Hemlock Veils

She snipped extra thread away. “I would say he will need these removed in a few days, but given that he heals fast…I don’t know.” Her voice shook as much as her hands.

“How long will the morphine last?”

She released a deep sigh, sitting back and resting her hands on her knees. At her stillness, pain raged in her weightless muscles and throbbing forearm. In the hopes of once again steadying her spi

“I’ve never had to use it,” he said sheepishly. “Like I said, I’m glad you’re here.” He smiled.

“Arne…did you not hear him in the forest? I would bet the whole town did.”

Again, he looked sheepish. “Without my hearing aid, I don’t hear much, I’m afraid. That was one jab Eustace hit on the mark.” She had forgotten about his hearing aid, and noticed it in his ear now.

He reached a hand to her, no doubt to help her stand, and said, “I’ll let you tell me the story another time, but for now, you need to get home. You need to take care of you.” He handed her another suture set and she recoiled.

“I’m not leaving, Arne.” She knelt over Henry again. “Will you please get me some warm water and rags? A towel, too?”

“Elizabeth, let me handle the cleaning. You need to fix yourself up, or Henry will have me hung for not taking care of you.”

She didn’t look at him. “I’m not finished.”

He sighed, but after a moment left the room. Upon his return, he placed a large glass bowl of warm water beside her, as well as three terrycloth rags and a large towel. She dipped a rag in the water, where it swirled with red from the blood on her hands. First, she gently wiped the incision site, cleaning away extra blood and Betadine. After rinsing the rag, she cleaned his neck, where the blood on her hands had transferred to his fur. She washed as much of him as possible, and that was when the other cuts on his hind leg reared their ugly faces: claw or teeth marks, possibly from when he and Diableron had fought before Elizabeth found them. The flesh was ripped and raw, but not deep enough for stitches, and she took extra care when cleaning them. When she finished, she dried him with the towel as best as she could.

When she looked up, Arne held the other suture kit in her direction, eyebrow raised. “Your turn now.” He handed her a bottle of vodka and added, “Just in case.” Then a clean and folded t-shirt, one she assumed was Henry’s. “You can change into this after you clean yourself up.”

She took them both, even though she was practically used to the fire in her forearm by now. He directed her to the closest bathroom, and when she was inside, safe behind the closed door, she braced herself on the sink and released a breath as though she’d been holding it the whole time. With uneven exhalations, she bent over the sink, her tears filling it, and again it amazed her how easily they came, when they had been absent for so many years.

After a moment, she gathered the courage to look at her arm. She unwrapped the bandage to find three large scrapes, two superficial, but one deep. It opened like a ragged canyon, a view of her muscle at the bottom. She tried not to give in to lightheadedness as she cleaned it and then took a long, burning swig of the alcohol, coughing afterward. It burned her nostrils and esophagus, and her head shook in response. She took another swig, coughing again. Then, with a deep breath, she began stitching the slice down her arm, biting down hard on the leather suture case as she exhaled heavily through her teeth. She even groaned a few times, especially because the time it took felt endless. The canyon of a slice was at least three inches long, and just like the beast’s incision, she hadn’t known how many stitches she’d tied until the end. And just like the beast’s incision, she ended up doing nine, even though the wound was longer.

More than her hand trembled now, and with a weak sigh, she looked around the bathroom the size of her bedroom at her old apartment. This bathroom, just like the sitting room, was all marble—floor and countertop. She stripped and turned on one of the shower heads, standing eagerly beneath it. Leaning against the tile wall, she let it wash over her head and down her body, taking all the blood with it. The water burned hotter than she usually liked, but it jerked her back to life. It brought all her senses into focus and left her buckling over in the shower, breaking down until she forced herself to breathe.

Chapter 21

Elizabeth gave herself permission to explore Henry’s home for the first time—at least this section of it. Gold-trimmed crown molding; a wide spiral staircase made, again, of heavenly white marble; high ceilings painted with demons and angels, a mural depicting some heavenly war: every inch, even those ceilings, was clean and immaculate. The house even smelled clean, like exquisite, natural pine.

When she entered the sitting room again, she was surprised to see the floor around the beast had been cleared. Even her jacket and shirt were gone. The sight of a large, feral creature in a room so full of luxury was strange. The room had a Victorian theme, but kept with the gold theme of the rest of the mansion. Everything seemed lined with gold; even the plush chairs that appeared to never have seated a soul were golden velvet. And Elizabeth would have bet the décor was older than Henry.

Arne wasn’t in sight, and the beast still lay in the same position she’d left him in, limp on his right side, his ribs lifting with each inhalation. His fur appeared to be dry now, unlike her shower-soaked hair. She’d frequently wished to see him in the light, but not like this, not injured. He was beautiful, still, even in his unconscious state. His dark fur shone, reflecting the chandelier’s light, and even the coarser, spikier hair of his spine was a striking color: a blunt pitch-black, so stark it looked like the color of nothingness.

She knelt before him, checking his incision. Already it looked better. Was her mind playing tricks, or was it actually healing? She stroked his silken fur, feeling her hand over his large ribs as they rose and fell. Whatever Hell he lived internally at the moment, she prayed the morphine would dull it.

Her hand found his face. “You’re going to be all right…Henry.” Calling him by name in this form felt out of place, but it was the only right thing to call him here.

Then it entered her mind, distant and unclear, but definitely a voice. Her hand paused, her heart startled by it. Elizabeth, he said.

“Yes, Henry,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

Where are you, Elizabeth?

“I’m right here.”

Run, as far as you can.

She paused again. He didn’t communicate with her here. He sent his thoughts to her, but it was a her that lived in his head, a her from his dreams. She continued to stroke his fur. “I’m not going anywhere.”

So…stubborn…

She smiled, just briefly.

Run! His animal eyelids twitched. She’ll kill you if she finds you. His eyes jerked beneath his lids again and a breathy sound emerged from the back of his throat. If you die I can’t…

Then she heard nothing. She searched his face that was suddenly lifeless again. “I’ll never leave,” she barely whispered while feeling her hand down his neck, her fingers getting lost in his fur. “You’re going to be all right.”

“He’s going to be all right only because of you.” Startled, she turned, finding Arne staring. She wondered how long he’d been watching. “If it wasn’t for you, he could have died, Elizabeth. Thank you…for saving him.”

She looked back to Henry. “He saved me first. More than once.”