Wings, Flings, and Demon Kings || COMPLETE

Chapter 8: For the greater good... or a lesser evil?

Content Warning: This chapter contains references to violence/torture.

And also, a really big centipede.

~*~

8:52 P.M.

Azerath's closet

They beat him up, Diary. They hurt him.

I can barely write this, my hands are shaking so badly.

8:54 P.M.

I knew something was wrong the moment I answered the phone. I could hear it in Azerath's voice.

"Nirael?"

He sounded different from our usual interactions, sad and tired, his speech strained.

"I'm sorry for calling," he said. "I probably shouldn't have. But I need a favor, and my friend's not picking up."

"Are you okay?" I asked. "You don't sound okay. Tell me the favor."

"I need some bandages. Some antiseptic, a needle and thread. And maybe some antibiotic cream. Oh, and pain medicine. A lot of pain medicine."

"What do you—for you?"

I was already panicking, certain his human body had been mangled, and his next words did nothing to assuage me.

"You can probably find it at a pharmacy, and... and I would appreciate if you could bring it to my apartment... tonight, I mean. If you can't, it's okay... I know this is a lot, and it's getting late..."

I scrambled toward the door. "What's going on?" I demanded. "Are you bleeding to death?"

"Well, there is a bit more blood than your bleeding emergency last week... but I wouldn't necessarily say 'to death'..."

I realized I had forgotten my purse and turned around, then began rummaging around the room frantically. Beneath Azerath's jesting overtones, his voice was laced with pain. There was no time to waste. "Maybe I should skip the pharmacy and head to your apartment. What if you bleed to death while I'm at the pharmacy? But if I don't get the supplies, then you'll bleed to death anyway, so maybe I should actually—"

"Nirael. Breathe."

"I am breathing." Truth be told, I was breathing too fast, and it was making me dizzy. I finally found my purse and hurried out into the chilly night. "Are you breathing?" I demanded. "Or are your lungs full of blood?"

He huffed a noise, half-sigh, half-laugh. "My lungs are fine," he said. "Just come over. Don't worry about the other things... I'll be fine—"

"You're not fine, and I'm already at the pharmacy!"

I marched up to the nearest cashier. I am ashamed to recall my behavior now, thought in the moment I was convinced I had not a moment to spare. "I need several dozen bandages, some pain medicine, some antiseptics and a needle and thread," I declared, "and I need them now!"

The poor cashier tried to explain to me that they didn't carry some of those items.

"Then bring me what you do have!" I yelled. "It's urgent!"

Three minutes later, I was on my way, with a tiny sewing kit, alcohol wipes, some rubbery elastic bandage wraps, gauze pads, an ibuprofen bottle, and six rolls of wound care tape. I could've sworn I heard the cashier mutter "Karen" as I left.

I was so distraught, I rode the elevator up and down several times before I remembered the correct floor to Azerath's apartment. When I finally arrived, it took Azerath a minute to let me in. He was bent over in a funny way, his back hunched, one hand clutching his side, and there was blood everywhere, so much blood. His entire arm and side were soaked with it. I grabbed his free arm and helped him to sit—slowly, painfully—in a chair by the kitchen table. Once there, he slumped down, exhausted, as I fluttered around him.