Ve'Rah Daa (The Ephemeral: Book 3)

Chapter 39

My mind emptied, and the ring of water in my eyes finally made its way down my cheeks.

No...

Not Victor.

Please, please, no.

Turmoil roared in my ears, and I slammed my hand to the gravel, releasing a wave of fury and heartbreak through the leather barrier of my glove. The Pan collapsed to the ground a moment later, her murder weapon slipping from her pale hand, and with a dosage that large, I suspected she wouldn't wake again until nightfall.  

"Victor..." I whimpered, but he didn't move.

He didn't move.

Weeping, I dragged my body forward, determined to save my friend—to stop the bleeding—but putting Victor's killer to sleep had drained me, and I struggled to silence the pain in my thigh long enough to make the distance.

Come on. 

You've been through worse, Al. Push past it.

I may have rendered a battalion unconscious, and the vanadium may have infected my bloodstream, but I was stronger than ever. I was Ve'Rah Daa. I was fine. Even if the blood dripping from my nose told a different story.

Exhausted, I slumped against the concrete to catch my breath, glaring at the battlefield through my tears. Several demons had spotted our skirmish, and they marched for me now, their blades drawn, their mission evident.

A bolt of panic shot through me, and I paid a quick glance at Victor, who lay several yards away from me—soaking the rubble in blood—then at Demon-Tom, whose feet had nearly regenerated.

"Dammit!" I hissed into the dirt, my arms shaking as I attempted to crawl forward yet again. I needed to get to Victor. I had to get to Victor. "Dammit, dammit, dammit—"

"Easy," came a familiar voice, then a steadying hand on my back. The gentle, fatherly touch triggered another flood behind my lashes.

"Rover," I choked, twisting to look at his grimy face. Helmet hair clung to his forehead, and his seawater eyes gleamed with an unsaid apology. "Victor needs you. Now."

My tone killed any relief he'd cultivated, and his gaze snapped to the bodies sprawled across the debris. He quickly dashed for Victor and dragged his limp figure away from Tom—and the demon's wide, provoking grin.

"Oh no you don't," he told the bloody soldier. "You're not getting out of diaper duty that easy, Álvarez."

The smallest of laughs shook Victor's chest, and a shaky breath exploded from mine.

He's alive.

Large hands looped themselves under my armpits, and I tensed, fearing another deadly encounter. But when their owner swiftly pulled me to my feet and held me upright, I knew exactly who'd come to my rescue.

"I got you," Sol said in my ear, lifting my arm around his nape and removing the weight from my leg. There was fondness there, under his concern, but his gaze quickly latched onto Siren's husband, and any hint of joy disappeared.

Together, we hobbled toward the others, and Victor squinted up at us from Rover's lap, his clothes drenched in blood, his olive skin too pale, too sweaty.

Gritz, I wanted to curl up in a ball and scream.

"You saved me," I whispered, my face wet, my throat taut. It sounded more accusatory than grateful, but I knew he recognized the guilt on my tongue.