6. The Anointing

Back in the sling he'd hoped he was finished using, with a large square of gauze taped to his back, Micah tried not to focus on the sharp, terrible pain that had returned to his shoulder. Or the fact that his dreams had been invaded, decimating the sense of security that the brownstone offered. And if he wasn't safe, that meant Julian wasn't either. Or Fionna. Or Andrew. Which was all the motivation he needed to find a way to guard the brownstone, to restore that sense of security, so they could all try to snatch a few more hours of sleep before dawn.

Micah left Andrew and Ingrid at the bed moments after they taped him up, heading toward the windows. He tripped on pants he'd left on the floor, making Andrew and Ingrid both suck in gasps. He ignored them, hands hovering over all the greenery thriving by his windows. Ferns and figs and stromanthes were all waiting to be called upon, but he had a specific need in mind. On his wrist, the birchwood cuff vibrated as if it were a cat hoping for a bowl of milk. He flipped through his mental encyclopedia for plants, Syabira's deep melodious voice speaking in his head, until his fingers found the enormous spikes of his aloe vera plant. He gently bent one of the stalks until it snapped off.

Delicately holding the spear with its oozing end tilting heavenward so it didn't drip, Micah turned back to Andrew and Ingrid and beckoned them with a jerk of his chin and a faint smile. His fiancé and his sister wore twin expressions of wary confusion. Micah never noticed how similar their mannerisms were, especially amusing given the pair were enemies long before Andrew even met Micah. But next to each other now, uncertainty and worry still hunching their similarly bony shoulders, it was like a fox and a wolf had reached a treaty for the sake of their wounded kin. Both creatures were lithe and sharp and easily driven away, but loyal till death. The thought warmed his heart like he was a rock in the sun. His smile broadened, and the clean syrupy smell of the aloe vera got stronger.

"All right, love," said Andrew, tracing Micah's collarbone with his thumb. "What are we doing?"

"Aloe vera symbolizes healing and protection," he said hoarsely. "Dab some on your fingertips and spread it on the lintel." As they obeyed and marked the top panel over the window pane, he called the birchwood staff from his wrist into his palm. Rather than on his blood, he focused on the leaf held between the thumb and forefinger of his injured arm, as he told its inherent power to awaken. The staff grew warm under his hand, and the aloe juice glowed softly.

"We'll go to every lintel in the house, so Andrew, if you could carry the plant with us, that would be great." He tapped the golden pot where the aloe vera was planted.

The ritual was quiet and grave. They needed no lights on in the house, as the luminous point of the birchwood staff showed the way. Cinnamon trailed after them, his tail low and his eyes reflecting alien green. With Fionna curled around him with her ears forward and alert, Julian watched them come and go from his room with just a small nightstand lamp lit. He remained still and silent, equal parts fearful and hostile when they entered until they left again. By Micah's heels, Cinnamon hissed at Fionna, who thumped her tail.

When they finished by the front door, Ingrid pushed back her shoulders and wiped her sticky fingers on her coat. She tilted back her angular face and blinked at the ceiling and the walls with eyes lit by a strawberry-hued glow. With a contented sigh, she said, "Well done."

"I'm going to talk to the plants, too," said Micah, void of irony. "But first I have to talk to my dad."

Andrew nodded and gave his arm a gentle squeeze before Micah limped up the stairs and left them. The gauze on his shoulder was already dotted with blood.

The moment Micah was out of sight, Andrew's hands started to tingle. Barefoot and shirtless, his blood kicked up a ruckus in his ears while a veil of darkness descended over his vision as a panic attack crawled into his bloodstream. His chest started heaving in tandem, but he tried to breathe through it. All he could manage was shallow hiccups. Andrew pressed his fingertips hard into his eye sockets as if he could will away the panic clawing at him every time he thought again of the fresh blood on Micah's back.

When a cool hand settled on his arm, Andrew found Ingrid's white face hanging in his vision like a beacon, and before he quite realized what was happening, the Ruby Daughter was hugging him. It was a bony and awkward thing, her inexperience with such a gesture apparent, but it was enough to shock his panic attack straight out of his body like an exorcism. With a trembling smile, he held onto her through her soft fur coat, smelling mulberries and rose hip in her burgundy curls as they tickled his nose.

When she moved back, she stared purposefully at the floor, cleared her throat, and spun toward the hall into the kitchen. Andrew remained frozen in place until she growled his name from around the corner.

Under the fluorescent lights set into the ceiling, Ingrid filled two whiskey tumblers with Jameson, fussing with her heavy mane of hair. Making her intentions very clear, she left the cap off the bottle as she held one of the crystal glasses out to him and clinked their rims together.

They both tossed back the amber contents in one gulp. Andrew focused on the rustic sweetness leftover on his throat.

"Ingrid." Andrew's voice hardly rippled the air between them as they stood over the kitchen counter casting odd silver shadows across the marble. "Tell me he's going to be all right."

Ingrid's garnet gaze remained fixed on her glass. "I have no gift of foresight, a chara." Her Gaelic accent was obnoxiously perfect. As was her evasive answer.

Braced over the counter, Andrew gripped the marble until it hurt his knuckles, his heart resuming its frantic pounding as he fought to keep his breathing steady. "I don't care what I have to do, Ingrid. I will chant in Latin. I will use crystals. I will dance naked under a full moon. I will fucking go to the basilica and drink holy water. I will try every single fucking thing I need to before I let this injury kill him."

"Yes." Her voice was a soft scratch of nails carving into flesh. She reached over and squeezed his hand with hers, cool and surprisingly clammy. "We will."