Evenstar (14 page)

Furcas feigned sleep in his towel pile.

Paimon moved Furcas carefully and got him into briefs and pants.
 
“Bet that feels much better.”

Furcas snored a little.

Paimon wasn’t fooled for a second, but he wasn’t going to push the issue.
 
He bandaged Furcas’ arm.
 
He examined the chest wound.
 
“Seriously Furcas, much better.
 
Take a look.”

Furcas said nothing.

Paimon carried Furcas to a stainless steel table.
 
He loosened the leather dog straps that hung from the sides of the table.
 
“I know you’re not asleep.”

Furcas opened his one eye.
 
“I still hate you.”

“Get ready to hate me more.”
 
Paimon tied Furcas’ arms to the table.
 
He knotted a leash around Furcas’ legs.
 

Furcas jerked.
 
“What are you doing?
 
Let me go!”

“Can’t.
 
Your wound is clean, but it could get worse again.”
 
Paimon upended a bottle of iodine on Furcas’ wounds.
 

Furcas bit his lip.
 
“Fucker!”

“Yep.”
 
Paimon wiped him dry and grabbed for his last bag.
 

Furcas eyed the bag.
 
“What is in there?
 
What are you going to do to me now?”
 

Paimon pulled out a set of pliers and power tools.
 
He stared at his feet.
 
“Well…”

Furcas shook his head.
 
“No.
 
No.”

Paimon plugged in the staple gun.
 
“You know I don’t want to do this to you.”

“No.
 
No.
 
No.
 
Paimon, don’t!”
 
Furcas pulled at his bindings.
 
“
Please
!”

Paimon stared at Furcas’ chest and stomach.
 
“What else am I supposed to do?
 
You have a huge gaping wound!”

“Ignore it, you asshole!
 
Leave it as-is!”
 

Paimon grimaced.
 
“I can’t and you know that.”
 

“Then
stitch
it shut!”

“Regular stitches won’t hold that and I don’t have any other supplies.”
 
Paimon leaned on Furcas’ good hip and tugged his pants down to expose the bottom of the gash.
 
He gripped both sides of the wound and stapled.
 
Furcas let out a string of profanities.
 

Paimon ignored him.
 
He methodically stapled shut the entire wound, using pliers to pull staples out when he made a mistake.
 
Furcas did not make it easy for him; he scratched, bit, and screamed every step of the way.
 
Paimon was drenched in sweat by the time he was done.
 
He set the tools aside; tremors raced through his body.
 
Furcas did not move.

Paimon reached for Furcas’ face.
 
“I’m all done.”

Furcas turned his face away and cried silently, too weak from the fight to do anything else.

Paimon dropped his hand.
 
He made his face blank and rifled through his bags.
 
He unwound a roll of bandage material.
 
He wrapped Furcas’ abdomen.
 
He covered him from hip to armpits in clean gauze.
 
He used a pocketknife to pull out the thread in Furcas’ face.

Furcas tried to bite his hand.
 
“Don’t staple my face.”

Paimon pulled out heavy-duty drapery thread and a large needle.
 
“I’m not.
 
Think you can handle sewing your face shut?”
 

Furcas sniffled and nodded once.

Paimon undid the bindings on Furcas’ arms and legs.
 
He carried Furcas to a table that faced a mirror.
 
He propped him up.
 
“Get to it then.”

Paimon left Furcas and walked back to his bags.
 
He grabbed the staple gun, squeezing so hard the metal deformed.
 
He stared at Furcas’ blood on the end and threw the appliance through the wall.
 
He ripped the table out of the floor and hurled it towards the main room.
 

Furcas stopped his sewing and looked over.
 
Paimon’s face was unreadable.
 
The older fallen angel turned away from Furcas and started work on something else.
 

Furcas looked back at his sewing.
 
He focused on making neat and even stitches.
 
The shock and weariness that ran through his limbs kept his thoughts clinical.
 
He did not even flinch when he looked at his ruined eye socket.
 

Furcas’ eyes drifted to the gauze on his chest.
 
He had to admit, it did look better than a raw, gaping gangrene wound.
 
He finished the last stitch.
 
“I can’t break the string.”

Paimon walked over and cut it for him.
 

Furcas’ voice came out softly, “Thank you, I’m sorry for—”

“Yeah.”
 
Paimon helped Furcas into an undershirt.
 
He slid Furcas’ arms carefully into a gray, long-sleeved silk shirt.
 
He buttoned it up silently, being gentle with him.
 
Paimon examined Furcas’ stitching on his cheek; he nodded and put a piece of black fabric in Furcas’ hands.
 

Furcas stared at the black eye patch.
 
Paimon had ringed the edge with gold puffy paint and red rhinestones.
 
Paimon fidgeted.
 
Furcas looked over at him.
 
“I can’t get it on by myself.”

Paimon slipped the patch on and smiled at Furcas’ reflection.
 
“You look rugged.”
 
He jumped on the table and sat next to Furcas hip to hip.
 
Both Fallen stared at their reflections in the mirror.
 

Furcas gave him a crooked smile.
 
“It does kind of look badass, except for the rhinestones.
 
