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Charlie felt as though somebody had slugged him. With a baseball bat. He actually staggered.
Sibyl...
He must have made some sound, because she looked up.
Green eyes widened. Her whole face drained of color in the space of a single heartbeat.
"Charlie?"
His throat wouldn't work properly. Somehow, the sound came out anyway, strangled. "Sibyl..."
Without quite knowing how, he found her in his arms. She clung to him. She was weeping his name brokenly, again and again. He closed his arms around her back, crushed her against him, buried his face in her dark hair, still unable to believe she was alive. Wetness soaked through his shirt. For a moment, he wasn't sure which of them was holding up the other. Shudders coursed through both of them.
Charlie shut his eyes over stinging salt. For a moment, he was aware only of her warmth, the feel of her against him, the hiccoughing sound escaping her. He didn't know how, didn't care how. She was here, alive, and he was holding her. Nothing else mattered. Tension, fear, hatred, all drained out of him in that moment.
"Hey," he whispered wetly, "don't go all mushy on me now... ."
She shook her head mutely against his chest—and kept crying. He didn't think she would ever stop. Sibyl shifted in his arms, tightened her grip fiercely around broken ribs. Charlie gave a strangled cry and nearly went down.
Sibyl's eyes, wide and shocked and glimmering with tears, met his as she caught him.
"Charlie?" She sounded scared, looked scared. The look in her face hit him like a blow across the backs of his knees. He wobbled, then dragged himself up and braced himself against her.
"Sorry," he whispered, shaken more by the look in her eyes than by the pain. "Just busted a rib, is all." Charlie tilted her face up when she tried to hide against his shirt. Her eyes were dark, wet emeralds in a waxen face. Her lips trembled. Charlie wiped her cheeks with his fingertips. She tried to smile, but her lips were quivering too badly.
"Are you okay?" Charlie asked. He looked for signs of burns, found none. Another coil of tension unwound in his belly and drained away.
"Yes. I'm a little bruised and sore, but I'll be fine. You? Besides the rib?"
"In one piece, sort of."
"And—"
"Lucky's asleep in the next room."
Sibyl closed her eyes and started crying again. "Thank God... Thank God... Charlie, I thought you were both dead." She looked up.
"How—" they began simultaneously.
They halted and stared at one another. Then Sibyl beat him by a half-second with a glare in her eyes and a strangled, "Don't you ever die on me again, Charlie Fly
From somewhere behind them, McKee's voice intruded.
"Fly
He glared at the lunatic. McKee was chuckling. "Should've known you were Irish," he said, shepherding them out of the sickroom. "With that hair and temper, what else could you be? Are you going to stand there all night, Mr. Fly
He glanced with pointed interest toward Sibyl.
"My name's Sibyl Johnson," she answered for herself. "Who the hell are you?"
Charlie found himself gri
"Logan Pfeiffer McKee, Ms. Johnson." He shook her hand formally.
She studied McKee. "So... were you the one who found Charlie?"
McKee rubbed the back of his head ruefully. "It was a little more the other way around."
"I hit him over the head with a rock and tried to shoot him," Charlie muttered. "Things were a little confused."
Dan Collins' voice came from the infirmary doorway. "I'm still confused."
Charlie glanced up. Collins and his son stood in the doorway. The colonel had aged ten years. He looked haggard in the harsh fluorescent light. The arm he'd wrapped around his son looked like a permanent fixture. He glanced from Charlie to Sibyl.
"You two obviously know each other. I take it this is the 'other Carreras victim' you thought had died at Herculaneum?"
Charlie just nodded.
"Hungry?"
Charlie's smile widened a little. "Hell, Collins, if it's not moving, I'll eat it. Even if it is moving, I might eat it."
"Good. There's plenty of it."
Charlie glanced down at Sibyl, asking with his eyes if she'd join him. The way her eyes lit up lifted a load that felt like the weight of the entire earth off his shoulders. For the first time in how long he couldn't even recall, Charlie Fly
Sibyl gri
Sibyl spent the rest of the night on the floor, wrapped in blankets and Charlie Fly
Da
Right before supper, they'd managed to pry the slave's collar off his neck. His look as he'd hurled it outside had sent chills through her. Sibyl found herself almost pitying Carreras. She hoped he died as hard as Tony Bartlett had.
All during supper, he remained extremely withdrawn. He made certain Lucania had mashed up food she could eat and even managed to play airplanes with the spoon, drawing Lucania's giggles, but he avoided meeting anyone's eye. He flatly refused McKee's offer of first-aid attention after they finished eating.
So Sibyl took matters into her own hands. "Charlie, let me look at your back."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. You're white around the lips and swaying on your feet. Sit down. Now!"
He sat. Very gingerly, Sibyl eased off his shirt. Someone had wrapped cloth tightly around his ribs. It looked to Sibyl like a woman's stola—a cheap one.
"Who wrapped your ribs?"
"A fisherman's wife. We got out just—" He stiffened and made a ghastly sound.
Sibyl gulped. "I'm sorry. It's stuck to dried blood. Hold tight. I'll be right back... ."
She brought a pan of warm water from the kitchen and soaked the stuff loose with a wet cloth. If I keep him talking, maybe this won't hurt so much. "You were saying?"
He told her about the flight from Herculaneum, between little gasps and several sharp grunts. But the cloth came loose. His back was a mass of bruises, criss-crossed welts, swollen bands and lumps...
McKee, stepping past the sickroom, glanced in just as she finished unwrapping it.
"Holy Loving Jesus..."
Charlie snarled something under his breath.
"The way you've been moving, I knew it'd be bad under those bandages, but..." McKee's voice trailed off. "Sibyl, do you need any help?"
"No," Charlie grated. "We don't."
McKee shrugged and moved on toward the bathroom. Across the room, Dan Collins glanced up, but said nothing.
Very, very carefully, Sibyl washed Charlie's injuries. By the time she was done with the left shoulder, he was trembling. Quietly, Sibyl filled a hypo with a couple of cc's of Demerol. Without a little help, he'd pass out before she was done.