here.”
Sean ignored her. “Let Andrea touch you, Ely. She can ease the pain.”
Ely dragged in a shallow breath. “Hell, I’m all for that.”
Andrea felt the waves of outrage from Ely’s children, from Ely’s father, even from the nurse. Collars or no, these Shifters were on the verge of violence. If Andrea made one wrong move, they’d take her down. They might do it anyway, angry at her for being here at this private time. If Andrea had any sense, she’d shake off Sean, rush back out to the truck, and take off. She’d heard the River Walk was nice this time of year ...
But Andrea couldn’t walk away. That was the problem with the healing gift—she couldn’t look upon Ely’s suffering and turn her back on it. She’d never deny a man relief from pain just because his family’s anger made her uncomfortable.
Sean eased the blanket from Ely’s torso and parted the hospital gown, and Andrea stifled a gasp. Ely’s pale abdomen was crisscrossed with pink puckered wounds held together with steri-tape where surgeons had tried to sew his shredded insides back together. Half his stomach had been gouged out by the look of things, and unhealthy red streaks striped his stomach. This man was chopped up, infected, dying.
His hurts were well beyond Andrea’s gift. The most she could do was ease Ely’s pain, perhaps make his death easier. She glanced at Sean, and he gave her the faintest of nods, telling her he understood.
Andrea let out her breath, ducked out from under Sean’s arm, and laid her hands very carefully on Ely’s abdomen.
Ely grunted, and the machines beeped faster. The sons and daughter started forward, only to be curtailed by Dylan.
“Let her do what she can,” Dylan ordered. He outranked them, and the others fell silent.
“Go on, love,” Sean said softly.
Andrea closed her eyes. Whenever she used her healing gift, she visualized a snarl of threads that she had to untangle and lay straight. Sometimes it was easy to unravel the hurt, as it had been with Ronan last night, sometimes impossible.
Ely was pretty tangled up. From the shredded mess inside him, Andrea could tell he hadn’t been shot with a simple pistol. An automatic weapon had done this, probably with bullets that expanded on the inside and did bad things. To think, humans put the Collars on the Shifters.
Andrea pictured herself working out the threads, one by one, as though she pulled apart a mangled attempt at a complicating knitting pattern. This would take time, and she wasn’t certain Ely had time. The man bravely sucked in breath after breath, but despite whatever painkiller he’d been given, Andrea knew that it wasn’t adequate for the high metabolism of a Shifter. His pain had to be intense.
With her eyes closed and the healing flowing, Andrea could see the faint aura of each person around her. Ely’s fire was at the lowest ebb, warmed somewhat by his mate’s next to him. The sons, daughter, and father had formed a circle around the bed, ready to begin the ritual of grieving. Dylan, a hotter fire, still holding the quivering human nurse, stood behind them.
And Sean? He was like a living flame. There could be no doubt to anyone with the slightest hint of magic that Sean Morrissey was Goddess blessed. Andrea had a vague idea of how Guardians became Guardians—the sword passed in a ritual to an of-age member of the clan who was closely related to the old Guardian—a son or nephew or grandson—but there must be more to it than that.
Sean was an upright fire, the sword a gleam of brightness on his back. He had no Fae blood in him, but even so, the glitter of magic wound tightly through him, independent of the sword.
Andrea’s sudden insight told her it wasn’t just the Sword of the Guardian that sent the Shifter into the afterlife. It was the combination of the sword and what was in the man, the Guardian himself. Did Sean know that?
Ely’s wound was impossible. Andrea knew she’d never be able to help him, not
Sean ignored her. “Let Andrea touch you, Ely. She can ease the pain.”
Ely dragged in a shallow breath. “Hell, I’m all for that.”
Andrea felt the waves of outrage from Ely’s children, from Ely’s father, even from the nurse. Collars or no, these Shifters were on the verge of violence. If Andrea made one wrong move, they’d take her down. They might do it anyway, angry at her for being here at this private time. If Andrea had any sense, she’d shake off Sean, rush back out to the truck, and take off. She’d heard the River Walk was nice this time of year ...
But Andrea couldn’t walk away. That was the problem with the healing gift—she couldn’t look upon Ely’s suffering and turn her back on it. She’d never deny a man relief from pain just because his family’s anger made her uncomfortable.
Sean eased the blanket from Ely’s torso and parted the hospital gown, and Andrea stifled a gasp. Ely’s pale abdomen was crisscrossed with pink puckered wounds held together with steri-tape where surgeons had tried to sew his shredded insides back together. Half his stomach had been gouged out by the look of things, and unhealthy red streaks striped his stomach. This man was chopped up, infected, dying.
His hurts were well beyond Andrea’s gift. The most she could do was ease Ely’s pain, perhaps make his death easier. She glanced at Sean, and he gave her the faintest of nods, telling her he understood.
Andrea let out her breath, ducked out from under Sean’s arm, and laid her hands very carefully on Ely’s abdomen.
Ely grunted, and the machines beeped faster. The sons and daughter started forward, only to be curtailed by Dylan.
“Let her do what she can,” Dylan ordered. He outranked them, and the others fell silent.
“Go on, love,” Sean said softly.
Andrea closed her eyes. Whenever she used her healing gift, she visualized a snarl of threads that she had to untangle and lay straight. Sometimes it was easy to unravel the hurt, as it had been with Ronan last night, sometimes impossible.
Ely was pretty tangled up. From the shredded mess inside him, Andrea could tell he hadn’t been shot with a simple pistol. An automatic weapon had done this, probably with bullets that expanded on the inside and did bad things. To think, humans put the Collars on the Shifters.
Andrea pictured herself working out the threads, one by one, as though she pulled apart a mangled attempt at a complicating knitting pattern. This would take time, and she wasn’t certain Ely had time. The man bravely sucked in breath after breath, but despite whatever painkiller he’d been given, Andrea knew that it wasn’t adequate for the high metabolism of a Shifter. His pain had to be intense.
With her eyes closed and the healing flowing, Andrea could see the faint aura of each person around her. Ely’s fire was at the lowest ebb, warmed somewhat by his mate’s next to him. The sons, daughter, and father had formed a circle around the bed, ready to begin the ritual of grieving. Dylan, a hotter fire, still holding the quivering human nurse, stood behind them.
And Sean? He was like a living flame. There could be no doubt to anyone with the slightest hint of magic that Sean Morrissey was Goddess blessed. Andrea had a vague idea of how Guardians became Guardians—the sword passed in a ritual to an of-age member of the clan who was closely related to the old Guardian—a son or nephew or grandson—but there must be more to it than that.
Sean was an upright fire, the sword a gleam of brightness on his back. He had no Fae blood in him, but even so, the glitter of magic wound tightly through him, independent of the sword.
Andrea’s sudden insight told her it wasn’t just the Sword of the Guardian that sent the Shifter into the afterlife. It was the combination of the sword and what was in the man, the Guardian himself. Did Sean know that?
Ely’s wound was impossible. Andrea knew she’d never be able to help him, not
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