Dark Future (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

H
ow does the saying go? It’s never as bad as you think it’s going to be. No . . . it’s far worse. We started riding at dusk and didn’t stop until well past dawn. By this time I was beyond exhausted and nauseated from the pain. I’d thrown up twice. (Mind you, throwing up from trotting a horse is not a s00000might hkill I should ever have had to acquire.) I thought of killing myself just to get off, but honestly I don’t think it would’ve made a difference. ConRad would’ve dragged my poor dead body to the end just out of sheer spite.

As the hours crawled along we traveled deep into a dense forest. There was no civilization, only thick foliage and sparse signs of wildlife. We veered to the left, and on a small rise there appeared a vine-covered hut. The dwelling so effectively blended into the surrounding area that I took notice only because ConRad announced, by finally stopping the damn horse, that we were there.

As ConRad slipped down, his breath hissed through clenched teeth—and this coming from a man who didn’t even groan when he got shot. I didn’t think I’d be quite as brave. ConRad reached for me, and I flinched from his touch. He jerked like I’d slapped him and then closed his expression down all together. I didn’t get a second chance to brace myself. He just hauled me down like a sack of horse feed. My feet touched solid ground, the bullet wound burned, my legs buckled, and I crumpled in a heap on the dirt. I was in no hurry to get up. My stomach still churned, but I was more than grateful to be off the moving beast.

ConRad left me groaning on the ground and limped away to take care of the horse. No one talked. There was an eerie silence, except for my harsh breathing and Zimm’s moans. I wasn’t sure if the silence was a security measure or the permanent air of indifference in this future time.

Red and Tank carried Zimm into the green-leafed house, while Quinn began to rub down and water the remaining horses. I decided I was of better use inside and pulled myself up to see about helping with Zimm.

I pushed past the creaking wood door and limped into what appeared to be the tenth century. Dirt floor, an open cooking pit in the corner, equipped with only a cast iron pot and a wooden ladle. Moss and mud insulated the walls and roof. The only furniture was a long pine bench and a table by the hearth. And in the far corner were three straw pallets, one of which Zimm was lying on.

Hovering over Zimm were two other women I hadn’t met. One was very old and gnarled. Her shoulders hunched over a weathered walking stick, her gray hair hung in clumps, thin enough to allow generous amounts of pink scalp to peek through. The other was much younger. She stood straight as if her spine was incapable of slouching. Her hair, thick black, was plaited and swayed rope-like down to her incredibly tiny waist. Both of the women’s backs were to me. At my entrance the younger one whipped around to pierce me with a fiery black stare. Her presence seemed too large to be contained in such a small room. I broke eye contact, uncomfortable, not sure if I should smile or bow.

The older woman slowly creaked and kneeled over Zimm, then began placing her hands over his body. She mumbled and hummed in some unknown, and possibly ancient, language. The air around us stilled. My skin felt tight. Thfelze="-1"ere was a drawing on my lungs as if all the energy in the room was being funneled through a narrow opening.

The rest of us watched, transfixed, as she placed her hands on his head, heart, and stomach. At one point I thought her eyes clouded over in a milky white, but she bowed her head and obscured my view.

As softly as I could, I moved over to the younger woman, hesitant to disturb the quietness in the hut. I lowered my voice and spoke in her ear. “I’m a healer of some sorts. I may be able to help him.”

Her head came up, revealing eyes shrouded with hopelessness and fatigue that I immediately placed her years older than I originally guessed.

“My grandmother,” she nodded to the ancient woman, “is a great healer, and he is even beyond her help.”

I had known, of course. Surprised he’d made it this far.

“You can’t give up!”

The cry startled the quiet room, and I turned toward the source. It was Quinn. She’d walked in behind us and had overheard our conversation. She had a wild look about her. Her eyes were deep set and highlighted with black circles. Her hair stuck out oddly at all angles with the terrible cut she’d given herself. She seemed barely able to hold herself up in the overly large warrior clothes and too-big boots. She looked scared as hell.

