Lovely Demons

Part 13

The events of the day leave you bone-tired. Enough that you don't wake immediately at the sound in your room. Around the witching hour, your sleep is interrupted by the rustle of fabric. Eyes flying open, your breath catches and you pause.

On reflex, you grip the knife beneath your pillow. Pushing your sheets down, you lower one foot and reach for the window. Drawing the curtains aside, moonlight floods the room to reveal a dark figure.

Jimin sways slightly, as though drunk.

"Oh..." Faintly, he glances around. "These aren't my chambers. Excuse me."

He takes a step forward, and immediately collapses.

You stare at him on the floor, unsure what to do – until you notice the ichor pooling beneath his ribs.

Heart seizing, time itself seems to slow. Ichor is the blood of immortals; only something truly terrible could cause a puddle of that size.

Stumbling, you drop to your knees as you search for a pulse. Idiot, you scold yourself. Do High Princes even have pulses? Yanking his leather jerkin aside, you search at his throat and – feeling a faint throb – slightly relax.

Then you're on your feet, heading for the table pressed against the wall. Following the first night of your injury, you returned to your quarters and some of the healing herbs remain. Searching them now, you begin throwing plants in a ceramic bowl.

Your concoction is based on tricks learned in the Tholoss, coupled with what little herbology was taught at the Keep. Glancing at Jimin, you see the High Prince has pushed himself into a seated position. Leaning his head to your bed, his legs splay before him.

Grabbing a pestle, you grind the herbs down and splash them with water.

"Drink this," you command, crossing the room and thrusting it at his mouth.

Jimin's gaze lowers.

"It's... no use," he breathes, eyelids fluttering.

With the last of his energy, he grasps his jerkin and lifts. You fight the urge to look at his bare torso, cheeks heating, but when you glance down, your blood runs cold.

A long, angry gash mars Jimin's torso. It wouldn't seem so bad if it weren't for the wound refusing to clot. The longer you watch, the worse the wound gets.

Alarmed, you look up. "Who did this to you?"

Jimin takes a shallow breath. "What, not who."

"Well then, what did this to you?"

He leans his head to the mattress. "Relic," he says. "A powerful one I thought had been destroyed."

"And who used this relic on you?"

The faintest of smiles crosses his lips. "Now, now, witchling," Jimin chuckles. "Don't get mad on my behalf."

"But you're – drink," you repeat, thrusting the bowl again.

Jimin loosely shakes his head. "Won't work," he exhales. "This wound... it won't close... keeps bleeding... until a primordial heals me. Can't heal myself. Nasty caveat. Michael was always sadistic."

"Then I'll go find someone," you say, starting to stand. "A Spartoi – no. One of the other Princes, then. You said they need light and dark magic, or –"

Jimin's hand catches your wrist. "Stay," he murmurs.

Your gaze drops to his hand, then to his face as his eyes start to close. Frustration mounting, you drop to your knees.