Elei's Chronicles (Books 1-3) (41 page)

He stilled. “I shouldn’t call you anything at all.” At Cat’s questioning blue gaze, he shrugged and stood up, grabbing his cane. “You know why? Because I bet soon you’ll leave me, too.”

Chapter
Twelve

T
he aircar
was parked inside an underground garage. The cold was bitter with damp. Thin rivulets of water ran down the rough concrete walls. Elei maneuvered himself down the ladder, refusing to acknowledge the pain in his leg. He reached the ground and leaned against the ladder, groaning softly with relief.

Almost tripping over Cat, he hobbled to the only door he could see, heavy, with bolts and locks. Cat jumped on his shoulder as he stepped into a low-lit corridor. Immediately the others’ voices drifted over from a room to his left.

It was a kitchen, he discovered when he limped inside, with a long table and chairs and rooms opening to either side. Cat gave the room a bored look, then left to explore the new territory, disappearing behind an open door.

Kalaes was rummaging in the cupboards and Alendra had already unpacked a loaf of blue bread. Hera took out several bottles from a box and placed them on the table. She saw Elei and nodded.

“Sit.” She opened a drawer and took out a knife. She started slicing the bread while Alendra grabbed cups from a shelf.

He itched to ask about her past, to learn more about her, but she avoided his gaze and so did Hera.

So he sat and propped his cane against the table.

“Looks like we’re going to have a feast,” Kalaes drawled, carrying over a slab of what looked like smoked seal. He slammed it before Elei, who jerked back. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

“Most probably because you haven’t.” Hera twirled the knife in her hand and Elei wished she didn’t. Rex was having a riot in his head, sending flashes of colors jumping off every surface, making her face glow.

He focused on the meat instead, and his stomach roiled at the heavy smell. He couldn’t eat that. Sweet, he needed sweet — sugar and fruit.

And why in the hells did he crave that again?

Hera sat down across from him and Kalaes fell into the chair to his left, an arm curling around his middle, face scrunching up in pain. If his ribs were busted, that was no wonder, although Kalaes managed to hide any signs of pain most of the time.

No sooner had he thought it, when Kalaes’ face relaxed. Elei watched, fascinated, as the mask, for that was what it was, fell back into place. The creases in Kalaes’ forehead smoothed out, and he grinned, although it didn’t reach his eyes. His arm uncurled from his ribs and he reached out for a slice of bread, a slight tremor going through his hand.  

Elei snagged a piece of bread and bit into it, wondering why Kalaes acted as he did, covering up his pain, covering any weakness. Life in gangs wasn’t easy. Maybe he’d needed the ability to survive when he was younger.

Or maybe not. He had to admit Kalaes had been right; Elei knew nothing about him. Maybe growing up in a family, with a brother, had ingrained such habits in him — the too wide smile, the ease with which he now teased Alendra about eating like a mouse — a way with people that Elei lacked.

“Meat?” Hera said.

Bile rose in his throat at the smell.
Shit
. He put the piece of bread down. It wouldn’t do to throw it back up, not now.

“What’s wrong?” Kalaes asked.

But Elei only shook his head. He grabbed a cup of water and swallowed it down in one gulp, then tried to marshal his thoughts, staring into the empty cup.

This wasn’t normal. Gagging at the sight of meat, craving sugar. Rex was messing with his body again. A vague memory surfaced, of Kalaes forcing him to drink a sour potion to weaken Rex when he was at the hospital. But how could he tell if it was a memory and not a dream?

How could he tell what parts of his dreams were memory?
Damn
.

Kalaes opened a bottle. “Here, what’s this?” He sniffed it, and his eyebrows twitched up. “That’s not water.”

“What is it then?” Hera grabbed a bottle, smelled it and scrunched up her nose. “Alcohol.”

Kalaes’ grin widened. “Is it drinkable?”

“It would not be wise for you to drink now,” Hera said, pulling the bottle from Kalaes’ hands. “We are not sure the drugs are completely out of your system.”

“Give it back here,” Kalaes growled and half rose from his seat. “You don’t get to decide what I drink or don’t drink, fe.”

“I do if I’m to lug your sorry ass around afterward,” Hera said.

“I bet you like my ass.” Kalaes tilted his head to the side, braids swinging, and winked. “And I’ll drink if I want to.”

“Never been to this safe house before.” Alendra went and poked her head through a door at the other end of the kitchen. “Hot water in the bathroom?”

“It’s a class-one safe house,” Hera said, waving a hand, and put down the bottle. “Hot water is highly probable. So are clothes for us to change.”

Clothes
. Elei looked down at his ruined shirt and pants and decided to go look for a fresh change as soon as he deemed his leg was rested enough to carry his weight.

“You’re not eating, fe.” Kalaes turned to Elei, an eyebrow arching. “You’re a bag of bones, you have to eat. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Elei glared at the bread in his hand.

“He must be tired,” Hera said, biting into a piece of meat. The blood pumped in her veins, brown sugar caramel, its scent making his mouth water.

He looked quickly away. “Yeah. Listen, do we have anything sweet to eat?”

“Sweet? I do not think so,” Hera muttered, frowning. “Why? The ham is excellent and you do need protein.”

He nodded, and forced himself to eat the bread, hoping to keep it down. Rex had to know he needed to eat, right? He chewed and swallowed, trying to keep his attention on its nutty taste, not on Hera’s sugary scent, not on the imagined texture of her blood on his tongue, thick and rich.

Five hells
. This was getting out of hand. He pushed himself to his feet.

“Where are you off to?” Kalaes grabbed another bottle and brandished it like a weapon. “Sit, drink with us.”

