Sleepless (Curse of the Blood Fox Trilogy, Book #1) (25 page)

What pieces
of his hot skin touched mine burned. I finally managed to slide my good arm
into the mix and thrust him off, raking in air to calm the throbbing in my
hand. My skin tingled strangely, disconcertingly, and I scrambled away from
him, groping for Valentina. Her swelling thrum vibrated up through my sore
muscles on contact, and I held her out in front of me, still sheathed. My voice
was low and spiteful.

“Traken, if
you come near me one more time I'm going to ignore the fact that you have a
head injury. Now is not the time to fight. We have to think.”

His body
flinched, slumped, and those dark eyes met mine, suddenly subdued. He inched slowly
backwards against the opposite wall, nursing his injured arm in his lap and
folded-up legs. Blood from his wrapped head wound was trickling down the bridge
of his nose and his loud breaths were like dry sobs in the sudden silence. He
shook as if cold, but it had come on so suddenly.

“It isn't
fair, because you wouldn't, would you?” he said. I had to crawl closer to hear
him. “You wouldn't take responsibility. I can't. I can't, I can't, I can't. I
won't tell you, kitten, don't look at me with those eyes. Don't cry. Please,
please, don't make me do it. I can't be left, I can’t help you.” His breathing
slowed, eyes focused upwards onto the purple moon. I realized he wasn't paying
attention to me anymore, and grabbed the canteen from my pack again. I inched
towards him as he continued his low appeal. “It's just blood, nothing more.
There isn't pain. Don't. Don't care about it. Nothing matters. Just do what
you're told. Nothing matters.” His chin dropped, and that sorrowful gaze
slipped to his feet. “I'm important. Important is better than being missed.” 

“That fever
must hurt,” I whispered gently, inching just a little closer. I grabbed the hem
of the robe I was wearing and ripped off one of its silken sleeves, then wet it
with the cool water of the canteen. We were running out already. I dabbed up
some of the blood on Traken's face, then turned the makeshift rag over and left
it to cool his hot skin. “It will be okay, Dogboy. Just keep it together.”

“Santo,” he
said. His voice was suddenly normal, but his tone anxious. “Don't trust me.
Don't help me.” His good hand grabbed mine and helped press the wet cloth
harder against his skin in complete rebellion to his words. “ I can't do
anything.”

“Okay,” I
said, more to calm him than anything. Who knew what thoughts the fever was
inventing. “It'll be fine, Traken, just relax. Concentrate on breathing. Ignore
everything else.”

He didn't
answer, but his hand eased on mine. The wet cloth blocked his eyes, but his
breathing began to slow after a while. I knew he was sleeping when the weight
of his head fell against my hand with no restraint. I used that moment to prop
him more comfortably against the well wall, and re-soak the cloth. I took the
last sip of the water for myself, slid into the spot on the wall right beside
him, and placed the rag on his warm head again. Then I sat back, and waited.

The moment I smelled the
horrid mixture of death and smoke, I knew the Dream had snuck in and stolen me.
Fear sluggishly gripped my heart on the docks, and followed me like a shadow
into the boat and across the dark black waters. What if the Dream ended in pain
like last time?

“So you come again,” the
familiar voice boomed when the time was right, “and so I ask again. Are you ready
to die, human?”

“Not yet,” I told it, my whole
body rigid with the thought of what could come. Would it really happen again?
Could my body take it if I did? “If I promise to come to you when I'm ready,
can we agree not to fight tonight?”

“Fighting is your destiny,”
the monster-giant scowled, its thick lips curling. “It is how you will end.”

Then it lunged and I dodged,
and the fight began. When the inevitable end finally came and the giant had
plunged its sword right through me, I tensed and waited for it. I saw his
clawed hands come down, felt the numb eeriness of his fingers in my chest. I
clenched my teeth. It was coming.

Suddenly I
realized there were hands on my face, not my chest. I opened my eyes, and found
myself lying with my head resting on Traken's shoulder. His fingers had been
tracing a design on my cheek, and stopped sharply when I stirred.

