Marcus' Prey

Chapter Five

"Not the time, little one," he admonished, impervious to her wicked glare. I was sure the only thing keeping her from retaliating was her concern for me, which was flattering. Not much could make Amirykal let shit go.

We staggered into the dojo like a six-legged, clumsy, ugly-ass chimera, and Raphael jerked his head up in surprise. His gaze zeroed in on me instantly, undoubtedly sensing the pain signals radiating off me in waves. He stepped forward, his tawny wings shivering and his blue eyes, eerily similar to his brother's, alight and focused. He brushed a finger to my forehead before I could warn him against it, and his body went rigid, legs buckling beneath him and forcing him to lean heavily against the wall.

"Fuck, Raphe, are you-"

He waved away Ammi's concern, and spoke from behind clenched teeth, "Lay him down on the mat, I'll see what I can do." He grimaced, "though, if past cases are to be trusted, soon we'll not have to worry about him being in pain."

"Just what do you mean by that, Raphe?" Ammi pressed, but abruptly switched focus as I let out a muffled groan of pain.

I hissed out a sharp breath from between tightly clenched teeth as Ammi and Luce lowered me to the floor, the frigid stone a harsh contrast to my overheated skin. A sharp shard of agony shot its way down my spine, pulling a feral sound from my frozen lips.

I looked warily up at Raphael, who, for an angel of healing, had a tendency to harm rather than heal. Or, more accurately, he had a tendency to hurt me rather than healing me. The feeling was very much mutual, I might add. He was a barely tolerable shit-stirrer, as far as I was concerned. He reminded me too much of Hermes, who, though by himself was a rather likeable god, was an irrepressible father's boy. And I hated his father with a passion rivaling the flames of Tartarus.

And then there was the inescapable reality: magical healing required a deep, intimate connection between the healer and their patient, and I wasn't sure just how deep the archangel would have to go.

When I'd been stitched up by Raphael in the past, I'd at least had some semblance of control, some part of myself to throw up and shield myself with. This would be raw and gritty in a way I doubted either of us were prepared for. My natural Greek suspicion was roaring deep in my chest, warning me to slice the angel's hand from his wrist if he attempted to touch me. Unfortunately, my limbs were heavier than lead and I had long ago lost the ability to heal myself. So, archangel juju it was.

"This will hurt, daemon," he warned, though he didn't sound too broken up about it. His hands lowered, and I vaguely heard Ammi mutter something about Raphe "needing to work on his bedside manner" before my world was agony.

My jaw locked with such force I feared my teeth would shatter. My back bowed, each vertebra clicking into place one by one and feeling as if they were grinding against one another. The pain was indescribable, as if every cell in my body were bursting, my organs liquifying in my chest.

Evidently, some dying dregs of my godhood remained, for the sensation, as unbearable as it may have been, wasn't enough to cast me into the blissful realm of the unconscious. My mind was sharp as ever, and I began to feel sympathy for the titan Atlas. Surely this pain was comparable to holding the cosmos on one's shoulders.

Then, praise Chaos, as quickly as it struck the pain abated.

Then, an entirely new sort of pain began.

Where was my mate?

My attention was abruptly shaken when Raphael groaned, slumping to the ground heavily. I relaxed abruptly against the unforgiving floor, my now sweat-slicked skin ice cold against the unforgiving stone beneath me. I barely registered Raphael's jolting rise from the floor, the sounds of metal ringing against leather as his broadsword was yanked roughly from its scabbard.