Gemini

Chapter 2* Faith, Trust and Pixie Dust

Chapter 2* Faith, Trust and Pixie Dust

The roars are getting closer, now accompanied by heavy footsteps. My pulse speeds up the way it does when the gods are around. After a year of close shaves I’d hoped it would stop doing that, but no such luck.

The cloying scent of grapevines get stronger and stronger, until it is like a wad of cotton full of the stuff is being stuffed under my nose. Wrinkling my nose in disgust, I bury my head between my knees and wait.

Sweat pours down my back. The air becomes unbearably stuffy, but I remain completely still. Dionysus walks past the warehouse without stopping, and finally he has turned the corner and disappeared, taking the scent of grapevines with him.

Standing up, I blow out a breath and shake out my auburn hair. The air is blessedly cool on my skin. Re-energized, I draw my dagger and scan the dark corners of the warehouse.

I see nothing. Since I am standing in full view, I don’t bother to hide. “Who is there?”

No one replies, but then again I don’t expect anyone to. Taking a step further into the darkness, I repeat my question, this time more forcefully.

I don’t know what I am expecting. A roar and something flying out at me perhaps, or a voice snarling, “I’m going to eat you.” Cannibals. But neither of my wild guesses happen, instead it is a weak, small voice, calling out, “Help…” in the darkness.

It comes from my left so I turn there, holding out my knife. “Who is it?” I demand. Then I see it.

A dark shape lying in the corner, propped up against the brick wall. The arm is twisted at an odd angle. Approaching cautiously, I realize I am looking at a boy.

He is seventeen or eighteen, no older than me. He has brown hair that flops endearingly into his eyes, which are closed. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his chest rising and falling quickly with his shallow breathing.

A sharp gasp escapes me as I see the wound on his arm. It is fresh and disgusting, oozing rivulets of viscous blood down his arm. The cut looks vicious.

“What happened?” I can’t help asking. Shaking his head, he passes out. His hand slumps down beside his body, the cut face down on the ground. Quickly I race to him, gingerly lifting up his arm and placing it in a safe position on his torso. His skin is cold. Good. At least he isn’t burning up with fever yet.

Sighing, I ponder what to do next. It doesn’t seem right to just leave him alone until his wound festers and rots and him along with it. No, I have to do something! But my mother used to say that I had the hands of a fighter, not a healer. I used to think ‘fighter’ meant fighting with particularly vicious math papers, but now I understand. Bottom line is: I can’t heal.

I won’t touch the wound, I decide. Reaching for my bottle of Evian water, I dribble some, bit by bit, into his mouth. Thankfully he swallows. Then I rip off a strip of his shirt and wet it, using it to scrub his skin clean. Of course I steer clear of his injured arm.

Once the layer of grime is gone, I can see that he is handsome. Close up his hair isn’t really brown, it has streaks of mahogany and gold too. It reminds me of autumn, I think with a wistful smile. After forcing more water between his lips I settle down to wait.

I must have dozed off at some point, because I jerk awake when he stirs. Instantly the dagger is in my hand even though a part of me knows he can’t possibly hurt me. Through bleary brown eyes he gazes at me, then goes out like a light.

Blowing out a breath, I feel a surge of irritation. Can’t he just wake up already? Reaching into my pouch I take out a piece of stale vegetable to gnaw on. The taste is sour on my tongue, but food is food.