Page 81 of Close Quarter
"Why not?" One hand gripped the edge of the bench; the other was still wrapped around his sword. "You can heal them."
True. And he would, if needed. He could heal Silas too, if he put his mind to it. He glanced at Silas's sword. "Why don't you put that thing away?"
Silas's bark of laughter bared his teeth.
"Because if I do, I won't be able to draw it again for some time. It's not an effortless task, you know."
Rhys didn't know. How could he? Silas's memories were there, yes, but they were visions and emotions. Nothing practical. He wanted to reach for Silas but couldn't decide if that was to comfort or to shake him.
If Silas had only listened, if he hadn't returned to face Anax-bastard, he'd be well.
Around Rhys, life shifted and groaned as it made its way to Silas. "The sword is important. You should take better care of it."
Silas leaned back onto the bench. "Ultimately it's just a sword. Important to me, yes." He laid the blade down next to him. "But there are worse things to lose."
Rhys chewed on his tongue. Pressure built in his heart, in his head.
"I meant what I said, Rhys." Quiet words.
Everything burst. "Then why do you keep trying to get yourself killed?" Rhys spun about, looking for something, anything to grab and throw.
Nothing. He slapped his hands against his thighs.
"Why don't you listen to me? Why don't you ask for help?" His words echoed up to the glass roof of the garden. Palms swayed out of sync with the rhythm of the ship.
Then silence descended around them, but for the hum of the ship.
Silas shifted on the bench and rubbed his side. "I could ask you the very same set of questions."
Rhys turned on his heel and walked away, through the garden and toward the doors that led outside. White-hot fury haloed his vision. The joints of his finger ached nearly as much as his head. It wasn't until he stepped outside and reached the railing of the ship's deck on the other side of the garden that he realized why--he had balled his hands so tight for so long that his fingers had locked in place.
He massaged his fingers and stared out at the night sky.
Damn it all to hell. He grasped for anger but found it flaming out, leaving cold despair in its wake.
"There are worse things to lose."Silas's words seemed to linger on the sea breeze, as if it were those soft words that ruffled Rhys's hair, stung his eyes.
He didn't want to lose Silas. But he was going to lose Silas, either to the vampires or Silas's own death wish. He leaned over the railing as exhaustion seeped up his legs. What the hell was he going to do?
"Mr. Matherton?" Vasil's voice was soft, almost reverent.
Rhys lifted his head and pushed off from the rail. The waiter stood by the door to the garden.
"Are you all right?"
Rhys nodded. It was a lie, but one not spoken.
Vasil glanced at the sea, then back. "I..." He rubbed his shoulder. "I've finished up. Cleaning."
Rhys nodded again.
Wind whipped the collar of Vasil's uniform.
He inhaled. "I can't imagine what has happened to you and Mr. Quint. But I do know that he'd move the world for you. You should know that."
"I don't want the world moved for me." His voice sounded alien in his ears. Too broken. The sea spray must have kicked up. He tasted salt water on his lips.
"Of course not," Vasil said. "You want to move it for him."
