Torin, found

Carrying on from here. 

“Tonne street, Tonne street – yes, here it is. Stop here!”

The carriage had barely rolled to a stop before Bertram’s feet hit the cobbled street, still wet and dotted with puddles. A few stray raindrops dappled the shoulders of his coat as he peered up and down the lake shore, looking for the jetty.

He spied it a short distance away. “This is where they said,” he called over his shoulder to the driver, already moving. “I’ll be just over there. Wait for me!”

Bertram strode quickly but carefully, avoiding the puddles. Fear was tying his insides in knots, and had been for hours now, ever since he’d gotten home and found that Torin wasn’t there.

He had to be okay. He had to be.

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The Secretary (Part 7)

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6

“What’s the status?” Delia asked, phone in hand as she stirred the pot on the stove. “Have you found her?” There were a whole team of trackers dedicated to finding Eliana, and it was time for their check-in. 

“No, Secretary Delia. We haven’t found the splice either.”

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alex helps a stranger

The crack of gunfire is all too common, here. Alex knows enough to stay away from it, rather than walk towards it, usually.

But a weak help, a low moan, from the corner of the dimly lit parking lot where Alex has parked the Resistance van, well, that can’t be ignored.

The victim’s on the ground, barely leaning against a lamp post. He’s been shot in the chest with that kind of bullet that bursts inside you, a hollow-point, set to devastate everything around it. Alex does a quick assessment of the damage. A shattered clavicle, blood pulsing weakly onto the man’s chest with every heartbeat, and shallow, rapid breathing indicating the puncture of a lung.

Minutes to live, Alex thinks. Minutes, that is, without magic.

“It’s okay,” Alex says, low and quiet, reassuring, “I can help you.”

“Nghh — ahh — I —” Normally Alex would ask permission, but the man can’t get a single word out between wheezes. Blonde hair is plastered to his forehead, blood pools at his lips.

“It’s okay, try to relax.” Alex lets light flick to his fingers; the man’s eyes are wide with pain and fear. 

It takes less than a minute for Alex to repair the worst of the damage, knit the walls of the artery back together, re-inflate the lung. It’s quick, but heavy magic, and by the time it’s done Alex tastes his own blood, dripping from his nose onto his lips.

He’s barely registered that his patient looks better, stronger, a healthy color to his cheeks, before the man is punching him, once, twice, in the gut.

Alex staggers back, eyes wide. “I… I helped you…” 

“Fucking warlock,” the man hisses.

Alex doesn’t realize until the blood spatters onto the ground that he hasn’t been punched.

He’s been stabbed.

Twice, in the stomach. The man’s still holding the knife, covered with his blood, and he’s preparing to launch it again. His lips are curled in distaste.

Alex turns tail and runs, or rather, stumbles, dizzily, towards the van. A knife whizzes past his ear as he goes; luckily, Alex left him wounded enough that his aim is imperfect. 

Alex practically collapses on the door handle to the van, falls into the back seat, and locks it.

The blonde man can’t get Alex in here. Can’t even see Alex, through the tinted windows. But he still bangs on the window a few times, shouting expletives, unnatural little fucker, you’ve cursed me, you’ll pay for this. Alex cowers in the back seat, clutching his stomach. The pain is expanding, radiating out from the wounds.

By the time the man gives up and leaves, Alex’s abdomen is rigid. Every motion, every breath is agony. His face is covered in a cold sweat, and his heart is racing. Something’s been punctured, he knows, his stomach or his gut. He has to heal himself. Has to, or he’ll die.

Hands to the wounds, he throws what’s left of his magic in. The bleeding slows. But he doesn’t have enough power left, and the wounds have drained his strength. The dizziness only intensifies, and as he depletes his magic he erupts in a fit of coughs. With each cough, his abdomen tenses, ripples, and tears leak from his eyes from the fire his stomach has become.

Weakly, vision blurring, he pulls out his phone. Holds a shaky thumb down on the name of the last person he texted. Lux.

Two fuzzy rings, then nothing but static on the other end. 

Is the reception bad, he wonders, or is it all static in my head?

The phone slips from his limp, numb hand, onto the floor of the car, and a weak moan issues from between his bloody lips.

He can only hope.

(cont. - lux gets that phone call)

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