Chapter 30

30

T here’s cold against the cheek, something frozen and wet, and all she can muster is the twitch of an eyelid. Wind screams at her, stealing all warmth from her skin.

The world is bright, way brighter than the nighttime it should be, and pain echoes harshly in her chest, fighting against the lungs and the still-beating heart.

A voice reaches her ears, distant and panicked, but not talking to her.

Something hot, brilliantly so, brushes the hair away from the forehead, and she tries to unstick her eyes, but she can’t.

Can barely move, none of the limbs follow her direction, and after a few moments of struggling, she slumps down into it again.

Something moves the body, jolting, a rumble of machinery beneath her. There’s a low murmur of voices, multiple voices, and she can’t pick them apart.

There’s a scrape against glass—windows?—and tree branches against metal, before the rumbling beneath her turns rougher, gravelly. She’s still moving, even when held perfectly still, some sort of vehicle.

It had been so long since she’d been in a vehicle.

The magic is strange, here, the lines slipping in and out of contact, tasting of the wild.

The head is against something soft, and a hand shifts through the hair on the side of her head, gentle.

It’s almost enough to distract from the pain.

A bright flash of necromancy, and Ambra surges upright, terror and hunger inside her, before her vision blacks out and hands push her back down.

Still, something ties itself around a wrist, and she knows she should be afraid.

The body lays in a bed, uncomfortable and hard, a sheet pulled up, itching against the scar beneath the breasts, and Ambra struggles to breathe.

There’s something over the face, fitting cleanly over the mouth and nose, and air, sweet air, flows through it. A cold prickle of metal sings in the veins on an arm, and there’s a bit of fear along with it.

But no pain .

After a few good long moments, Ambra cracks an eye open. The room is dim and pleasantly warm.

Wards swirl in the ceiling, fluently written, new ones on top of old, engraved into the very concrete and wood of the building itself. It’s beautiful, if intense and overkill.

Ambra blinks up at it, and the figures blur in her vision, before she squints to focus them. They’re odd, written in a hand she doesn’t know, in a glittering gold and copper paint.

Someone must’ve craned their neck for forever to paint it, for it to exist like this, and a detached part of her marvels at it.

Right up until she tries to draw in another breath.

Pain wracks its way across her chest, and she jerks, gasping, but her arm’s stuck in place, tied down, and—

Before she can think, before she can even comprehend what’s happening, black crowds her out.

Next time she wakes, the body feels more like her own, and while there’s pain, it’s more of a distant companion.

The paint is still on the ceiling, but she’s more alert this time, alert enough to realize there’s a demon trap around her, around the bed she’s laying on.

And Gurlien’s nowhere near by. She can’t sense him, she can’t feel his touch on the leash, nothing.

And no matter how much she tries to panic, no matter how much she tries to teleport out, she’s stuck in place.

Neck stiff, she tilts her head over to stare at her wrist.

There, neatly tied and still shining gold, is a strip of necromancer power, gleaming. It’s not hurting her, and it’s pinning her wrist in place, next to an IV hooked up to the vein in her elbow, the plastic line trailing up to a bag on a stand .

And, right beyond the IV stand, sits a man.

Ambra blinks at him, but she can’t make her eyes recognize him. His hair is wildly curly, pulled back into a bun, and he frowns at her through thin wire-rimmed glasses.

She stares blankly at him, and he frowns deeper at her, before she tries to open her mouth to speak, but…

There’s still the mask over her face, muffling her, forcing air down her throat. She’s stuck, she’s tied down, she can’t talk, she can’t—

“Stop panicking,” the man says, like this is a giant annoyance, and there’s something wrong with him. There’s something so completely wrong, he’s not a human, not entirely, but he doesn’t read as anything but human, but… “You’ll tear open your stitches if you do that.”

Ambra coughs, and everything hurts again, before trying to mouth, frantic.

“Where is he?” she manages out, and she can barely hear herself, so muffled, her voice a dry scrape against her throat. “Where is he?”

The man raises an eyebrow at her, but doesn’t answer.

“Where—” She coughs again, before jerking as much power to herself as she can, stuck inside the demon trap, but the magic slips from her grip before she can do anything, the strip of necromancy shining bright.

She gapes at it, trying to jerk her hand out from it, but the pain sparks up against her eyes, slumping her back against the bed.

The man stands, scowling at her, before picking up a small piece of technology—a phone, no, a short-wave radio—and presses a button. “She’s awake, can we get a familiar face in here?”

Ambra tries to pull in a breath, tries to force the lungs, but it’s hard, forcing her to gasp .

“Please stop panicking, we’re not going to hurt you,” the man says, crossing his arms, still standing. “The necromancy is because you were fighting us while unconscious and you needed an IV.”

And there are only two necromancers active right now, and both of them know Gurlien.

“Where…” she trails off, her mouth too dry, the air from the mask too forced.