“Look who
finally woke up.” His voice was close, and rolled softly to me like a gentle
wave. There was no madness like before, just the neutral, amused tone I was
used to. “Good. You were getting heavy.” Suddenly his face fell forward, and
his eyes stared straight into mine. “Ah, no pain this time? I suppose that
means that the last time was because of me then.” A grin lit his dirt-streaked,
tired face. “I won't apologize.”

“Like you
ever would,” I said just as blithely, pushing myself up carefully, aware of
every ache. His warmth lingered on my cheek, and I touched the spot gingerly as
if it might spread. “I see you're in your right mind again.”

“Was I ever
not?” he asked, smile tight.

“Far be it
for me to dictate right from wrong for you, but you definitely weren't normal
if we’re going by your regular standards. I thought that fall may have been
permanently damaging... it's lucky you woke up at all, with that and the fever.
Don't you remember?”

“Pieces,” he
said, pulling his knees up and settling back. “I thought it was a dream until
you said something. Well. I suppose it couldn't have been, though.” He touched
the blood-crusted wrapping I had placed on his head. “I hope you didn't take
any of it seriously.”

“The fight
was a little hard not to take seriously. I tried not to hurt you.”

He tilted his
head back, chuckling gently. “Oh? Or were you having trouble holding your own
against a sick and injured man?”

I elbowed him
in the side. “You talk big for someone who was crying and screaming. When did
you wake up?”

“An hour or
two ago.”

“That long?”
I stared at him, aghast. “And here I was, out cold on your shoulder. Some
defenses there. What were you doing that whole time?”

“Just
checking what was still working on me. My head hurts, and this arm of mine is
useless.” He pointed to it hanging limply at his side. “I spent some more time
examining the trap... it's a headhunter’s. Those glyphs drain whatever energy I
try to pull from the sources, so once again it seems we're stuck in a snare
without any use of magic.”

“Oh my, a
trend,” I commented, rubbing my one bare arm that no longer had a sleeve. “I'll
have to sew this back together if I ever get the use of my other fingers again.
The softest robe I've ever worn, and it doesn't even take a week to destroy
it.” I glared at my old robe, still quite intact and warm looking. “Traken,
give it back.”

I saw his
teeth gleam in the dim light. “I believe that time has passed.”

“I'll ask
really nicely,” I said with my most hopeful smile. “You won't be able to
resist.”

His tired
chuckles transformed into delighted cackles. It was the lightest I'd seen his
mood since the Le Fam, and though I didn’t understand, I wasn’t about to ruin
it by asking. I found myself grinning as well.

“What exactly
is so funny? You don't think I could charm you out of your clothes?”

“I knew a
time when you could not,” he said, bowing his head into the crook of his good
arm as if he were trying to hide his mirth. “So many years ago, you were the
stoniest, roughest figure I'd ever laid eyes on. Every time you spoke to me
your brow would furrow as if you were having a hard time figuring out what to
say, and every time I made a joke you wouldn't even twitch.”

“In my
defense, you are cruel, and most of your jokes had to do with someone’s pain
and suffering. Every time you made your monthly appearance, you were only
interested in how many more fights I had been in, and how many people I had
killed. After thirty years of living with the monks, I thought you might be
half-demon.”

“Ha! I liked
that attitude about you,” he said, face still half-buried. His shoulders were
shaking. “I remember when you first took up reading that little red book of
yours, too. Suddenly when I stopped by I would catch you saying please and
thank you to random people, or staring at your reflection in ponds and
practicing how to smile. Gods, they were things of horror.”

“Well, you
have to start somewhere,” I said, grimacing. “I can't say I've improved much
even now, but it is good to have a reminder that at one time, things were even
worse.”

“What was the
point?” Traken asked, finally looking back up. “Was it really just to get along
with other humans? I don't know why you put in so much effort. I doubt it has made
that much of a difference.”

