I still had three hours before my shift with Desandra started. I bandaged the worst of it, sat on the chair very carefully-my thighs hurt-and slumped forward. Someone had left bandages on the night table. At least I hadn't given myself away completely. I still didn't know the full extent of his, and he still didn't know much about mine. In a simple one-on-one sword fight, I had an edge. Hugh would be directing an army, leading it into battle, while I was a lonely assassin on the sidelines, cutting my way through the mass of people to my target. Voron always told me that he'd trained Hugh to fight, but also to command and plan. Half a dozen shallow cuts crossed my arms and torso. Clearly, this created an imbalance and the Universe had decided to compensate. In the past, Doolittle had spent so much effort on healing me that some of my old scars had faded. Demet was really, really good at medmagic, but I was still human and now I was all cut up to hell. The gashes on my thigh and stomach had come open. I stepped out and looked at myself in the mirror. If she was right, I should be floating on a cloud of bliss right about now.įinally the water ran clear. I couldn't handle it, so I replaced it with physical pain instead: either I inflicted it on others or I suffered through it myself. It hurt and I welcomed it.Īndrea once told me that I had a problem processing emotional pain. I stood under the water, trying not to think, and concentrated purely on shampooing my hair and then dragging a soapy sponge against my cuts. With luck, I'd still be able to move tomorrow. I would really pay for blocking him in the morning, but the pain had already started. A dull, heavy numbness crept into my arms. Like a hot shower after a sweaty, bloody fight. Sometimes the simple pleasures in life are best.
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