The Heart's Ashes
Page 138
Please kill me before then.
Jason smiled and patted my leg. “Don’t worry, I’ve been granted approval to attend the examinations. I’ll be there to hold your hand.”
“You’re sick.” My lip curled.
“I know. Now—” He tapped his chin and cast his eyes to the four corners of the tool table, his face masked with indecision. “Ah, here we go.” He held up a small, steel instrument; “Scalpel. Sharp, precise, easy to hold.” He flipped it in the air and caught in his hand again, then fingered the top of my thigh. “Ever seen a muscle get cut open?” he asked, looking at me as if we were discussing a cooking show.
I shook my head, my leg tensed where his hands rested.
“It just splits; the muscle folds the wound out, makes it larger as you scale along with the blade—a bit like a zipper on an overstuffed duffle bag. Fascinating stuff,” he mused. “Perhaps I should’ve studied medicine instead.”
“What did you study?” I asked, possibly trying to distract him—or maybe half-crazed with delirium.
“Now, now, little princess,” he shook his head, wagging his finger. “No using that psycho-babble bullshit on me. It’s time to cut—” his eyes widened, “—then we can talk.”
“Jason don—” A low, gurgling howl escaped the deepest pit of my vocal chords as the blade pressed my flesh, making it sink, holding fast and tight until his elbow rolled and drove the blade downward, popping through the flesh with a wet release.
Everything grew louder and burst out around me, like the reaching wave of a fiery explosion. I held my breath, too shocked to scream or cry; my hands, in my mind, stretching down to surround the pain. But I couldn’t move, couldn’t get my arms from the cuffs to do anything.
The explosion surged, white noise going static until it sucked back in, silence hovering before the dry ache of heat melted out around the cut, crawling whitewash after a receding wave. As if I had a sticker placed on that one spot, my thoughts focused, ultra aware of what I could actually feel was a sideways gash.
A smooth scream split the air, and my arm shook under the iron hold of the cuff—my body shutting down—blocking all sound, all breath, all feeling, except the shooting heat of agony up the bone in my leg. Make it stop. Please just get it out. Get the knife out! Oh God. Please. Where are they; where are the men who rush in like white knights and save the day? Why won’t they save me, why won’t anyone come?
My wet eyes opened and fluttered rapidly, trying to focus on anything—the smell of blood, the cold in my fingertips, but everything was so black and empty.
I can’t breathe, can’t break my goddamn hands free. My wrists gashed deeper under the fight.
“Just breathe,” Jason said calmly, his hand somewhere on my leg—making the blood pulse up under his touch.
“Ah!” I screamed again, the pitch so high and so smooth it sounded like ice-cream would, if it were a sound.
“Hm,” he added, his tone flooding with confusion.
I tapped my foot, making my body rock, rolling my head backward as the arch of my spine lifted my neck off the chair. “I can’t take the pain.” His fingers tightened on my leg. “Stop it. Don’t! That hurts.”
“Shut up,” he growled. “I’m pinning it together. It should show signs of healing by now.”
“It won’t. It can’t—I’m not Lilithian. I’m not a vampire.” My eyes shut tighter.
“Shh,” Jason said and appeared by my face—releasing my aching leg; the muscle warped under the sudden change in pressure and cool air brushed the gaping cleft as it tore back open again.
“Ah! Oh God, it hurts. It hurts.”
“Shh, stop screaming.”
“I can’t.” I rolled my chin to my chest with each coughing gasp. My eyes stayed tightly fused together, blocking out everything but the pain.
“You can and you will. This is normal, Ara. It will heal—it’s just your first time, but it will heal. The incision is only two inches long.”
It felt so much bigger, like a great, gaping slash along my entire thigh. My throat continued to whimper as I closed my mouth and nodded my head, trying to stretch out the tight crumple in my brow, but unable to.
I watched the darkness behind my eyelids and concentrated my thoughts on Jason’s hand above my brow—warm and yet cold, soft, almost caring. “That’s it.” Jason lifted his hand and pressed it to my brow again, gently stroking my hair back, bumping the ruby stones Emily placed in my plaits. “That’s it. Settle now—you’re okay.”
My chest caved with each deep breath and slowly, as the sear in my leg fizzled like warm water over cold fingers, the pain eased, from my ankle to my knee, leaving a pulsing niggle in a ring around my thigh.
“Jason,” I whispered—it was barely audible.
“Yes.” He leaned closer, placing his ear to my lips.
My lashes swept against his hair. “Does? David. Know. Where. I am?”
He stood up and smiled; a sparkle in the corners of his eyes reminded me of the way David smiled when he was being cheeky. “Yes. He does—and he knows what will happen to you.”
My heart died. “What are they doing to him?”
“He’s being tortured. As we speak. Do you remember learning about the Judas Cradle?”
I rolled my face away; the images of my sweet David being hurt consumed my will to go on. “I...I don’t know.”
“Probably just as well. Not pretty. From what I’ve been told though, my brother takes his punishments like a true warrior. Not like you.”
“I’m not a warrior.”
“No. You’re not. You’re a weapon.”
“And David is your brother. You let them have your own brother.” Each word came as a hiccup.
“Yes, and you are effectively my sister, now—hasn’t stopped me from hurting you.”
I tried to swallow a hard, dry lump of spit and caking blood, wincing as it stuck against my tonsils. “Why would you want him dead so badly?”
“I hate him.”
“Was it—” I coughed to clear the mafia boss from my throat. “Was it really because of Rochelle?”
