Текст книги "Hemlock Veils"

Автор книги: Jennie Davenport

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Chapter 20

Elizabeth rested her elbows on the railing, staring into midnight shadows. She knew he wouldn’t come. Part of her didn’t want him to. The part that felt angrier than she’d ever been. The other part, however—the part that would always ache for him—prayed that this time he would realize he didn’t have to be scared, not of her and not of him.

She sighed, wrapping her jacket more snugly around herself. The storm had stopped before sunset, but the air still felt like rain: crisp, moist, and cool. It even smelled like rain. She turned, making her way to the back door, when a wretched scream echoed from within the forest, shooting a shiver up her spine.

Her stomach dropped when his roar followed, more fierce and deafening than that of a lion’s. She could only watch the trees, as though they would tell her what lay within. The scream pierced the air again, high-pitched and drawn-out. But it wasn’t the scream of a person, since no human could leave such a chilling note in the air. The sound, ghostlike and unnatural, seemed to belong to a creature born of nightmares.

It came over her then: the sensation that left her arms goose-fleshed and her chest tight. The evil loomed out there, and so did Henry.

She jumped from the porch without taking the steps and ran the trail as fast as she could. She could see nothing and lifted her arms for protection against twigs and branches, praying her feet’s memorization wouldn’t fail her. As she ran, wishing for another sound to lead her, she recalled section eight of her father’s book, the section she had just read a couple of days before. The demon, Diableron, and its relation to Aglaé.

The scream sounded again, a blood-curdling eeeeee hanging in the air, and before it could ebb away, a growl overpowered it, making Elizabeth run harder and faster. Though she was close, a strange stillness suddenly settled over the forest, hitting her and the trees as though a physical drape. She stopped short, and with a heaving chest and sweating neck, she looked through the blackness all around her. She wanted to call for him but couldn’t catch her breath.

Before she could take one more step, she was thrown into the air, her back breaking twigs as it slammed into the trunk of a cedar. It knocked the wind from her, and with her back against the trunk—the tree seeming to hold her itself—she winced, looking for the source.

“Brave Elizabeth,” she heard at her ear, startling her. It was a whisper and a voice at the same time, as though the words were spoken on the tongue of a snake; but she saw nothing. She struggled against invisible shackles, unable to move. “Fearlesss,” it hissed again, and this time it came from her other side. Still, nothing there.

Her pulse heightened, her face perspired. “Show yourself,” she managed through tight ribs.

It appeared before her then, right at her eye level, and Elizabeth flinched. This Diableron, unfortunately, appeared less cartoonish than the one in her book. Much more frightening. Her face of flesh, bone, and black nothingness melted, and as Elizabeth tried to steady her breaths, wondering where to look since the creature seemed to have no eyes, it smiled, revealing the black void inside its mouth. Elizabeth swallowed deeply, recoiling.

“Not so fearlessss anymore, are you, Elizabeth Ashton?” Elizabeth waited for a slithering, long tongue to appear.

“Where is he?”

The Diableron’s face pressed against Elizabeth’s, her cold and damp being akin to the dense air from an underground cave. “He’sss worth dying over, mortal?”

Before Elizabeth could answer, a dim light glowed from within the demon, from the place a heart would reside, and then it wasn’t the demon at all. Elizabeth squinted as the light faded, and in the Diableron’s place was an image she couldn’t accept. She blinked to make sure she saw it correctly.

“Beth,” a shaky voice said. His blue eyes were bloodshot and sunk-in, his head shaved, his tall body scrawny, and his face glistening with sweat. Desperation fueled him as he grasped the collar of her jacket. “Help me, please. They’re gonna kill me, Beth.”

Elizabeth’s jaw fell slack as she recoiled, and tears welled in her eyes. “Willem,” she said in a painful breath.

“How could you let me die?” He shook her, the sensation jarring, and blood began to pour from a hole in his chest, then from his mouth—so much blood it looked like too much to fit in a human body. He brought his hands to his chest and gagged, then coughed blood all over her in the way he’d done the last time she saw him. She hyperventilated, his face swirling in her vision. She’d been brave at his death once before. She had no bravery left.

“No, Willem…I tried,” she sobbed.

