Dust

XXIII

         

Once I was able to separate myself from Gael, we called Sloane and told her we had a live rogue on our hands, and she sent hunters to get the wolf back to headquarters, after reprimanding us for endangering ourselves. Damien made sure she knew that we were all very aware of our own stupidity, and then we all headed home, Gael still sore and me still fatigued. The three of us came home only to get a second lecture from my mother; I sit now at the windowsill in my bedroom, a mug of hot herbal tea pressed in between my palms. Just by resting, I've already built up a little bit more of my energy, but that's not to say I won't be sleeping easy tonight.

    Mother has gone to tuck Finn back into bed, who apparently was awakened by her yelling at us for nearly getting ourselves killed, and Damien is checking on Gael in the living room. Damien told me before I came here that I should go drink my tea and rest, and that he would double check if Gael was okay.

    I sip my tea and look down at my bare feet, wiggling my toes. Cool air from the night presses against the glass, and I can feel it, as distant as a fading photograph. It has to be at least in the early morning hours by now, and I know I should sleep, but I can't, not yet. The buzz of hunting, as it always does, has caught me in its talons, and there will be a significant amount of time before it releases me.

    A knock sounds, and Damien peeks his head in the room, smiling when he sees me. "How did I know you weren't going to be asleep?"

    "I don't know," I say, setting down the tea and resting my hands on my knees instead. "Because you know everything?"

    Damien chuckles, coming around to sit on the edge of my bed, facing me. He sits with his legs apart, fingers interlaced between them. His shoulders hunch forward as he studies me, his smile shrinking as it becomes rueful. "You should know...if you had killed yourself healing Gael, I would never have forgiven you."

    "Why hold a grudge against a dead person?"

    "You've held grudges against me before."

    "Touché," I say, "but that's not quite the same. Plus—I knew what I was doing. It takes a lot to be killed by your own powers, Dame."

    "I know," Damien says, sitting up as he folds his lanky legs, drawing them from the floor. His eyes, narrow and beautiful, are warning but congenial on me. "It's happened before, though—healers exhausting themselves and not coming back from it. I wouldn't want to see that happen to you."
     "Gael would have died," I counter, then swing around on the sill, my toes brushing the floor. "Is he okay?"

    Damien's smile widens evanescently, gaze dropping to the floor. "Yeah, he's perfect. Sore, but perfect. He's down in the arena."

    My eyebrow raises. "What's he doing in the arena?"

    Damien shrugs, rising to his feet and coming over to me. With me seated and him standing, he towers over me, making me feel shorter than usual. Pushing my hair back from my forehead, he pecks me there, letting his hand slide down my cheek. "I don't know, maybe returning the weapons he technically stole. I'm going to head home, alright? You've got work tomorrow, so don't stay up too late."

    "You're not my mother, Damien Sung."

    "I can be whatever I want to be," he teases, sticking out his tongue at me. He grins. "I love you, Gemma." He then vanishes into thin air, leaving behind those few tendrils of black smoke-like mist.

    I leave my bedroom and enter the kitchen, where the overhead chandelier has been left on. Switching it off, I confirm that Gael's couch—because it is his couch now—is empty, and open the door to head down to the training arena.