Page 46 of Veradel
“Saskia?” Malcolm splutters when his eyes land on my face and widen.
I release a breath. “I thought you were dead.”
He rubs his eyes, as if convinced I’m a ghost. “I thoughtyouwere dead. Is it really you? How are you here? When’s the last time you slept?”
“Slept?” I repeat, frowning at the odd question. The last time I slept was during that nightmare where I found out I’m a damned vampire, but I’m not about to tell Malcolm that. Maybe one day, but right now…
“Your eyes,” he says. “They’re bloodshot. Really, really bloodshot.”
Oh. Right. Maybe he’ll figure out I’m not a human sooner rather than later.
Malcolm’s face pinkens at my silence, and he mutters, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pointed that out. It was rude of me.”
“No, no.” I wave a hand in the air. “It’s fine. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a while.”Do my eyes really look that bad, though?
No,a rich, deep voice answers, making me jolt.
Are you eavesdropping on me, Monster?I try to tease.
Only because you sounded distressed.
I swallow a sudden lump in my throat. I only got to look at the true color of my eyes a handful of times in my life before it was ripped away from me forever.
They’re still the same eyes,Lucan says gently.Just like the sky is the same sky even when the sun begins to set. Still just as beautiful. Just a different shade.
I give a watery laugh, which makes Malcolm cock his head at me, confused. I clear my throat. “Look at us,” I say, attempting to cover it up with a quick joke. “Both still alive and well, back in our old housing unit together. Who would’ve guessed?”
At the sight of his face, though, my happiness drains away. Malcolm might be alive, but he’s not well. Both of his eyes are swollen, the purple bruises surrounding them only a few days old. Above his left eyebrow, a deep cut splits his skin, still red and inflamed and ready to bleed again at the slightest touch. And his crooked nose… definitely broken, by the looks of it.
“What happened to you?” I whisper.
Malcolm’s shoulders slump, and he backpedals to sit on the edge of his bed, massaging his bruised temples. “The sentries, of course. I swear, as soon as we started questioning the Guardians or breaking any of the other Cardinal Rules, they just seemed to multiply.”
I press my lips together, knowing time is ticking and that I really need to get to the Healing Center for that centrifuge. But Malcolm looks so broken—both physically and spiritually—that I can’t just leave him here to break apart even more.
“That requires stitches,” I say, reaching out to brush his hair back. He winces in pain. “Why didn’t you go to the Healing Center? Gaia could have helped you.”
“I don’t trust anyone. Not anymore.”
I motion to the bed, hoping that ‘anyone’ doesn’t include me. “Lie down. Let me see if I still have some extra supplies in my old room.”
When he does, I hurry across the hall to my old box of a room, the plain bed and lamp still sitting in their exact same spots as the morning of the last Choosing. My wardrobe door hangs ajar, my old uniforms and cloaks still hung up in neat rows. And when I jerk open the bottommost drawer, my few belongings rattle against each other.
I breathe out a sigh of relief. Alcohol pads, bandages, the embroidery needle from our standard-issue sewing kit, a half-used spool of thread.
Grabbing them all, I sneak back to Malcolm’s room and pull over the chair in the corner to sit beside him. “It’s going to hurt,” I tell him, not bothering to lie. He knows there’s nothing here to dull the pain.
Malcolm takes a steadying breath as I thread the needle and bend it into a crescent shape, but nods. He turns his face to the side, away from me, when I rip open an alcohol pad and sterilize the needle.
Just as it pierces his skin, he whispers through a groan, “I got your letter.”
My hand pauses briefly, but I stay quiet as I resume.
“Not long before, every screen in the city came alive with static, and the loudspeakers squealed. The feedback so intense people were covering their ears. But then it went quiet, and those statues flashed across the screen. Everything I’ve ever taught my students, a lie.” His voice cracks. “People’s loved ones frozen in time. Others’ lying in those beds about to kiss death. It kept replaying over and over on a loop. That is, until you came into view.”
Malcolm flinches when my needle pokes a little too deep. “Sorry,” I breathe, steadying my hand. “Just a few more.”
He clenches the bedsheets and mutters under his breath, “You’re right. That hurts.”
