Chapter 64: Alive
Galadriel sat up, chest tight as the silhouette took up the space at the front of the tent. At first, she thought her ears must have been playing tricks on her, the form broad and winged, a red siphon bright as blood situated on the Illyrian's chest. But the male before her was not as tall or broad as Cassian, and she had never felt goosebumps cascade down her arms in an instinctive warning as they did now.
He took another step forward, into the soft glow of the lantern.
The butcher. The male with the scarred wings. The male who had cut the wings off another out of jealousy. She steeled her face, listening, hoping to hear Cassian's heavy gait outside. "What do you want?"
"What do I want?" the cracked voice echoed. Her eyes fell to his hand where Deiga's already blood-stained fingers clenched tightly around a leather belt. "Your mate destroyed my wings. Ordered them to put an iron rod so hot that it was red to my wings over and over and over again. When I passed out, they waited until I woke to continue."
Galadriel scooted to the far end of the bed, throwing the pillow forward as if it might act as a shield. "Cassian is not my mate," she said, the remnants of alcohol in her system wavering her voice which she strained to keep calm. "High Lord Rhysand is and you committed a crime. You cut the wings off another Illyrian and that is not Cassian's fault."
"Keiron didn't deserve her. I did that so she could see it too."
"And did she?" Galadriel's foot inched to the rugged floor, hitting the pack she'd stored at the head of the cot first before finding solid ground.
Deiga tilted his head. "The Lord of Bloodshed destroyed my wings. No one wanted me after that."
The world was tipping slightly, pulsing in and out in a drunken haze. "Punishment to fit the crime. They would have done it even if he wasn't there. Do not bla—" she took a steadying breath, head swarming "—blame the consequences of your actions on him." The hand she'd raised between them at some stage dropped. "Do not hurt him."
"He took my life. I'm not foolish enough to think I can take his."
"Then what do you want?"
Deiga stared at her, nothing but distant and cold fury in his hazel eyes. "To take exactly what he took from me."
Galadriel leapt back as he launched forward, her back slamming against the lip of the table. It tipped back and she fell with it, head slamming against the ground. Deiga clamped a hand around her ankle. She kicked the other, but her drunken aim and lack of control over her muscles left her shots lousy. Mother above, Cassian had taught her this—taught her how to twist out of a hold like the one she was in now. She scrambled for the memory, dug through her mind like a hare scurrying for shelter from a fox.
Deiga dragged her into the middle of the tent, her nails clawing uselessly at the rugs which burned at the friction against her bare stomach, shirt dragged up to her chest. "Cassian," she cried, but realised she had barely blabbered the word and heaved a deep breath to call again. "CAS—"
She choked on the word, a palm slapping over her lips. The vile stench of raw meat filled her nostrils as he pulled her head back, caving her spine in, hot breath hitting her ear. He flipped her over, settling his knees on either side of her hips. Galadriel wriggled herself but he'd clenched his legs on her too tightly, her feet helplessly kicking at air. Fisting her hand, she threw a punch and though the blow landed on his lower jaw, he didn't relent.
He wrestled one of her arms down, trapping it between her side and his knee but didn't bother with her other which she spent all her effort throwing at him, punching and scratching and pulling. The moment he lifted his hand from her mouth, she went to scream, but he had the belt around her neck before she could utter a sound.
He pulled tight, cutting off her airway.
Galadriel opened her mouth, but nothing came in and nothing could get out. Reaching for her neck, she yanked at the leather with her free hand, but it was taut against her skin. She thrusted her hips, twisting and thrashing but his weight was too much against her. Deiga's face blurred in and out, replaced by the brown shaggy hair of the Autumn soldier. Twice now that she'd been choked.
Galadriel looked to the shadows around her, desperately waiting for Azriel to appear from them, for him to tear Deigo off her like he had last time. She could even hear her name, a faint call in the back of her mind. But nobody was coming and she was losing air.
She trenched her nails into his wrist, tearing through the layers of his skin.
"You bitch!"
He pulled her head up then slammed it back down. It knocked the remaining air from her, pain sharp and hot flaring down into her neck.
The knife. She'd left the knife she'd borrowed to carve the stone near her pack, just in the upper corner of her left eye.
Galadriel locked Deiga's gaze with hers, willing it to stay as she reached her hand out to the left, fingers encrusted with his skin beneath her nails feeling for that bone handle.
It was cool to the touch.
Putting her remaining strength into it, concentrating with every bit of energy she could summon, she thrust the knife into his chest.
Deiga jerked back but he didn't let go of her, just looking down at his chest with wide eyes. It lodged in the space between his ribcage, probably nipping his lungs. The oncoming of his own death built an urgency in hers and he tightened the leather. Her face went hot and tight, blood stuck and pooling.
She pulled the knife out and hot blood sprayed down on her. Deigo hunched over, heaving but still staring at her. A race to see whose eyes closed first.