“You killed me.” With blood still pouring from his mouth, he grasped her jacket again, and her chest shuddered. Through the blood, he shouted, “You killed me!”

She shook her head, beyond words.

Then his face transformed, grew younger. Even his hair grew, and every stage of his life passed in reverse on his face, until it was the face of a seven-year-old boy—the same as the one she remembered most, the one in her locket. “Bethy?” he said in the boyish voice she had almost forgotten, the one that knocked the air from her lungs yet again. He looked around in confusion. He brought a hand to his face then pulled it away, viewing the blood on his small, childish fingers. With eyes enlarging, he screamed, the prepubescent sound catching in his throat. “Bethy!” They seemed to hyperventilate at the same time. “Bethy, what’s wrong with me?”

“Will, it’s all right,” she managed.

He sobbed in confusion, as though the demon had plucked him from the past and placed him before her. Even the cowlick that used to spring up at the crown of his head danced with his movement. “Did you hurt me?” he asked with betrayal in his eyes, and she shook her head. “Why would you hurt me?”

“No, Will, I would never hurt you!” She tried reaching for him, tried not to let him see her sob. But he’d never been covered in so much blood. “You’re going to be all right,” she assured, but through her weeping it sounded less than convincing.

He grasped her jacket, pleading as blood began to escape his nose in addition to his chest and mouth. All she wanted to do was save her young, helpless brother, and she couldn’t escape this damn tree. “You can’t let me die, Bethy! Don’t let me!” As his face grew more ashen, his voice weakened, and so did her limbs. His blue Dr. Seuss shirt—his favorite—was covered in so much blood that Thing One and Thing Two were unrecognizable, and she hoped she could get the blood out, that she could get it clean for him again.

Her stomach rose, her head spun, and she closed her eyes, trying to breathe, trying to replace his bloodied image with a different one—one that didn’t pull her under. “It’s all right, Willem,” she barely managed in a breath. She thought of him in the park with her and their father. Laughing. It was the best image.

An image: that’s all this was. It wasn’t real, he wasn’t real. The Diableron.

“You’re not real,” she said, eyes still closed.

“Beth,” Willem said, his voice now the adult version of him, the same choking one from the night of his death.

“No.” Her voice found strength. She lifted her chin. Staring into eyes that weren’t really her brother’s, she said, “You aren’t Willem.”

With the disappearance of her brother, darkness and the demon appeared before her, and as it had the first time, the horrifying sight startled her. Behind the angry, melting face—the face that would have given her nightmares as a child and the face she was sure could transform into a most beautiful Aglaé—the black, spear-like tail raised. It came to her neck, rubbing its cool wetness over Elizabeth’s skin, and just when it retracted, about to strike, the creature was thrown from her. Elizabeth fell to the ground, trying to adjust her eyes to the swift movement of shapes in the darkness. Snorts and grunts gave the beast away, ones that could belong only to him.

He tossed the Diableron into a hemlock, and with a piercing cry she fell to the ground. The beast stood on all fours, snarling at the dark silhouette that rose with difficulty. They circled each other, she hissing and he growling.

He roared, making her retreat, and lunged for her, his fangs tearing into her neck. It wasn’t until he howled that Elizabeth realized Diableron’s tail had penetrated his side. While a black, mist-like substance poured from her neck and lifted into the air, she retracted her tail from deep in the beast’s flesh.

“Beast!” Elizabeth called, running to him.

While Diableron writhed on the ground, he threw a warning at Elizabeth. Stay away!

Then, in a less commanding, muddled tone, she heard, Elizabeth? and he fell to the ground.

Her knees skidded through the mud and came to a stop before him. She lifted her head at another screech, but Diableron fled, slipping between the trees as quickly as the beast moved. Her last screech, which came from much farther away, was unmistakably a cry of pain.

The beast began to stand.

“Stay,” Elizabeth said, trying to push him down. She moved her hands over his fur until she reached the blood on his left side, warm and wet and spilling. She ripped off her jacket, rolled it up, and pressed it hard into the wound. He howled again, writhing, and she tried shushing him. “It’s all right,” she soothed. “You’re going to be all right.” Her face was wet, not from the tears she’d shed for Willem, but from new ones. She wiped them on her upper arm, still putting pressure on his wound.