“I am absolutely not telling you where we are,” the man says, scowling. “You’re not going to be hurt, we just needed to put in an IV.” Then, his face softening just minutely. “You were unconscious for four days.”

She blinks up at him, then towards the door. Four days is too long, Gurlien could be hurt, Boltiex could be trying to hurt him, trying to reclaim her.

“I’m the Mel that’s been texting you,” the man continues, more begrudging than not. “The necromancers aren’t here. I’m not going to let you see either of them.”

Ambra stills, his words filtering in her mind, before she swallows.

Even that is like glass.

“Right now, all you need to know is that you’re safe, and if you keep on panicking, you’re going to rip yourself open again.”

The door clatters open, and Chloe rushes in, her eyes wide and hair mussed up, the Half Demon behind her.

“Oh my god, you’re awake,” Chloe blurts out, rushing over and grabbing Ambra’s untied hand. “Are you okay, how do you feel, are—”

Ambra flinches away from her grip, and Chloe gapes at her.

The Half Demon runs a scan on her, some sort of flash assessment, and Ambra bristles. He’s not stepping inside the demon trap, very obviously so.

“You’re doing better,” he says, matter-of-factly, and Ambra vividly remembers their clash of powers in the bar, how he almost won that fight.

And now she’s helpless. Every breath is difficult, her arm is pinned down so thoroughly she can’t do a single thing, and all the magic slips from her.

The two men exchange a glance at her obvious attempt at grasping power.

“How are you feeling?” the Half Demon says finally, as Chloe stands, pale, to one side.

Ambra tries to speak, tries to say something, but coughs instead, her mouth too dry.

“Can we remove the mask?” Chloe asks, small. “She’s trying to talk, but it’s stopping her.”

Which is entirely accurate, but being talked like she’s not there just bristles something inside of her even more.

“I don’t want to until Delina or Lyra give approval,” the man—Mel—says. “Last thing I want to do is to upset Lyra with more pain.”

Ambra blinks at him. If he’s the one who’s texting her, if he has some sort of demon past, now in this human body, he might understand her. Might understand the need clawing at her throat, the panic at not being able to know anything about Gurlien.

“Are you thirsty?” Chloe asks, and her voice is still small, such a big contrast with the last time they spoke. Unfitting for an alchemist of her power. “You’re probably starving.”

Her stomach is the least of Ambra’s worries.

“Where is he?” She croaks out, muffled against the mask held so tightly to her face.

Chloe glances up at the Half Demon—Maison, his name is Maison—and a pool of dread starts in Ambra’s stomach.

“Is he okay?” she asks, and even she can’t hear her voice properly. “Is he…”

“We’re holding Gurlien downstairs,” Maison says firmly, and Ambra gapes at him. “He’s completely untouched.”

Holding, like some sort of prisoner?

Ambra glares up at Chloe, like she could will her to understand her. Chloe’s supposed to be on Gurlien’s side in all of this, his one true friend, and she let this group put him in some sort of holding cell?

Chloe pales, but doesn’t shrink back.

“He shot you,” Mel, the other not-demon, drawls. “He shot you then brought a demon to a controlled facility with wanted necromancers. We’re not going to let him run away.”

It’s entirely inaccurate, and Ambra wishes she could laugh, but with the mask and her throat, she doubts she could.

She shakes her head, and the three exchange a look above her.

“Ambra,” Chloe starts, gentle, “you were shot by his gun, and it punctured your lung and broke your clavicle. A gun I told him would hurt you.”

“You’re not dead only because you heal,” Mel says, clipped. “You almost died three times in the last few days.”

But it was Nalissa who pulled her to block the bullet, and there would have been no way for Gurlien to predict that and they can’t seriously be thinking it was intentional…

By the grim expression on their faces, they think it might be.

Ambra struggles to pull herself upright, and Chloe rushes to her, guiding her back against the cot.

“Here,” Chloe says, pressing a button on the side of the mattress, and the head tilts upright until Ambra’s in an almost sitting position, her wrist moving with her. “This’ll be easier.”

The position stretches at the pain in her chest. There’s a white bandage over her breastbone, stark, and Ambra’s just covered by a papery medical gown.

She wants to burn all medical gowns.

Instead, she lifts her free hand to the edge of the bandages, and the pain echoes at the touch.

“He…” she trails off, swallowing, before she scowls at Chloe, shaking her head and trying to peel the mask off her face.

It doesn’t move, held down by straps on the back of her head, straps she can’t reach, and even that effort winds her, leaving her panting into the mask.

“We should get Delina in here,” the Half Demon murmurs. “See if she can speak without danger.”

“We shouldn’t do that while she’s awake,” Mel shoots back.

Chloe and Ambra make eye contact at that, at the frustration and incompleteness of the communication, and that seems to solidify something inside Chloe.

She stands up straighter, still close to Ambra, but even that motion is enough to draw their attention.

“Ambra, I’m going to ask you some questions, just shake your head yes or no,” Chloe says, and a rush of gratitude floods through Ambra. “Are you going to hurt Gurlien?”

