Page 78 of Forging Darkness
Thorne throws a frustrated glance over his shoulder toward the rising shouts of Fallen and Forsaken from the training grounds. Sounds like a brawl has broken out.
“I have to deal with that, but I’ll be back quickly. Don’t move.”
“Is that a joke?” I snap.
“No,” he growls, his agitation growing with every second. There’s a shriek from somewhere outside. “I have to assert order or things will go sideways quickly.”
“They haven’t already?” Another wet cough wracks my frame, and a colorful curse word leaves Thorne’s mouth.
“I’ll send up a healer. You’re a mess.”
None of the cuts on my body are as deep as the gashes the Fallen carved into my thigh in the arena, but there are so many open wounds, not to mention internal damage. Thank goodness angel-borns are tough to kill.
“Yeah, thanks for that.”
He winces before spinning on a heel and dashing for the giant opening in his room, not bothering to seal the shutters. We both know I’m not going anywhere in this state.
Everything from the waist up hurts. From the waist down I only feel an occasional tingle, which tells me my spine is trying to heal itself. Once it knits back together, the true agony will begin. From the angle of my leg, I can tell my knee is out of joint. I want to pass out before I regain feeling, but my agony rides the edge—keeping me awake and sharp, but not strong enough to tip me into oblivion.
This is going to be so bad.
Ghost pains race up and down the backs of my legs as the stones on the wall to the right of the bed groan and grind. A section of the wall depresses, revealing another secret door in Thorne’s room.
Through the doorway steps a female Forsaken. Her dark red hair hangs in greasy clumps that fall around her face and down the back of her head and shoulders.
The thought that I should be worried about being so vulnerable in front of a Forsaken passes through my mind, but dissolves as I continue to watch her in silence.
Keeping her head bent, she shuffles into the room. Something is wrong with her gait, almost as if she’s dragging her left foot along after each step.
She’s carrying a silver tray with various jars and cloths on it. Stopping at the edge of the bed, she mumbles, “Master sent me to tend your wounds.” She’s so short that the mattress rises to the bottom of her chest. She has to be a whole foot shorter than me.
“Master? Thorne makes you call him ‘Master’?” Revulsion sours my stomach. If Thorne is trying to put his best foot forward, he’s bombing today.
The Forsaken hunches her shoulders, bringing her height down another inch or two, and doesn’t respond. She gestures to the items piled on the tray, most likely asking for permission to start. I nod that it’s okay, but since she’s staring at the ground, she doesn’t see me.
“It’s fine.”
Reaching out with her skeletal hand, she dips a clean cloth in a bowl of water, then starts the task of mopping the blood off the exposed parts of my body. Her arms are like flesh-encased twigs, all bony angles and lean muscle striations. Black veins are visible through her paper-thin skin. Only bits and pieces of her face peek through her curtain of rusty tangles.
Considering her hair color and height, she must be in a human body.
“Thorne told me he doesn’t allow Fallen to take human vessels.”
Her hands stop for a moment before resuming their efficient work. She finishes cleaning off half my upper chest and one whole arm, then carefully picks up her supplies and shuffles to the other side of the bed, where she starts working again.
I want to keep questioning her, but the pain in my lower body ramps up and I have to grit my teeth to stop myself from yelling out. Buried in a sea of agony, I don’t notice when the Forsaken finishes her task and moves on to the next one. As she dabs a thick warm salve on each of the cuts, the pain lessens. By the time she’s moved to my legs—finding more than enough exposed injuries through rips in my pants—enough of me is numbed that I come back into my right mind.
The pile of red-soaked cloths continues to grow the longer she tends to me. I don’t know how it’s possible she isn’t reacting to the smell of my blood.
“This needs to be put back in place,” she rasps.
She isn’t asking for permission, but I manage a weak “Do it” just before she grabs hold of my kneecap with one hand and the bottom of my leg with the other and jerks roughly.
There’s no holding back the scream of agony that rolls up my raw throat. I feel the bone slide back into place and wish I hadn’t.
Quickly lurching to the side, I lose what little food I ate that morning for breakfast. Vomit splashes against the stone floor with a disgusting sound that makes me heave again. My throat burns against the acidic assault.
When I roll onto my back again, the Forsaken hands me a small towel that I use to wipe the throw up from my lips. Already the throbbing in my knee lessens as my supercharged body works overtime to heal my wounds.