Elizabeth, leave, he said, and she shook her head before the words finished in her mind.

“I’m not leaving you.” She looked all around, trying not to panic. He didn’t have long before the poison would overtake him, and if she didn’t do something about his wound soon, she would lose him.

“I need you to walk,” she said after a sniffle, trying to make her voice strong. “Can you do that, Beast?”

Leave me. His eyes drifted. Go home. He said it over and over again. You’re not…safe.

She shook him, and his large, brown-and-gold eyes met hers, though they appeared out of focus. “You listen to me,” she said through her teeth. “She’s gone now, I’m fine. I’m not leaving you, and I can’t carry you. So you’ll either walk with me, or I’ll stay right here with you all night. What’s it going to be?”

As though his deep groan commanded it, he slowly rose to all fours. His legs shook and his head swayed. She lifted her long-sleeved thermal shirt over her head and yanked her arms out of the sleeves, leaving her in her white camisole. She pushed her back upward against his side, to both steady him and supply pressure on the wound, and as quickly as she could, she tied her shirt sleeve to her jacket sleeve. Behind her he wavered, and she pushed her back more forcefully into his side, digging her boots into the soil.

At her release of her pressure, blood began to pour from his side again, and as quickly as she could, she threw one end of the makeshift bandage over his back and retrieved it from underneath, pulling it tight around the thinnest part of his waist. She positioned it with the hood of her jacket balled up over the wound then pulled it tighter before tying the opposite sleeves together. It was almost too short and in the long run wouldn’t do much, especially because blood already saturated it.

“Let’s go,” she rushed. She shoved her shoulder into the wound and steadied him with her hands, trying to be the best support she could be. But she was nearly helpless with a creature so large; if he fell on her, she would be crushed. His legs wobbled and his steps seemed difficult, and words floated in and out of her mind: her name amidst random, incoherent thoughts. “I need you to focus,” she said, trying to guide him in the right direction. But he wouldn’t allow her to guide him to her home. Instead they veered toward the mansion.

The stone wall wasn’t far ahead, but his front legs nearly gave out and he stumbled. She steadied him, urgency giving her limbs strength. “Stay with me, we’re almost there.”

After a few more feet he stumbled again, and she moved just in time for him to fall face-first to the ground. “Beast, get up!” she shouted, shaking him.

Leave me…Elizabeth. He laid his head on the ground, his eyes closing and opening with a heavy drowsiness she could almost feel herself.

“No!” She shook him again, even pulled on his ears. “Please.” She tried not to notice his blood, everywhere. “You’ll be all right if you go with me…”

Don’t cry, he said. With his eyes safely behind closed lids, hers desperately searched the area. There had to be something she could do. She couldn’t leave him out here.

Then she knew. His eyes remained closed when she spoke, and if any of him remained inside, she hoped he could hear. “I’ll be right back,” she said, close to his ear. “I’m not going to leave you. I’m going to get help.”

He moaned, moving his head as though he objected, but she ran anyway, through the trees, until she slammed into the wrought iron fence around his mansion. After sprinting to the gate, she pushed the green button on the panel, panting. She buckled over, resting her hands on her knees as she waited, trying to steady her breathing, but she didn’t have time to wait. She pushed it again, and then again. Finally, a buzz sounded and Arne’s voice came over the intercom.

“Who is this?”

“Arne!” she said in relief, nearly attacking the box with excitement. “Arne, I need you!”

“Elizabeth?” The video screen came to life and a grayscale Arne with disheveled hair appeared. His tired eyes widened, and she didn’t want to know what bloody image his screen displayed. He straightened. “What happened, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, but Henry isn’t. I need your help.” Her voice cut off as her chest closed in on her again, a sob rising to her throat. She tried to breathe.

“Elizabeth.”

She straightened and wiped her face with the back of her hands. “He’s going to die.”

“Elizabeth, Henry is…” He appeared conflicted.

“Dammit, Arne, I know! I’ve known for a while, so you don’t need to cover for him. What you need to do is get out here and help me get him home!”

“I’ll be right there,” and the screen went black.