She stabbed again, right through his ribs and pulled the knife back out. He coughed hoarsely, blood dripping from his lips and onto her face. Finally, he slouched, collapsing right on top of her. Galadriel cried silently, pulling the belt around her neck just free enough to breathe but the weight on her chest prevented her lungs from opening. Teeth gritted, she shoved Deiga off, rolling onto her side. She spat his blood from her mouth, her blouse soaked and clinging to her chest.
Less than a minute. It had been less than a minute since he'd walked in. She'd killed him, blank eyes staring back into her grey ones. The knife slipped from her hand.
The agony started in her chest like a hand had seized her heart, squeezing with the strength of a god. Galadriel curled her legs in, lips pulled back to her teeth as it bled into the rest of her torso. It was raw and white-hot but nothing like the burn of fire. Panting, she could no longer feel the carpet beneath her or the fresh air rushing into her lungs or the crisp night air.
"Fuck." She knew that coarse hiss anywhere.
Cassian grabbed her by the shoulders, rolled her onto her back and pulled the belt from her neck. Those hazel eyes, soft and warm and kind but still glazed with drunkenness, darted over every ounce of blood covering her, jumping to the body then back to her. His hands went to her chest where the pain in her blossomed, scouring over her skin as he swore so foul that even Azriel would have blushed.
"It hurts," she moaned, tears streaming down over either temple.
"Where?" he demanded. He ripped her blouse open, the fabric separating, feeling her skin through the mess. "Where does it hurt?" Galadriel sobbed, putting her fist to her bare chest. "I can't fucking see anything—fuck! HEALER!"
In response, lightning cracked outside.
Cassian pulled his shirt off, bunching it and pressing it against her chest. She cried harder, wanting to tell him that it was not her skin that was broken and hurting, but couldn't settle herself enough to gather the words.
The most daunting thing she'd ever seen stormed into the tent. And she'd never loved the sight of her mate more than that moment.
Rhysand knelt at her other side and the ground might as well have trembled beneath him, violet eyes aflame with such rage that she couldn't imagine him as the same male that cradled her when she'd stubbed her toe on a dining chair. He didn't ask questions. Didn't need to.
Rhys shoved Cassian's hand off her as well as the shirt he'd used to staunch the non-existent bleeding. Scooping his hands under her, he lifted her to him, pulling her front to his chest, a hand to the back of her neck. She moaned into his neck. The pain dimmed. Numbed to a dull ache.
The tent flap rippled open again.
Rhys gave only one guttural word of command. "Out." Galadriel glimpsed long enough to watch the female healer flee.
"She's hurt." Cassian's voice was cracked as if had been the one choked. His hands were drenched in blood. "I couldn't—couldn't find the wound."
"She killed," Rhys corrected. The Illyrian's power was becoming hers, his magic tying itself to her soul. A process that went against everything in nature. "I'm taking her home. Clean this mess up."
By the time he was on his feet, they were in the townhouse. "I'm sorry I didn't get there quicker," he whispered, already moving towards the stairs. Blood had smeared across his jacket, glistening on the lapels. "I wasn't in the Night Court. Took a few winnowing leaps."
By the Cauldron she was exhausted. Her throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper. He had a bath going before she found a response. "He...He wanted to hurt Cassian. Deiga. For his wings."
"You don't need to tell me right now." He'd set her in his lap, keeping her neck tucked to him as he tested the bathwater.
It had felt like someone was squeezing her muscles and organs through a ring meant for her pinkie, a few flares slipping through the shield he'd put in her mind against the pain. Rhys gently pried her ripped shirt off, then her pants, tossing them in the corner. His magic wiped away the blood from her skin, but she could still feel it there. His clothes went next and he kept her close as they went into the bath, the water cool.
She hissed when it touched her toes. Rhys hovered with her for a moment then lowered her again. The water was warmer and she let him bring her down until it covered her shoulders. Rhys leaned against the curved back of the large tub and she rested her head against the top of his chest, eyes closed as she breathed through another bout of tightness. He raked his fingers through her hair, kissing the crown of her head.
"I don't want it. I don't want more, Rhys." Her body writhed. "I killed someone."
"I've killed so many that it would be impossible to count," he said softly, letting her move as she needed, only holding her head above water. "Do you think differently of me for it?" She couldn't answer, the pain intensifying. She dug her heels into his thighs above his knees, arching her back until her chest broke the water, her knees twisting as that tightness moved down into her hips. He turned her back around. She bit his shoulder as her lower back cramped, sobbing muffled by his skin. "Breathe through it."
They remained there all night, the water kept hot enough to relax her muscles in the few moments of peace. Sometime close to the early morning, exhausted and half asleep, she heard the bathroom door creak open.
"Go sleep, Cass," Rhys whispered.
"Is she alright?"
"Alive."