disappeared. Which wasn’t . . . right. I could remember my urgency from only seconds before, but it was gone. I didn’t feel it at all.
My skin prickled, but not just with fever. An oppressive hush seemed to fall around us, like the tension in a horror movie—just before you knew something awful was going to happen.
“God,” whispered Grant, with such quiet shock and revulsion, I felt frightened.
That, and he almost never took the Lord’s name in vain. Even now, him saying God sounded more like a prayer, or a cry for help.
“What?” I croaked, opening my eyes. “What happened?”
He sat back, trembling, something terrible in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”
I suffered a chill, which would have been welcome if it hadn’t been full of dread. “Grant.”
“I made you feel something against your will,” he whispered.
I stared at him, listening to his words, feeling them—and that same deep hush flowed through me, settling heavy around my heart.
My heart, flickering warm and golden with our bond. It had not faded. Not even a little.
I thought for a moment but felt no anger. Just incredible sadness. “I’m not . . . worried about the boys anymore. Is that what you did?”
Grant closed his eyes and shuddered. “I’ll fix it.”
“No,” I said, more sharply than I intended. I tried to soften my voice, but it came out as a hoarse croak, which was almost worse. “No, I’m fine.”
But that was a lie, and he knew it. I tried reaching for him. He began to pull away, then stopped—gaunt, hollow with exhaustion. He stared at my hand with haunted eyes, and I wiggled my fingers at him.
“Please,” I whispered. “Come back.”
He swayed, as though dizzy. But after a breathless moment, his strong hand wrapped around mine, and I pulled him toward me. Or rather, I twitched him in my direction. I was barely strong enough to lift my arm.
I didn’t try reassuring him. It wouldn’t do any good. I knew Grant too well. But I refused to let go of his hand, even when he tried to free himself. He could have forced my fingers loose, but all he did was sigh and bow his head and press his cool lips against my wrist.
“You need to rest,” I rasped. “Rest with me.”
Tears glittered in his eyes. “I need to get you better, sweetheart.”
My skin was hot enough to cook an egg on, and my head felt strange. My thoughts, verging on muddled. “I’m better.”
He gave me a crooked, heartbreaking smile. “If you say so.”
I nodded and closed my eyes. I had questions for him, but the thought of talking filled me with terrible, soul-deep weariness. It could wait. Maybe the boys were gone, but Grant was here, and I was alive.
I was going to stay alive, no matter what. No fever was going to kill me.
Over my dead body, I thought, and cracked a smile.
“What’s funny?” Grant asked gruffly, and I heard a rattling sound off on my right. Another Popsicle touched my lips. Orange flavor, this time. I sucked on it, and sighed.
“Stupid joke,” I told him.
He grunted and squeezed my hand. “Sleep, Maxine. I won’t leave you.”
“Mmm,” I murmured, savoring the cool sweetness of the juice sliding down my aching throat. “I love you.”
“Love you,” he said, softly. “Love you, forever.”
TIME didn’t mean much except for the shifting of light. I slept fitfully, waking only when Grant stacked new bags of ice against my body or tried to make me drink. Sometimes I woke to find him holding ice cubes or Popsicles against my lips, letting them melt into my mouth. I worried for him. Once, I imagined blood dotting his nostrils, but my vision was still blurry—and I didn’t have the strength to ask.
No strength. Just delirium. Nightmares.
I dreamed about the boys.
I dreamed they twisted through my veins, dark as night, and poured from me in a river of shadows—ghosts and shadows—lapping at moonlight, drinking down the stars in a fever of thirst, a fever of need that ached
My skin prickled, but not just with fever. An oppressive hush seemed to fall around us, like the tension in a horror movie—just before you knew something awful was going to happen.
“God,” whispered Grant, with such quiet shock and revulsion, I felt frightened.
That, and he almost never took the Lord’s name in vain. Even now, him saying God sounded more like a prayer, or a cry for help.
“What?” I croaked, opening my eyes. “What happened?”
He sat back, trembling, something terrible in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”
I suffered a chill, which would have been welcome if it hadn’t been full of dread. “Grant.”
“I made you feel something against your will,” he whispered.
I stared at him, listening to his words, feeling them—and that same deep hush flowed through me, settling heavy around my heart.
My heart, flickering warm and golden with our bond. It had not faded. Not even a little.
I thought for a moment but felt no anger. Just incredible sadness. “I’m not . . . worried about the boys anymore. Is that what you did?”
Grant closed his eyes and shuddered. “I’ll fix it.”
“No,” I said, more sharply than I intended. I tried to soften my voice, but it came out as a hoarse croak, which was almost worse. “No, I’m fine.”
But that was a lie, and he knew it. I tried reaching for him. He began to pull away, then stopped—gaunt, hollow with exhaustion. He stared at my hand with haunted eyes, and I wiggled my fingers at him.
“Please,” I whispered. “Come back.”
He swayed, as though dizzy. But after a breathless moment, his strong hand wrapped around mine, and I pulled him toward me. Or rather, I twitched him in my direction. I was barely strong enough to lift my arm.
I didn’t try reassuring him. It wouldn’t do any good. I knew Grant too well. But I refused to let go of his hand, even when he tried to free himself. He could have forced my fingers loose, but all he did was sigh and bow his head and press his cool lips against my wrist.
“You need to rest,” I rasped. “Rest with me.”
Tears glittered in his eyes. “I need to get you better, sweetheart.”
My skin was hot enough to cook an egg on, and my head felt strange. My thoughts, verging on muddled. “I’m better.”
He gave me a crooked, heartbreaking smile. “If you say so.”
I nodded and closed my eyes. I had questions for him, but the thought of talking filled me with terrible, soul-deep weariness. It could wait. Maybe the boys were gone, but Grant was here, and I was alive.
I was going to stay alive, no matter what. No fever was going to kill me.
Over my dead body, I thought, and cracked a smile.
“What’s funny?” Grant asked gruffly, and I heard a rattling sound off on my right. Another Popsicle touched my lips. Orange flavor, this time. I sucked on it, and sighed.
“Stupid joke,” I told him.
He grunted and squeezed my hand. “Sleep, Maxine. I won’t leave you.”
“Mmm,” I murmured, savoring the cool sweetness of the juice sliding down my aching throat. “I love you.”
“Love you,” he said, softly. “Love you, forever.”
TIME didn’t mean much except for the shifting of light. I slept fitfully, waking only when Grant stacked new bags of ice against my body or tried to make me drink. Sometimes I woke to find him holding ice cubes or Popsicles against my lips, letting them melt into my mouth. I worried for him. Once, I imagined blood dotting his nostrils, but my vision was still blurry—and I didn’t have the strength to ask.
No strength. Just delirium. Nightmares.
I dreamed about the boys.
I dreamed they twisted through my veins, dark as night, and poured from me in a river of shadows—ghosts and shadows—lapping at moonlight, drinking down the stars in a fever of thirst, a fever of need that ached
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