I didn’t want to be a witness to the blatant desperation so evident on her face. To the pain I’d seen so many times before, when a family member lost a loved one, but this time was different. This time was personal.

Quinn ran over to the healer and fell to her knees before her. She wrapped her arms around the old woman’s legs and buried her face into her thighs.

“Please.” Quinn looked up with tears streaming down her face, making tracks on her soot-covered cheeks. “Please, I beg you with my life, please try. He has . . . he has to live.” She lowered her head and paused, seemingly unable to find the words. “I can’t, simply
can’t
, live without him.”

The scene was too intimate, the emotion too raw. In a place where cold-heartedness ruled and any tender flames of compassion were extinguished, her desperate plea was downright sinful. My eyes stung as I watched her beg for her lover’s life, and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was anyone who would beg for mine? My throat constricted and I covered my mouth with my hand to prevent ad ts sob. I turned away, unable to stand the sight a moment longer . . . and stared right into ConRad’s eyes.

He’d come up from behind, having entered the hut without my knowing—his face a familiar crag of rocks. He’d also watched the scene unfold, but there was no compassion softening his features. His gaze raked over Quinn, with eyes like liquid ice. “You’re a goddess. Where’s your pride?”

Shock rippled through me. I inhaled sharply and turned away to hide my reaction, my stomach ablaze, like I’d swallowed a thousand burning flames. How could he be so callous, so ruthless? Didn’t he have a heart? Was he even human?

Fortunately, ConRad wasn’t in charge; the old healer was. She gently ran her arthritic hand over Quinn’s sobbing head and looked to her granddaughter and nodded. The young woman, needing no words, understood her grandmother and emphatically shook her head in denial. But the old woman would have none of it and raised her hand to stop any objections before they started.

The old woman gently helped Quinn to kneel beside her and bent once again over Zimm. Without a word or sound she placed her hands on his body. With feather-light touches, she moved her fingers from head to toe and finally rested one hand on his head, the other on his heart. The healer closed her eyes and filled the room with a deep, raspy breath. The sound bounced off the mud walls and hung heavy in the open spaces. Finally, her lids fluttered open, and where her eyes should have been there was nothing but a blanket of white.

For a time nothing happened. Then I watched in amazement as Zimm’s skin pinked up with her touch. His breath before had been rapid and shallow, now deepened. Zimm’s eyes moved rapidly under closed lids. Broken fingers straightened, bones snapped into place as if made of Lego’s instead of cartilage and marrow. Blood stopped oozing from his ears and nose, and open wounds knitted together right before my eyes.

I lowered slowly to my knees and shut a mouth that had long ago dropped open. I could scarcely believe a body that had previously been a bloodied pile of broken bone and tissue now resembled a healthy man.

The old woman was steadfast in her position for what seemed like an eternity with her hands on Zimm and eyes closed. Finally, her face lifted, her eyes, a normal brown color, fluttered back into her head. Before anyone could react, the old woman’s head rolled and she collapsed onto the floor. Her granddaughter ran to her side, gingerly picked her up as if she was no more than a husk of skin and cloth, and placed her on a nearby straw pallet.

“Will she be alright?” I asked. I still hadn’t moved. Exhaustion swept over me like a torrid storm.

“Healing him took everything she had. She may never recover from this.” The younger woman stroked her grandmother’s forehead and pushed the gray hair back from her face. “She knew the risks, of course, but decided that those two were worth it. Whatever her reason.” I stole a glance to where Quinn cradled Zimm’s head in her lap and lovingly wiped the blood from his face.

“She won’t be able to heal anyone else. You’ll have to mend the old-fashioned way.” Her black eyes studied me as if seeing me for the first time. “Forgive me, it seems like you’ve been through an ordeal yourself. I know what a toll healing takes from my grandmother, and I tend to resent the intrusion. But regardless, you’re a guest here. There’s a place to wash up and some clean clothes in the shower house out back. You’re welcome to whatever you wish.”

“Thank you,” I said, and extended my hand as an offering of peace.