“It hasn't
always,” I admitted, sighing. “Sometimes I get the same reaction no matter how
I speak, or what shape my mouth makes. But sometimes it makes all the
difference. There are such intricacies to language, don't you think? To be able
to use them just right, to get what you mean across in the best way possible...
I don't want to spend such a long life hiding from others just because I'm
afraid of misunderstandings. The head monk told me once that words were the
sharpest weapon he had ever come across. He said they could win battles with no
deaths and no blood.”

“But where's
the fun in that?” Traken asked with a wink. I sighed.

“I'd be more
amused if I thought you were joking. What brought on this sudden burst of
nostalgia?”

“Just
thoughts... this is the first time we have ever traveled together, kitten. This
will probably be the last time too. Perhaps I will miss the routine we
developed over the last 50 years.”

“Will you
now?” I asked, eyebrows up. “You're coming dangerously close to feelings,
there. Quick, frighten them away with that cold, logical side you nurture
beyond reason.”

“How witty,”
he mocked, finally pushing himself off the wall and laboriously to his feet. I
followed him up, and watched his brow crease as he looked me over. “Your face
is busted, but not bleeding. I saw your ankle… how bad is your hand?”

I examined my
wrapped hand. The cloth was red with blood now. How much had I lost? “Let’s
just say I'll be depending on that healing of yours when we get out, Dogboy. I
had nothing to set the fingers with.”

“When we get
out, indeed. But how to get out?” He stared up and I followed his gaze. It was
already day again. Early morning, by the darker hues in the sky. I couldn't
believe we had already been trapped in here so long. The white glyphs pulsed
ominously.

“This trap
seems old,” I said. “Do you think a headhunter is likely to show up at any
point to finish us?”

“No,” he
said, turning his back to me as he examined the walls. “In an area like this, I
doubt this trap was set for anything other than starving sorcerers to death.
The headhunter might come to reset it every now and again, if they're even
around anymore.”

“Well, it may
have been made for magic-folk, but it seems to kill equally,” I said with a
frown. “These people truly are crazy. What's to attract someone way out here,
in the middle of nowhere?”

“There is a
certain atmosphere,” Traken admitted uncertainly. “I don't know how to say it,
but this place definitely has the energy of souls. It would be a perfect center
of power for anyone experimenting in the darker sides of the arts.”

“The energy
of souls?” I asked. “Does that mean this place is haunted? What sort of
haunted?”

“That is not
a question for now,” he pointed out, wagging a finger at me. “Right now, we
escape.”

“It won't be
easy,” I said, standing in the middle of the well and contemplating. I reached
out with one hand and touched the edge of the wall, then looked back at Traken.
“Come here. Stand back to back with me.”

He did, and I
instructed him to reach his hand out too. It touched the other side, the exact
opposite of mine.

“How strong
are your legs, Traken?”

“Just fine,”
he said, shifting. “Neither seem too damaged.”

“My ankle isn’t
great, but this could still work.” I tested it gingerly. It hurt, but I could
put a little weight on it without feeling like it would give out. “This trap
isn't meant for two people, I think. We'll climb.”

“I see,”
Traken said, his calm gaze going up again. I reached down for both my swords
and bag. Instead of putting them on my back, I strapped them so the bulk was on
my chest. Then I offered him my back and arms.

“Shall we
try?”

“Better than
not,” he agreed, and his back pressed flat against mine. We linked our elbows
backwards carefully, still managing to scrape and bump our injured parts.
Traken's arm was in especially bad shape, and I had to squeeze it extra hard to
get any sort of grip, since it wasn't gripping back. I could guess by the
spasms in his shoulders how that felt, but he didn’t say a thing.

“Ready?” I
asked, sweat already beading on my forehead.

“I suppose
so,” he managed. His back tensed, and we both crouched lower.

“Now.”

We jumped at
the same time, and I threw my feet towards the wall. The sandals pressed flat,
and miraculously Traken's managed to as well. We were now two feet in the air,
backs touching, bent legs pressed against the walls on either side. My breath
hissed, and I looked up. The top was so far away.