I’ve got to be one of the worst sick people ever.
Throwing up has always made me super miserable, I tend to get whiny and complain when I feel weak, and I get kind of testy at the slightest headache. Luckily, I’ve got a pretty strong immune system. I haven’t gotten a cold in years, I can count the stomach flu’s I’ve had in my life on one hand, and I rarely get headaches.
This? This is the mother of all migraines. It’s like a rock band is playing their second encore at the base of my skull. My eyes are screwed shut because even a glimpse of the lantern’s light has my stomach turning.
There’s nothing left in there. I’ve thrown up everything in my stomach and then some. I’ve got to be dehydrated, too, which isn’t doing the pounding in my head any favors. The sewer had its own nasty smell when I first came down here to hide. Now, the stringent, acrid scent of vomit mixed with the cloying scent of that awful peach is all around me.
Any time I breathe through my nose, the rancid stench has my weak stomach twitching. What makes it so much worse is that I’m not sure if I want to hurl again, or fish the half-eaten peach out of the dirty water and take another bite.
I’m not even hungry. Right now, even though it’s been hours since I first bit that peach, I feel so crappy that I don’t know if I ever want to eat again. It’s like there’s this… I don’t know… compulsion almost. I don’t want to do it. Just thinking about it makes me feel ten times worse, but I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t tempted.
I lose track of time. Wrapping that strange blanket around my shoulders, wiping my mouth with one of the corners, I curl up into the fetal position and promise myself that, as soon as I regain enough strength to climb out of the sewer, I’m begging someone—anyone—for help.
I’m sick. I’m filthy. I’d just about kill for some water to wash out my mouth and rinse my face.
And that’s when I hear a sudden gasp, followed by a soft growl and I decide that when I thought that I’d beg anyone for help, I was tem
pting fate.
“Oh, Shadow.” The familiar voice with its alluring lilt and undeniably harsh edge makes my heart race and my stomach twist. “You should’ve called me.”
Nine is lucky that I’m too weak to do anything but lie here otherwise I’d flip him the bird.
Call him? How the hell was I supposed to call him?
When I sent him away from the cemetery, I didn’t know if I would ever see Nine again. I told him I wouldn’t want to—because, contrary to the fae, I can totally lie—and then, when Rys tracked me down the next morning, he basically confirmed it. Without knowing Nine’s true name, his Faerie name, I would never be able to summon him for help.
Know what, though? He’s here now. He found me again.
The least he could do is help me after how much his peach has made me suffer.
“Water.”
“Did you say something?”
I tried. My lips are cracked, my throat way too dry. My head throbs so bad that I squint and wait for a beat between the pulses to spit out that word again: “Water.”
I’m so desperate for a drink that I’m seconds away from crawling on my belly and lapping at the puddle where my slipper still sits, mud and oil and all.
Luckily, I don’t have to do that. Nine murmurs for me to stay where I am—like I’m really in any shape to move—and disappears. I can tell. Just like when he appeared in my room at the asylum, once I sense him near me, it’s easy to pick up on how different the air feels when he’s gone. Like… like it’s lighter somehow.
Or maybe a bad case of food poisoning and severe dehydration has me cracking up more than usual.
Yeah.
It’s probably that last one.
4
Nine isn’t gone for long. The air grows heavy again a second before I hear his voice. As if he can tell that I’m suffering, he keeps it low.
“Riley. I have your water.”
“Don’t touch me,” I whisper. I want that water so bad, but not enough to give him permission.
The air shifts around me. I can sense him at my back for a heartbeat, and then he’s gone again.
“The vial is behind you.” He pauses, then offers, “I can put it in your hand if that helps.”