“MaEve,” she said in way of an introduction, her lips in a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m Kristina Davenport, but please call me Kris.” After a while I withdrew my outstretched hand that had laid there like day-old fish.

“I know,” she said, and dismissed me with the turning of her attention back toward her grandmother.

T
he small hut behind the house was empty and for that I was grateful. I had no desire to see anyone, especially ConRad. I shuffled in the door, bracing my ribs with my arms and gingerly stepping with my left leg. The shower house was surprisingly well hidden and more modern than the vine house. Though it too had a mud exterior, the structure was sturdier and the floor was laid with smooth, pale flagstone. On one of the walls were panels of long thin sheets of shiny metal and on the other was a hole plugged with straw and cloth, from where I presumed water flowed.

I knew the metal sheet acted like a mirror, and with a mixture of hesitation and curiosity, I walked over to glimpse at my reflection. The sharp intake of breath sent a slicing pain through my left side. I didn’t recognize myself. My blond, curly hair was matted with dirt and blood. One side of my face, eye included, was swollen and my lower lip was blown up to twice its size. My stomach clenched at the thought of examining further, since I had taken the worst of the beatings to my back and midsection. I slipped my tank top off of my shoulders, knowing I didn’t have the strength to raise my arms above my head.

I tried to prepare myself for what would stare back at me from the dull reflection. I forced my brain into “doctor mode,” but I struggled to remain clinically detached.

I couldn’t >I th="1emhelp but gasp. Twenty pounds of fat, muscle, and tissue had been beaten away. I’d finally achieved the gaunt model look I’d always envied, except, of course, every inch of skin was marred with a collage of bruises, abrasions, and dried blood. My breasts had shrunk at least two cup sizes and my navel dipped hollow. And, of course, the bullet wound. I gently probed the rip in my pant leg, cautiously joyful to find it was a graze with no residual bullet lodged inside.

As my heart beat, my pain pulsed in rhythm. Nausea rolled through my empty stomach and an overwhelming sadness swept through me. I couldn’t believe this was my body, my life. Just a little over a few months ago I was bemoaning my grueling internship and a few pounds of weight gain. What I wouldn’t give to go back to my Sleep Number bed, small townhouse in an upper-middle-class neighborhood, and two-sizes-too-small skinny jeans.

Wetness tickled my chest and neck. I glanced up, surprised to see tears trailing down my cheeks. At least torture hadn’t beaten all the emotion out of me, leaving me a shell of a person. I could feel; therefore, I was human.

The door opened and ConRad walked in carrying a glass bottle and some cloth bandages. The bruises, cuts, and makeshift tourniquets tied around his shoulder and thigh didn’t do his gruesome appearance justice. He looked like hell.

Startled, I crossed my arms in front to cover myself, knowing I didn’t possess the strength to bend and pick up my tank top.

He stopped and stared, barely moved. He seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. I did too.

His hand was white knuckled around the bottle, while his gaze assessed every blue and purple mark, every jagged cut, and every piece of ravished flesh. He drank my body in like penance, missing nothing.

I remembered when he’d looked upon me with reverence and awe. Now half of me didn’t want to see the flash of pity in his eyes. The other half wanted the knowledge of his betrayal to burn forever in his psyche.

I wanted . . .
needed
him to say something. To recognize my torture—my pain. I studied his eyes like they held the secrets for my redemption. I scrutinized the face I was intimate with, the one so rarely betrayed by emotion.

His lips trembled. The muscle in his jaw contracted and released as he ground his teeth. He inhaled as if to speak, but swallowed hard instead.

I was surprised. I’d never known ConRad to hesitate. His actions were executed by cold logic, every sequence planned.

“I tried to come sooner.” His voice, always strong, came out raw, as if torn from his throat.

“I shouldn’t have been there at all,” I countered, my defenses coming up like a clumsy brick wall. The anger I used to keep alive in prison was the same I used to dam the torrential flow of emotions. I only had a few precious seconds before I’d break and lose whatever self-respect I had left. All I wanted was to run to him, bury myself in the curve of his neck, and plead with him to help me.