They make me look gay.”
   

Paimon snorted.
 

Furcas leaned over and kissed him on the lips.
 

Paimon froze.

Furcas bit Paimon’s lower lip and let him go.
 
“Thanks.
 
I do feel better.”
 

Paimon broke into a grin.
 
He kissed Furcas’ cheek and worked his way to his forehead.
 
Furcas closed his eye and smiled, relaxing into him.
 
Paimon bit his earlobe.
 
“Remember, no matter how your face looks, as long as your ass is fine, I’m okay.”

Furcas jabbed at Paimon with his stumpy arm.
 
“You
always
ruin the moment.”

Paimon wrapped his arms around Furcas and hugged him.
 
“It is part of my unending charm.”

They sat in silence, leaning on one another for support.
 
The sky grew dark outside.
 
Paimon rummaged through his pockets.
 
He got out a lighter, a new pipe, and a bag of weed.
 

Furcas smiled.
 
“We are in a town barely a few hours, and you’re already carrying.”

“What kind of party god would I be if I wasn’t?”
 
Paimon loaded his pipe.
 
“How’re you doing on pain?
 
I know you’re an old pro at tolerating it, but still.”

Furcas shrugged.
 
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, it’s a big fucking nine point eight.”

“That’s what I thought.”
 
Paimon picked Furcas up and took him over to the last unused tub, one that was dry and maggot free.
 
He filled the entire thing with dry towels and set Furcas down propped up.
 
He lit the pipe for him and let him take a drag.
 
“There you go.”

Paimon jumped in the tub with him and hooked his legs over the side.
 
He put his arm around Furcas’ shoulders.
 
“Next stop will be the liquor store.”

Furcas blew smoke at Paimon.
 
“You want to get me drunk and take advantage of me.”

Paimon grinned.
 
“Is that such a crime?”
 

Furcas smiled and examined Paimon’s outfit critically.
 
“How is it that you acquired new clothes and still look like shit?”

“Another talent.
 
Thanks for reminding me.”
 
Paimon flipped out a beat-up hat and put it on top of his tangled hair.
 
“You must be feeling better.”

Furcas wrinkled his nose.
 
“Can’t you find
regular
things to wear, like a normal jacket for once?”

Paimon glanced down at his new coat.
 
He frowned.
 
“This one only has six pockets.”
 

Furcas rolled his eye and winced.
 
“Damn it.”

“Stop stressing your body.”

“I’m going to have to, we have to get moving.”

Paimon stared at the clock on the wall.
 
“Yeah, but we’ve made great progress you know.
 
We don’t have to move too fast.
 
We’re south of that volcano already.”

“Oh.”
 
Furcas fiddled with the stitching on his face.
 
Paimon grabbed his hand and interlaced their fingers.
 
Furcas moved and winced.
 
“Think I’ll be able to walk at all?”

“Doubtful.”
 
Smoke slipped past Paimon’s lips.
 
“I was thinking of putting you in a shopping cart, thoughts?”

“What’s wrong with a car?”

Paimon motioned to the outside.
 
“The highways are packed with Solomon Soldiers.
 
All of the roads are screwed up tighter than your ass.
 
Any car we get into is going to come to a grinding halt within minutes.”

“Really?”

Paimon nodded.
 
“Newspapers are showing attacks across North America on the outposts.
 
They’re waylaying fleeing Lilliam on the roads; they’re killing out in public.”

“That’s bad.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Furcas yawned.
 
“What about Canada?
 
What are Andy and Dahlia supposed to do if the lanes close?”
 
His eyelid drooped.
 
He passed out.
 

Paimon watched him nod off.
 
He touched his forehead, feverish.
 
“Not out of the woods by a long shot.”
 

Paimon hopped out of the tub.
 
He carried Furcas out of the dog grooming shop.
 
He had a shopping cart waiting on the sidewalk.
 
Dog beds lined the metal mesh.
 
He set Furcas inside and pushed the cart towards the closed liquor store.
 
Night fell and the air grew chill.
 

The Solomon Soldiers were on the move.

***

Lucifer kicked the back of Berith’s chair while Berith drove.
 
He babbled, “If Dahlia is Hell that means I am Heaven and everyone lives in both of us.”
 
He burst into laughter.

Apple sat in the back of the car with Lucifer and mopped his brow.
 
“He’s getting worse.
 
Why is he getting worse?”

“The spear is not just a physical attack, he’s fighting one inside as well, it attacks the mind and heart.”
 
Berith stared at the dark road ahead.
 
“I don’t think he ever fully recovered from the last wound.”

Lucifer grabbed Apple’s hand.
 
“Your eyes are like hers.”

Apple nodded.
 
“I guess so.”

“Where is she?”
 
Lucifer pulled Apple closer.
 
“Tell me.”

“Berith?”
 
Apple tried pulling away, but Lucifer’s grip was too strong.

Lucifer looked between them.
 
His eyes changed colors with every flick.
 
“Why are you looking at him?
 
Become Ladriam.”

“I am
not
Dahlia.”

“You have her eyes.
 
I want them, come here.
 
Let me have them.”