***

Elizabeth allowed Arne a moment, fighting her impatience. It was lonely under the night sky, even with the chirps of insects, and her chest shuddered with urgency. Within the trees, a yellow square of light reminded her she never turned off her bedroom light. How many people had heard the brawl, and how hadn’t Arne?

Just when panic began flooding in, the gate opened and Arne jogged from the mansion, wearing a robe over his pajamas and house shoes on his feet. As soon as he met her, she ran into the forest, hoping he could keep up. She shoved branches aside as she ran and when she reached Henry, nearly skidding to a stop at his side, from behind her Arne breathed, “Dear God.”

He knelt beside her. “What happened?” he asked in a rush, shining a small flashlight over the makeshift bandage. Nearly the entire ensemble had been dyed a rich, dark red.

“Stabbed by a Diableron.” His eyes were full of questions when they shot to hers—not questions about what Diablerons were, but questions about how she knew. “There’s no time to explain, but the poison is taking over and we need to figure out how to get him home so I can fix him before he bleeds out.”

Arne grasped the beast’s fur in his fist and yanked, something painful enough to wake him if any consciousness remained inside, and the beast opened his eyes, baring his wild and ferocious fangs. “It’s all right,” Arne said. “It’s me.” After a short second, he nodded. “Yes, it’s Arne.” Elizabeth stayed at Henry’s bottom half, putting more pressure on the wound, and tepid blood oozed from her jacket as she pushed, like excess water squeezed from a sponge. The slimy, slick texture left an unsettling flutter in her stomach, but a deep breath steadied her. Arne threw her a quick glance then added, “Yes, yes, Elizabeth is fine. I need you to come home with me so we can get you mended, all right?”

A pause.

“Yes, you can. You have to.”

The beast’s eyes, covered with an opaque glaze, began to drift again and Arne yanked harder on his fur, making him snarl again. “Now!” Arne commanded. “Up!”

It took him a moment, but he stood, and with Elizabeth at his end and Arne supporting his front, they eventually guided him through the gate and his large front door. The beast stumbled and swayed, and didn’t seem aware of her.

She couldn’t stare at the interior of his darkened mansion, since she focused all her energy on keeping him upright, and just when they got to a large room off the foyer—a sitting room—he collapsed on the floor, lying again on his side. The floor felt like marble, she thought as she knelt next to him, and when Arne flipped on a light switch, illuminating a massive, elaborate chandelier above, she saw it was marble, swirled with black and grey. One foot from where he fell lay a large, intricate rug, covering most of the cold, unforgiving floor. But the only thing registering—besides her blood-stained arms and clothes, and a bloody strand of hair hanging over her eyes—was him, his fur caked in more blood than seemed humanly possible.

Frantically, she felt for a pulse, not knowing where she might find one on a creature like him. But he was human inside, so she put her index and middle fingers together and pressed them against the top of his trunk-like neck, beneath his long jaw bone. She closed her eyes, visualizing the blood-flow in his carotid and willing the pulse to come through his thick skin and fur. It knocked against her fingertips then, ever so faintly: more heightened than usual and only slightly unsteady. “I’ll need to get medical supplies. Maybe from Doc—”

“We have them,” Arne said. “Once in a while, when he gets into it with a wolf or bear, they come in handy. And of course when Eustace shot him last month…”

“What do you have?” she asked, pressing harder on the wound. He wasn’t all the way under because he groaned again, his hind leg twitching. She wondered what went on inside his head, and even though she knew it was, she prayed it wasn’t nightmares.

Arne ran from the room and behind him called, “Everything but local anesthetic!” He returned only seconds later, holding two large black duffle bags. “Sutures, bandages, dressing, and even morphine.”

She looked to him in surprise.

“We had to be prepared for anything,” he said with a shrug.

“How old is the morphine?”

“I cycle through it. The last time I restocked was eight months ago.”

“How did you…?”

“Elizabeth, Henry’s resources are unlimited. We have our ways.”

