Page 61 of A Mistake of Identity
That would be better, wouldn’t it? Than this. Than becoming nothing but a body for strangers to use. Than remembering Gabriel’s gentle hands only to feel rough ones instead.
Just sleep. Sleep and never wake up...
A crash somewhere beyond the ratty curtain.
Shouting. French and... something else? Russian? The sounds blur together, meaningless.
More crashes.
Gunfire.
Screaming.
Ellis tried to drag his mind back from the edge of oblivion. Tried to... to think.
He pulled against the cuffs weakly, attempting to sit up. To see past the shabby hospital curtains separating himfrom... from others. Others like him. He can hear them stirring, whimpering.
A voice.
A voice he knows.
But that’s... that’s not possible. The drugs. The drugs are making him hear things again. Making him hope again when hope is dead, and he should be too.
Gabriel steps into view.
No. No, it’s just another hallucination. A cruel trick of his dying mind.
But this Gabriel looks... wrong. Shocked. Angry. So angry. Real Gabriel would never look so... so devastated.
Would he?
The hallucination moves closer, rattles the cuffs at Ellis’ wrists.
“Did you...” Ellis’ voice cracks, barely a whisper. “Did you really come?”
“Yes, mon petit oiseau.” Gentle fingers brush his cheek. “Mon coeur. Je suis là.”
A shadow appears. Nika has keys that click and scrape. Then his wrists are free.
Nika vanishes, shouting orders in English and Russian, but Ellis barely notices. Gabriel’s arms are around him, real and solid and warm. Then pulling back slightly as something soft—a blanket, Alain’s doing—wraps around him.
He’s being lifted. Cradled against Gabriel’s chest like something precious. Like something worth saving.
His head finds Gabriel’s shoulder as the world starts to fade again.
If this is his final hallucination before the darkness takes him... it’s a good one.
Ellis closes his eyes one last time.
Gabriel
The steady beep of medical equipment pierced Gabriel’s consciousness. He hadn’t moved from his vigil beside the guest suite bed, one hand resting carefully between the IV lines and bruises that marked Ellis’ pale arm. Dr. Nguyen’s earlier words echoed in his mind: dehydration, malnutrition, infections, and various illegal substances that would take time to clear his system. But with proper care, she’d assured him, Ellis would recover.
Physically, at least.
The bourbon in his glass remained untouched. He couldn’t tear his gaze from Ellis’ face, peaceful now in medicated sleep. Every mark, every shadow beneath those closed eyes, every place where that already slim frame had grown gaunt fed the icy rage building in his chest.
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