Page 66 of Darkness Bound (Night Prowler 5)
But when he opened his hand to scrape away the remains, there was nothing there but a fine grit of sand, blown in by the wind.
Hawk was pressing something to her lips.
Jack cracked her eyes open to find him kneeling beside her, holding a small cup to her mouth. It was morning; sun slanted in brilliant yellow beams across the floor and walls behind him.
“Drink,” he said, his gravel voice gentle. “It will make you feel better. It has something special for the pain, and strong healing agents.”
Too weak to argue, she opened her lips and swallowed the thick liquid, wrinkling her nose at the pungent stench of burnt sludge. She gagged at the taste. It was a horrid combination of scorched earth and moldy barnyard, tannic and bitter. She coughed, eyes watering.
“That tastes like ass!” she protested, her voice as weak as the rest of her.
“There she is.” He smiled a crooked smile. “Little Mary Sunshine with a mouth like the devil’s toilet.”
“Please, that was tame.” Jack spat a wet piece of plant material—bark?—from between her lips. “I never even let you hear the best ones out of respect for your delicate nerves.”
Hawk placed the cup on a small table beside the bed and folded his arms across his bent knees. Gazing down at her, his eyes were both relieved and terribly sad. He looked as if he’d just awoken on the wrong side of a three-week bender.
“I’m all ears.” His crooked smile widened, flashing a dimple in his cheek.
Jack wondered if there was a word stronger than excruciating that might describe the throbbing, clawing misery in her back, burning fire up and down her nerve endings. Agonizing? Searing? Torturesome?
“Fucktard,” she said, through gritted teeth.
Hawk raised a brow. “That wouldn’t be aimed at me, would it?”
“Assmuncher.”
He wrinkled his nose in exact mimicry of her reaction to the potion he’d just given her. “Hmm. Now there’s a lovely visual.”
“Cockopolis.”
“I think I went there on vacation one year,” he mused. “It reminded me a lot of Vegas.”
“Dickweasel douchewaffle motherfucker cocksucker bonehead prick.”
He pursed his lips, impressed. “Anything that starts with the letters x, y, or z?”
Jack thought about it, then shook her head. “I’ll work on it, though.”
His gaze went to her back, and he sobered. “I’d ask how you feel, but I already know.” Their eyes met again, and his grew tortured. He whispered, “Jacqueline, what on Earth were you thinking?”
Ah, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Or was it the million-dollar question? She was having a wee bit of trouble focusing. The room had taken on a lovely glow, soft and soothing, and the heat in her back had cooled several degrees.
Damn, that nasty sludge was potent.
“Did you know swearing actually helps relieve pain?” When Hawk just stared at her silently, she nodded. “It’s true. I read it in Time magazine. Some psychologist did a study where people stuck their hands in a bucket of ice water. The ones who were told to curse could leave their hands in the water up to forty seconds longer than the ones who were told they couldn’t curse. Apparently swearing activates the brain’s endogenous opioids.”
“Endogenous opioids,” Hawk repeated uncertainly.
“Pain-relieving chemicals similar to drugs like morphine and oxycodone.” Jack giggled, liking the sound of the word. Ox-y-co-done. It began to repeat itself in her head, echoing softly in the background as she continued to speak. “The only problem is, the more you curse, the more tolerant you become of the opioids, so you have to curse
even more to get the same amount of relief. Isn’t that the most ironic thing you’ve ever heard?”
“Actually,” he answered quietly, reaching out to stroke a finger lightly down her cheek, “volunteering for a nasty punishment in place of someone you don’t even like and who isn’t worthy to wipe your shoes on is the most ironic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Jack considered that, closing one eye to relieve the dizziness caused by the way the room was tilting to one side. “I think we’re using the word irony in the wrong way. Like that stupid Alanis Morissette song, “Isn’t It Ironic?” None of the things she sang about were actually ironic. They were just coincidences or bad timing or total misses. I’m sorry but a black fly in your chardonnay is in no way ironic. It’s gross. And a death row pardon two minutes too late is just freaking tragic, not ironic. Right?”
She paused, liking immensely the lovely weightless sensation snaking its way through her body.
