Cinders [Completed]

Chapter 11: The Prince's Pain

The Prince is hurt.

My mate is hurt.

My sneakers are already tied and I am halfway down the stairs before a thought floats above the cloud of urgency screaming through my brain. Mate is hurt, mate is hurt, urgent, urgent -

I pause at the base of the stairs, feeling like the wind just got punched out of me. I have to go see my mate, my mate is hurt, I have to -

I hold my hands over my ears, like it will block out the thoughts. I can't go to the Prince, I know what will happen if I go to the Prince!

My pulse is rapid in my ears. What if he was wounded in a battle for his life? What if he was attacked by an assassin? What if he was captured - or killed -

My shoes thud against the living room carpet as I pace the floor. Nausea rolls like a sea in the pit of my stomach. My mate needs me. Is this how he felt, when Dad was placing burning cinders on my back? How could I do this to him? I'm the worst wolf alive, if you can even call me a wolf. Instinctively, I know that if I just set my eyes on him - if I just saw him and knew he was alive - then this sickening blackness crawling over my body would stop, and I would know that he was safe, he just needs to be safe.

A small, weak sound of hopelessness escapes my lips. The falling snow turns white in the light of the porch lamp, appearing from the darkness like magic.

It must be early, because I stand in distressed silence for over an hour before Lucy calls out to me from the top of the stairs. 4:30. Time to get to work.

I can feel how pale and clammy I look. I can't feel the pain anymore. Does that mean that he was healed, or -

Is he dead?

"I wish I could work at the Palace with you, Lee," Lucy says as I'm helping her get ready for the day. The sky outside is still dark with night.

I smile through the nerves that still light over my body. I notice that my hands shake as I hand her her jacket. "Why's that?"

"You get to see all the fancy people, and you get to spend the whole day away. Maybe someday I can work at the Palace, and we can wash dishes together." She sends me a small smile as I strap her arms to her supports.

I wanted Lucy to be halfway through recovery from her life saving surgery. I wanted her to be taking her first real steps. If things had worked out differently, she wouldn't be wishing she could work in the palace with me. The thought turns my stomach into a sinking ship.

"Maybe we can, someday. Race to see who can finish the dishes first," I propose. Her face lights in ecstasy.

I leave Lucy polishing our extensive silverware collection in our laundry room and begin the kitchen floor.

After scrubbing it so many times, I've gotten much faster. I rinse out my rag into the bucket until it no longer drips and ignore the stinging of the soap on my hands. On the upside, scrubbing the kitchen floors in the mornings gets me out of scrubbing my own hands with my lye soap. After my night, it's almost therapeutic to feel the burning of the cleaner on my hands. It wakes me up.

The floor is still perfectly spotless from the washing I did last night. But Dad would be able to tell, and, besides, I could never lie to him. At least, not to his face. So I clean it again. The lines in the tile are spotlessly white. It reminds me of the lines in my hands, purged of dirt and life. The Prince, dead and mateless. I swallow the lump in my throat.

I'm almost halfway done when I check the time. It's already 5:45.

I have to be at the Palace at 6:30. Which means I have to leave at 6:10.

I haven't even started on my normal chores. A burst of stress immobilizes me and I stare blankly at the wall for 23 seconds before bursting into action.

Okay. Okay. This is fine.

Kitchen floor, bathroom mirrors, garbage, laundry, dusting.

This is fine.

Frenzy mode. My knuckles turn white as I scrub as vigorously as possible to the increasing pace of my heartbeat.

Bathroom mirrors, laundry, dusting.

20 minutes later, I hurriedly take care of the wood polish and have covered my arms in an appropriately scent-covering amount of lemon juice and perfume. The habit makes me think of the Prince, and the falling likelihood that he is dead. I know I'm forgetting something, what am I forgetting?

Kitchen floors, dusting, mirrors, laundry.

Floors, dusting, mirrors -

Garbage. I need to bring the garbage to the curb.

Surreptitiously, just as this thought arrives, I hear a distant crash from outside.

Lucy.

"Lucy!" I run from the front door just as Lucy hits the icy ground.

Her tiny body is still crumpled low on the snowy driveway. I rush to her side, thankful that the grips on my sneakers keep me from tumbling sideways.

"Lucy, Lucy!"

I kneel down next to her and tilt her head upward. Her cheeks are almost as pale as the snow, but her eyes are alert and alarmed.

"I just - I just slipped on the ice. I wanted. I wanted to - to take the garbage to the curb, because you were late. You were late because I was going so slow this morning, and I wanted to help, but I slipped - I slipped on the ice," she stutters in slow speech, tears gathering in her eyes and spilling over her cheeks.

"It's okay, come on."

Even for my subpar werewolf body, Lucy is ridiculously easy to carry into the house. Her boney arms wrap around my shoulders, her supports clinking together where they lie across her stomach. When I place her on the couch, her lips are still pale and shaking.

"Are you okay? Are you bleeding? Did you scrape your legs? How -"

"You have to leave," Lucy replies with anxious insistence, "you're going to be late!"

"I - I -" I look at the clock on the wall. 6:14.

"I - can't - I can't - "

"I'm fine," Lucy insists, "I'll see you tonight. Go!"

She doesn't look fine. Her cheek, already hollow and thin, is purpling in a bruise. Dad wouldn't like it. He doesn't like any injury that can be seen.

6:15.

"I'm sorry Lucy," I place a kiss on her forehead, wishing I had the ability to heal people, "I love you."

"I'll be fine," she assures me, but her voice cracks at the end, "get out of here!"

With my running, it's a miracle I don't slip on the pavement on the way to the Prince. I mean, to the Palace.