught my hand and buried his head against the palm of it.
I whimpered a little because his grip slipped to my wrist.
He quickly corrected it and held my fingers where the lines stopped their snake-like trails with hundreds of little tendrils branching from the darker red lines that ran from my wrists.
“How far do these go?” He turned my arm carefully to check the path.
“I think everywhere.” Because everything hurt. If they didn’t travel the entire length of my body on the outside, they certainly did on the inside. Even my right foot stung like it was still on fire. Especially at the arch where I’d pressed it against the pole. That foot was wrapped. The other wasn’t, but it was a curiosity to the doctors. They’d ran instruments along the bottom, testing my reflexes.
Their words frightened me. Paralysis. Nerve damage.
It might be temporary, and it might not be. No one knew.
“That would be one hell of a tattoo.”
“Can you do it?”
His eyes met mine. His hand began to shake. Then, his head joined it. “I don’t know.” The anguish in his expression pleaded with me to not ask such a favor from him.
“I need photos so I can get it done later.”
His nostrils flared. “Woman.”
“Please?”
He blew out a breath, as if I’d asked him to give up something dear or perform a dire act.