Drink. Blood
. Elei swallowed hard and nodded toward the door he could see leading into another room. “I’ll go find the bedroom. I should check if the new stitches are holding.”

“New stitches.” Kalaes blinked. “What trouble did you get into this time?”

Not sure whether this was a joke, Elei just stared.

“Need help?” Hera asked.

“No, I’m fine.”
I need nobody’s help. I can make it on my own
. No choice really. Besides, Pelia’s words flew in his head in circles, cawing like seagulls. He wanted to check his gun again, the number, see if he made any sense of his dreams.

“Here’s the med kit,” Hera said, placing it on the table and pushing it toward him. He could see the veins pulsing in her hands, in her arms. “Call if you need anything.”

He took it without a comment, nodding his thanks. Then he grabbed his cane and limped toward the door, wincing as stiff muscles and pulling wounds protested. The bandage on his thigh definitely felt stuck, dragging on the skin and the raw edges of his injuries. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing the mess.

The room he entered was square with two narrow beds and a low table between them. An oblong window high up on a wall shed pale light on spiderwebs and yellow patches of mold on the peeling paint. He sank on one of the lumpy mattresses, allowing himself to shut his eyes for a moment and release a long breath. He dropped the med kit onto the bed.

It was quiet, broken only from the voices of the others next door, like a distant wind song, and the patter of mouse feet somewhere in the masonry.

Gods, he was tired. Of everything. Afia’s face swam up in his mind like a bright bubble and it hurt even more because she was far, too far away.

With a shiver, he rubbed his eyes and started to undress. He took off his boots and pushed down his pants, carefully peeling them off the soaked bandages. Another deep breath, convincing his stomach not to rebel at all the blood.
Get this over with
.

He unclipped and unwound the bandage that swathed his whole left thigh, steeped in shades that went from moth brown to bright fresh crimson. Blood had seeped down to his ankle, in dark brown streaks, the stains masked by the black color on his pants. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, steeling himself, and unwrapped the last layer, pulling as it stuck, clamping his jaw against the pain. Then it was off, exposing the ruined flesh underneath, and he hissed between clenched teeth.

Holy gods below
. Black spots blinked before his eyes. He’d been walking on that leg? No wonder Hera had been surprised. Butterfly bandages covered two wounds, and a number of dark red scars showed what had to be exit wounds of shrapnel.
Probably
. Close to his hip, two long bullet grazes, all stitched up with black surgical thread, fresh and seeping blood. Hera must have done that back at Teos.

A small moan left his lips and he swallowed hard.
Pull yourself together
. Everything looked okay and on its way to healing. He groped blindly for the med kit, opened it and grabbed a roll of gauze. He’d seen a woman once, shot in the thigh during a robbery in Ost City. She’d bled out so fast, even from afar he’d seen the pool of blood spreading around her.

I’m okay. It’s okay.

The stitches looked like teeth biting into his pale flesh. He fumbled with the antiseptic pads, tore two packages open and slapped them over the wounds.
Okay. Breathe out
. Then he got the gauze, almost dropping it twice, and finally unrolled it, winding it around his thigh. A burning pain in his arm made him pause. He clenched his jaw and finished, clipping the bandage in place.

It was the wind down, he told himself. He’d pushed back the pain while they fled, and now he finally sat down to look at the wounds, they hurt like a bitch. He shrugged off the leather jacket and grabbed the hem of his scorched shirt, pulling it over his head.

More bandages, wrapped around his chest, loose now, hanging in stained folds. Beneath them, the wounds were knitting — the holes of bullets had filled up, leaving crimson circles. His left arm was scorched, not too badly though, and butterfly bandages had been applied over two bullet grazes. Thin threads of blood sneaked under the white material, twining on his arm like black snakes.

That had been from... Explosions, and blood spraying, body parts torn and thrown against the walls, fire and the impact...

“That’s why I can’t do this.” Kalaes’ quiet voice jolted him and he scrambled backward on the bed.

The older boy stood leaning on the open door frame. Why hadn’t Elei heard him? Kalaes stood, arms folded, legs apart, regarding Elei under his lashes.

“What?” Elei forced clenched fingers to uncurl, to release the handfuls of blanket he’d grabbed. “What are you talking about?”

“That.” Kalaes nodded toward him, dark eyes narrow. “All those wounds. I can’t protect you. I can’t do this, fe.”

Why...?
“No-one’s asking you to,” he replied hoarsely.

“Just listen.” Kalaes’ tone was sharp. “You must think I’m a coward, to tell you these things. But I’ve been there before, done this, and failed. Tried to protect them. They’re all dead.”

Elei flinched, remembering what Maera had told him about the kids under Kalaes’ care. “Fine. But I’m alive.”

“For now.” Kalaes shook his head but didn’t move from the door. “And not thanks to me.”

“You saved me. You took me to the hospital.”

“After they’d riddled you with bullets.” Kalaes scowled. “No, I can’t protect you. There’s nothing I can give you.”

But I feel safe with you
. Elei bit his lip hard not to speak the words. He nodded. He saw Kalaes between the two Gultur, hair dripping blood, saw the bruises and cuts on his torso, and choked on helplessness. He couldn’t protect Kalaes either.

“Do you understand, fe?” Kalaes said.

“I understand,” Elei whispered.

Outside, the wind wailed.

“Come eat something,” Kalaes said, pushing off the door.

“You go ahead,” Elei said. “I’ll be along soon.”

He watched Kalaes go and sagged on the bed. He’d find a way to fix this world. For Kalaes. For Hera. For Afia and Jek. For Pelia. If only he knew how.