Jason stiffened and folded his arms. “You can never understand.”
Jason smiled and patted my leg. “Don’t worry, I’ve been granted approval to attend the examinations. I’ll be there to hold your hand.”
“You’re sick.” My lip curled.
“I know. Now—” He tapped his chin and cast his eyes to the four corners of the tool table, his face masked with indecision. “Ah, here we go.” He held up a small, steel instrument; “Scalpel. Sharp, precise, easy to hold.” He flipped it in the air and caught in his hand again, then fingered the top of my thigh. “Ever seen a muscle get cut open?” he asked, looking at me as if we were discussing a cooking show.
I shook my head, my leg tensed where his hands rested.
“It just splits; the muscle folds the wound out, makes it larger as you scale along with the blade—a bit like a zipper on an overstuffed duffle bag. Fascinating stuff,” he mused. “Perhaps I should’ve studied medicine instead.”
“What did you study?” I asked, possibly trying to distract him—or maybe half-crazed with delirium.
“Now, now, little princess,” he shook his head, wagging his finger. “No using that psycho-babble bullshit on me. It’s time to cut—” his eyes widened, “—then we can talk.”
“Jason don—” A low, gurgling howl escaped the deepest pit of my vocal chords as the blade pressed my flesh, making it sink, holding fast and tight until his elbow rolled and drove the blade downward, popping through the flesh with a wet release.
Everything grew louder and burst out around me, like the reaching wave of a fiery explosion. I held my breath, too shocked to scream or cry; my hands, in my mind, stretching down to surround the pain. But I couldn’t move, couldn’t get my arms from the cuffs to do anything.
The explosion surged, white noise going static until it sucked back in, silence hovering before the dry ache of heat melted out around the cut, crawling whitewash after a receding wave. As if I had a sticker placed on that one spot, my thoughts focused, ultra aware of what I could actually feel was a sideways gash.
A smooth scream split the air, and my arm shook under the iron hold of the cuff—my body shutting down—blocking all sound, all breath, all feeling, except the shooting heat of agony up the bone in my leg. Make it stop. Please just get it out. Get the knife out! Oh God. Please. Where are they; where are the men who rush in like white knights and save the day? Why won’t they save me, why won’t anyone come?
My wet eyes opened and fluttered rapidly, trying to focus on anything—the smell of blood, the cold in my fingertips, but everything was so black and empty.
I can’t breathe, can’t break my goddamn hands free. My wrists gashed deeper under the fight.
“Just breathe,” Jason said calmly, his hand somewhere on my leg—making the blood pulse up under his touch.
“Ah!” I screamed again, the pitch so high and so smooth it sounded like ice-cream would, if it were a sound.
“Hm,” he added, his tone flooding with confusion.
I tapped my foot, making my body rock, rolling my head backward as the arch of my spine lifted my neck off the chair. “I can’t take the pain.” His fingers tightened on my leg. “Stop it. Don’t! That hurts.”
“Shut up,” he growled. “I’m pinning it together. It should show signs of healing by now.”
“It won’t. It can’t—I’m not Lilithian. I’m not a vampire.” My eyes shut tighter.
“Shh,” Jason said and appeared by my face—releasing my aching leg; the muscle warped under the sudden change in pressure and cool air brushed the gaping cleft as it tore back open again.
“Ah! Oh God, it hurts. It hurts.”
“Shh, stop screaming.”
“I can’t.” I rolled my chin to my chest with each coughing gasp. My eyes stayed tightly fused together, blocking out everything but the pain.
“You can and you will. This is normal, Ara. It will heal—it’s just your first time, but it will heal. The incision is only two inches long.”
It felt so much bigger, like a great, gaping slash along my entire thigh. My throat continued to whimper as I closed my mouth and nodded my head, trying to stretch out the tight crumple in my brow, but unable to.
I watched the darkness behind my eyelids and concentrated my thoughts on Jason’s hand above my brow—warm and yet cold, soft, almost caring. “That’s it.” Jason lifted his hand and pressed it to my brow again, gently stroking my hair back, bumping the ruby stones Emily placed in my plaits. “That’s it. Settle now—you’re okay.”
My chest caved with each deep breath and slowly, as the sear in my leg fizzled like warm water over cold fingers, the pain eased, from my ankle to my knee, leaving a pulsing niggle in a ring around my thigh.
“Jason,” I whispered—it was barely audible.
“Yes.” He leaned closer, placing his ear to my lips.
My lashes swept against his hair. “Does? David. Know. Where. I am?”
He stood up and smiled; a sparkle in the corners of his eyes reminded me of the way David smiled when he was being cheeky. “Yes. He does—and he knows what will happen to you.”
My heart died. “What are they doing to him?”
“He’s being tortured. As we speak. Do you remember learning about the Judas Cradle?”
I rolled my face away; the images of my sweet David being hurt consumed my will to go on. “I...I don’t know.”
“Probably just as well. Not pretty. From what I’ve been told though, my brother takes his punishments like a true warrior. Not like you.”
“I’m not a warrior.”
“No. You’re not. You’re a weapon.”
“And David is your brother. You let them have your own brother.” Each word came as a hiccup.
“Yes, and you are effectively my sister, now—hasn’t stopped me from hurting you.”
I tried to swallow a hard, dry lump of spit and caking blood, wincing as it stuck against my tonsils. “Why would you want him dead so badly?”
“I hate him.”
“Was it—” I coughed to clear the mafia boss from my throat. “Was it really because of Rochelle?”
Jason stiffened and folded his arms. “You can never understand.”