That’s easy, and Ambra scrunches her face under the mask as she shakes her head no.

“No demon is going to answer that honestly,” Mel mutters.

“Shut up,” Chloe says with a scowl. “Did he mean to hurt you?”

Again, Ambra shakes her head no, and Chloe gestures at her, as if that’s the proof she needed in the argument.

“But it was his gun,” Maison says, and Ambra nods yes. Because of course it is.

And that’s not what matters, not really, and the idea of Gurlien just sitting there, probably worried, makes her jerk her arm again.

“You will say anything to get out of this right now, wouldn’t you?” Mel says, voice low, and she scowls at him from beyond the mask. “Do you want us to drug you so one of the Necromancers can come in and scan you, or do you want us to wait until you’re asleep?”

Ambra stills, a flutter of fear welling up inside of her again.

“Because I won’t trust your word on this until I hear you say it, without knowing the story Gurlien told,” Mel continues, and he’s entirely correct. “And I’m not letting you out from the wrist tie, not this near to Necromancers, until I know for a fact that Gurlien isn’t going to use you as a weapon against them.”

“He wouldn’t,” Chloe mutters, dark, and Ambra likes her a bit more at that tone.

“You don’t think he would,” Mel shoots back, and Maison rubs his face, like he’s had to hear this argument several times in the last few days and is tired of it.

Ambra sags back against the bed, which is at least more comfortable in the reclining position, and tilts her head to look at Chloe, before mouthing, ‘Is he okay,’ through the mask.

Chloe nods, slowly. “They’re just keeping him in one place, they’re not doing anything to him.”

Ambra at least believes that Chloe would tell her the truth on that.

“We’re not monsters,” Mel drawls, and Ambra wishes she had her phone with her so she could throw it at him.

Maison’s jaw ticks, like he too is at the end of his patience, before he turns to Ambra instead. “Besides bringing Gurlien directly here, is there anything we can do to help your healing?”

“No,” mutters Mel, and he’s still not wrong, but Ambra dislikes that still. “She needs time, rest, and when she can breathe on her own without choking on her own blood, food of some sort.”

All of those are exhausting, and Ambra closes her eyes, ever so briefly, as if that would stop the pain and the ever-present swirls of the wards above her.

It doesn’t, so she sighs through the mask.

“Nalissa’s death is definitely spreading around,” Chloe says, and Ambra jerks with remembrance.

Right. She succeeded with that.

And she hadn’t even thought of it since waking.

Ambra coughs through the lump in her throat, before grimacing at it.

With the worry about Gurlien, she hadn’t even had a chance to feel the lack of the leash towards Nalissa. She hadn’t even had chance to poke at it like she had with Korhonen and Johnsin.

And now there’s just Boltiex left.

And Gurlien is out of range of the leash.

The three are staring at her, and Ambra must’ve let something sneak onto her face.

So instead of speaking, she runs a finger under the leash around her neck, tugging it, trying to indicate it.

“That’s the other reason we kept you tied down,” Maison says with a grimace. “They tried to take you, but the Necromancy prevented it.”

Oh .

Ambra settles back down against the bed, and there’s not even a bit of soreness around the leash that there should have been at an attempt.

“I don’t like the idea of restraining you either,” Maison says, and there’s half an apology in his voice, an apology for her.

Ambra nods, at the sense it makes, even though the fear of it twists inside of her. Exhaustion creeps up her, despite everything, pulling at her bones and her eyelids.

Without another word, Chloe and Maison filter out, their faces grim, and Mel settles back in the chair.

They’re not letting her be without someone keeping watch.

It should rankle her. It would’ve rankled her.

“I know what it’s like,” Mel murmurs into the oppressive silence, and she barely has the energy to tilt her head towards him. “Getting injured in a human body. It’s limiting and haunting.”

She can’t speak back, just blinks at him.

“My first injury I thought I was going to die, and it was hilariously minor.” His face is serious, and there’s some trace of something Ambra can’t quite interpret. “You get used to it.”

“How long?” Ambra rasps out, and the mask muffles her tone.

“I’ve been in this body for almost two years,” he says, just as solemn, and the possibility is dizzying, to be like this for that long. “Don’t count your time in stasis, believe me.”

She does.

“It gets far easier.”

If she hadn’t just had the last few weeks with Gurlien, she would never believe him.

“It’d be easier for you if you kidnapped someone actually decent,” Mel continues, stretching out, and she summons the energy to scowl at him. “But that’s more of your taste than mine, we just all think you’re insane for it.”

He leans forward, tenting his fingers together, like she’s a bug under a microscope.

“They killed your bond?” he murmurs, and of course he could tell. “And are using it for control?”

She nods, the oft familiar pang of pain hitting somewhere beneath the bullet wound.

His face is serious, far more than it was before. “I’m sorry.”

It’s plain words, from someone who would know.