She looked to the side. “The morphine will relieve any pain he’s feeling, and it may even dull the effects of the poison.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t. I don’t know anything about how it’ll react. It could be deadly if the poison was chemical, but since it’s probably a biotoxin…” They stared into each other’s eyes, words not needed. The information on Diableron toxin in her book lacked medical details, if she recalled correctly, but it did mention that the toxin put the brain in some hypnotic, vacant-yet-sleepless state, and that while in that state, victims experience the most excruciating pain known to man, that can, eventually, put them into cardiac arrest. Besides, Henry’s heart rate was more rapid than she’d ever noticed, so the toxin couldn’t be an opioid of any kind. Which meant complications weren’t likely to occur if she injected morphine.

Finally, Arne nodded. “Do it. Do whatever your gut tells you, Elizabeth. Yours is one of the only ones I trust.”

She didn’t allow herself time to doubt what her gut told her, and before she knew it, she was opening one of the boxes holding an eight milligram morphine carpuject cartridge. The liquid was pale yellow in color, almost clear, and she was grateful it hadn’t expired, that Arne had been vigilant enough to keep it stocked. Opening a sterile syringe, she popped off the caps and connected the blunt tip to the cartridge, drawing up all the medication. She shoved it into the robust muscle of his backside—his glutes, if he were in human form—and successfully injected all eight milligrams.

He twitched.

The next instant he jerked into a crouch, his claw ripping down her forearm and forcing a shriek from her chest.

Cradling her arm, she scrambled back until her spine pressed against the wall, her breathing sharp. She made eye contact, but he wasn’t Henry right now, or even the monster he sometimes pretended to be. He was wild and violent, and his eyes said he didn’t know who he was. Arne backed up next to her. “It’s all right,” he said, lifting his hands, and the beast snarled, following it with a deafening roar. They both flinched. “It’s me, Henry: Arne.”

The beast’s eyes began to go slack again, and with a final growl, they rolled to the back of his head and he fell to his side.

Arne stared, slack-jawed. “How much did you give him?”

Still holding her arm, blood seeping through her fingers, she watched the beast on the floor, his chest lifting and falling in a slow and deep breathing pattern—like it did when he fell asleep. “Eight milligrams,” she answered. She’d been taught to start a patient off slow—one or two milligrams. But some people can get ten milligrams safely and judging by the beast’s size, it was only a matter of time before he would need more. Thankfully, there were four more unopened cartridges of morphine and even more unopened syringes.

Before she could dwell on her own pain, or even allow herself to look at it, she released her arm and crawled back to the beast. “In a few minutes I’ll inject more. In the meantime, help me stop the bleeding.”

“Your arm, Elizabeth.”

“It’s fine.” With her hand pushed onto his wound, she tried untying the sleeves around him with her other.

“It’s not, and Henry would want you to take care of—”

“I’m not doing what Henry would want,” she interrupted, turning to him while her hands still worked. She tried to remain steady, but her hands shook and her arm burned, from deep in her muscle. Her back and shoulder muscles were sore, too, from pushing so hard and steadying him so long. “Henry isn’t awake, and right now I’m calling the shots.” She looked back to the beast as she took a large wad of new bandage with her free hand—real bandage—and topped it over the hood, placing more pressure on the area—as much as her strength allowed.

Kneeling beside her, Arne sloppily wrapped her arm with a roll of bandage. She flinched, still unable to look. “This will have to do then, until you get him taken care of. But I do think it’ll need stitches.” She glanced at him, nodding, and he added, “I’m glad you’re here, Elizabeth.”

She wanted to smile, but couldn’t. Her brows pulled together instead.

“He’ll be all right, dear,” he assured. “He’s a fast healer.”

Many minutes passed in silence and with the weakening of her arms, she no longer felt blood saturating the cloth. She removed it carefully, then the jacket hood, and though blood caked his fur and surrounded the laceration, it didn’t spill from it. She worked quickly, and from the corner of her eye, her own bandage appeared saturated. Ignoring it, she opened another cartridge of morphine and another syringe. She contemplated only briefly before popping off the caps and injecting it into a different place on his glutes. Arne stood back when she did, but the beast made no movement this time.

After lathering the two-inch laceration just above his hind leg with Betadine, she opened the suture kit Arne had placed beside her. Her fingers were unsteady when readying it and doing so seemed to take an eternity.

