Chapter 23 | The Devil of Siren City

Skylar

“Adrian?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. Another flash of lightning startles me, then the weight of the moment settles on my shoulders.

I rush toward the couch, dropping to my knees in front of him. “Adrian.” His cheeks are cold; his skin icier than usual. Sticky from sweat and blood and earth. His eyes are open, but he’s not looking at me. He’s not looking at anything. “Adrian!”

He inhales sharply and grimaces in pain.

“What happened?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Maybe he can’t.

Maybe whatever happened to him can’t be undone.

Within a heartbeat, I steel myself, allowing years of training to take over. “Come on,” I say. “Can you stand?”

I position myself beneath his arm, aware of the way he scowls. He leans forward, putting his weight on me, and I struggle to stand beneath it as we rise together. His sweater smells of so many unpleasant things. Blood most of all. I do my best to suppress the memories that stench triggers as I slowly guide Adrian toward the kitchen.

Wind and rain shake the windows. Adrian’s sharp breaths come quickly. I barely hear any of it over the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears, but I maintain my focus.

I do my job.

We reach the kitchen table, the next-best place to inspect him other than his bed, but I don’t trust myself to get him there safely at the moment. Guiding Adrian onto it, I let his weight slip from my shoulder little-by-little. “Lie down,” I tell him as I move to clear the table behind him. “Tell me what happened.”

I take a single step away, but Adrian snatches my arm. With surprising swiftness given his condition, he yanks me back to him and places his other hand on my throat.

“Adrian,” I whisper, fearful, his fingers digging in.

“Skylar,” he says, his voice so low. “Last night, I asked you to put your trust in me.” He takes a breath, hot air cutting across my cheek. “Now I have to know.” He looks at me, his eyes black as night. “Can I trust you?”

I nod slowly. “Yes.”

“All of you?”

The voice stirs in me, but I feel a sense of certainty, of absolute agreement, as we rest a hand on Adrian’s and say, “Yes.”

He studies me for the longest time, far too long. Depending on his wounds, these moments are precious and necessary to his survival, but I don’t move. I stand in place, letting him decide our next move.

Finally, he releases my arm, but his other hand remains on my throat. He loosens his grip, but he keeps me close, the pad of his thumb slowly caressing the side of my neck. Then, again. Again. The same place. The same now-healed scratch.

He looks at it, his eyes even darker, full of silent fury and... something else.

Shame. Regret.

Failure to protect.

I touch his wrist with both hands. “Tell me,” I whisper, guiding him down.

Adrian exhales weakly. “Stab wound,” he says. “Right side.”

I unzip his sweater and slowly push it down his arms.

Through clenched teeth, he continues, “I don’t think he hit any organs.”

“He?” I ask, my bedside manner tone kicking in as I subtly inspect him. There’s only so much I can see, though. The occasional lightning flash won’t be enough to treat him thoroughly.

Adrian doesn’t respond to my question. He balances on the edge of the table, his shaking arms holding him up as I hurry through the living room. I gather up every candle, along with a lighter, and return to him quickly.

“Flashlight in the drawer,” he says. “By the fridge.”

I retrieve it, too. I light the candles and set them around. It’s not great, but it’ll have to do until the electricity comes back.

“Can you lift your arms for me?” I ask, touching his shirt.

Adrian shakes his head. “Cut it off.”

With a nod, I place a hand on his back. “Lie down,” I say. “I need to get a look at it.”

Adrian moves, inch-by-inch, his breath and jaw held tight. I spot him, not letting him slip, aiding his weight until he’s lying flat.

“Hold on.” I grab a throw pillow off the couch and gently place it beneath his head, making him more comfortable. “I’ll be right back.”

Taking the flashlight with me, I rush to the bathroom, gathering as much as possible in my arms. Bandages, sutures, painkillers. A blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. A few other things I really hope I don’t have to use. I bring it all back to the table and lay it out, running through the steps over and over in my head.

With kitchen scissors, I do as he said and begin cutting the shirt off his body. Parts of it cling to him with dried blood, and he grimaces as I peel it free. Dark blotches stain his white skin. The stab wound is easy to spot. The blackest spot of all.

I inspect it with the flashlight. It’s… not great, but I’ve seen far worse before in the twilight hours of the emergency room.

“Bleeding has stopped. But you bled a lot,” I add, eying the sweater crumbled on the floor and the reddish-black stains on his jeans.

Adrian grunts softly. “It’s not all mine.”

I take a few rags to the sink and soak them through with water. “You get into a fight?” I ask, gently cleaning the blood off. “Was it Ares’ men again?”

He doesn’t reply.

I take the hint and swallow the rest of those questions. I get to work instead. I clean the wound. I stitch it closed.

“Sorry, Adrian,” I whisper throughout, being as gentle as can with a needle.

When I’m done, I sit back and give my stiff shoulders a stretch. “We’ll keep an eye on it,” I say, mostly to myself as I tape a bandage over it. “Okay?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Adrian?”

Still, nothing.

“Adrian.”

He startles — thank god — but doesn’t move, his eyelids heavy. I feel for his pulse. It’s way too fast and far too weak. I take his blood pressure, listening closely through my rapid pulse to count his own. He’s barely attentive.

“Shit,” I whisper.

He needs blood.

Inside the hidden refrigerator cupboard, I find the same A-negative bags I’ve seen previously, along with another type that wasn’t here before.

O-positive. My type.

Adrian must have gotten it. But why?

No time to think about that right now.

I grab an A bag and one of saline and bring them to the table. Improvising, I bring in a coat rack from the mudroom, creating a serviceable pole to hang the bags from.

“Adrian,” I say, laying his arm flat and pumping the pressure cuff on his bicep to expose his vein. “Don’t move your arm. Do you hear me?”

He opens his eyes and looks around, taking stock of the new items hanging over his head, and nods. “Don’t move my arm,” he repeats, the words stiff.

“That’s right.” I unwrap the tubing, make sure everything is attached where it should be, and pull the cap off the needle. “This may sting a little.”

Adrian doesn’t watch, but I feel his eyes on me the whole time. “Didn’t feel a thing,” he says.

“Lots of practice,” I say, giving him a smile. “Try to relax.”

He obeys, closing his eyes.

I pull up a chair and sit down beside him with a fresh rag and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, my focus now on his scratched palms and torn knuckles. Layers of dried blood wipes off, but copious purple bruises remain.

Everywhere.

Our boy got into a fight at school today, the voice says, the tone more like a concerned parent than a teasing annoyance. What do you suppose the other guy looks like?

I wonder about that as well, along with so many things. 

But I let those thoughts echo in the darkness as I spend a stormy night in Siren City struggling to keep Adrian Price alive.