A deep breath in, a slow one out. Closing her eyes, she tried to still her hands. Arne was silent, allowing her to work, but she felt his eyes on her arm as she hooked the beast’s furry flesh with the curved needle and weaved the thread through. It was a meticulous process and by the time she’d knotted each stitch, she wasn’t sure how much time had passed. While wiping her brow on her bare upper arm, releasing another deep breath and giving in to the tremors in her hands, she counted nine stitches—perhaps too many, a doctor would say. But right now, she was the doctor.

She snipped extra thread away. “I would say he will need these removed in a few days, but given that he heals fast…I don’t know.” Her voice shook as much as her hands.

“How long will the morphine last?”

She released a deep sigh, sitting back and resting her hands on her knees. At her stillness, pain raged in her weightless muscles and throbbing forearm. In the hopes of once again steadying her spinning head, she took another deep breath before looking at a concerned Arne. “Who knows? Four hours, maybe. I’ll check his heart rate then. He may not need more at all.” She paused. “I find it disconcerting that you have it and know nothing about the way it works.”

“I’ve never had to use it,” he said sheepishly. “Like I said, I’m glad you’re here.” He smiled.

“Arne…did you not hear him in the forest? I would bet the whole town did.”

Again, he looked sheepish. “Without my hearing aid, I don’t hear much, I’m afraid. That was one jab Eustace hit on the mark.” She had forgotten about his hearing aid, and noticed it in his ear now.

He reached a hand to her, no doubt to help her stand, and said, “I’ll let you tell me the story another time, but for now, you need to get home. You need to take care of you.” He handed her another suture set and she recoiled.

“I’m not leaving, Arne.” She knelt over Henry again. “Will you please get me some warm water and rags? A towel, too?”

“Elizabeth, let me handle the cleaning. You need to fix yourself up, or Henry will have me hung for not taking care of you.”

She didn’t look at him. “I’m not finished.”

He sighed, but after a moment left the room. Upon his return, he placed a large glass bowl of warm water beside her, as well as three terrycloth rags and a large towel. She dipped a rag in the water, where it swirled with red from the blood on her hands. First, she gently wiped the incision site, cleaning away extra blood and Betadine. After rinsing the rag, she cleaned his neck, where the blood on her hands had transferred to his fur. She washed as much of him as possible, and that was when the other cuts on his hind leg reared their ugly faces: claw or teeth marks, possibly from when he and Diableron had fought before Elizabeth found them. The flesh was ripped and raw, but not deep enough for stitches, and she took extra care when cleaning them. When she finished, she dried him with the towel as best as she could.

When she looked up, Arne held the other suture kit in her direction, eyebrow raised. “Your turn now.” He handed her a bottle of vodka and added, “Just in case.” Then a clean and folded t-shirt, one she assumed was Henry’s. “You can change into this after you clean yourself up.”

She took them both, even though she was practically used to the fire in her forearm by now. He directed her to the closest bathroom, and when she was inside, safe behind the closed door, she braced herself on the sink and released a breath as though she’d been holding it the whole time. With uneven exhalations, she bent over the sink, her tears filling it, and again it amazed her how easily they came, when they had been absent for so many years.

After a moment, she gathered the courage to look at her arm. She unwrapped the bandage to find three large scrapes, two superficial, but one deep. It opened like a ragged canyon, a view of her muscle at the bottom. She tried not to give in to lightheadedness as she cleaned it and then took a long, burning swig of the alcohol, coughing afterward. It burned her nostrils and esophagus, and her head shook in response. She took another swig, coughing again. Then, with a deep breath, she began stitching the slice down her arm, biting down hard on the leather suture case as she exhaled heavily through her teeth. She even groaned a few times, especially because the time it took felt endless. The canyon of a slice was at least three inches long, and just like the beast’s incision, she hadn’t known how many stitches she’d tied until the end. And just like the beast’s incision, she ended up doing nine, even though the wound was longer.

More than her hand trembled now, and with a weak sigh, she looked around the bathroom the size of her bedroom at her old apartment. This bathroom, just like the sitting room, was all marble—floor and countertop. She stripped and turned on one of the shower heads, standing eagerly beneath it. Leaning against the tile wall, she let it wash over her head and down her body, taking all the blood with it. The water burned hotter than she usually liked, but it jerked her back to life. It brought all her senses into focus and left her buckling over in the shower, breaking down until she forced herself to breathe.