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The line moves forward again, but the air in the chamber has changed. Everyone knows now: Lingua Veritatis doesn’t lie. And the rest of us? We don’t forgive.
7
Arianette
The boys return smelling of soot and incense, the scent clinging heavily to their clothes and hair. I shift in the stiff hospital chair, my body exhausted and confused from the constant glare of fluorescent lights and the nonstop interruptions. The sterile room feels too bright, too clinical, too far removed from the man lying motionless in the bed before me.
They look drained. Hunter’s hair is a mess, the way it gets when he’s been pushing it back repeatedly. Damon’s eyes are dark and distant, carrying shadows that make my chest ache.
Whatever they’ve been doing tonight has left them hollowed out and running on fumes.
“What are you doing here?” I ask softly, rising from the chair. My hand instinctively finds Timothy’s again, running my thumb over his knuckles like a talisman.
Hunter sets a worn backpack on the rolling table that slides over the hospital bed. It lands with a heavy clunk, something metal shifting inside.
“I was doing some research,” Hunter says, voice rough with exhaustion, “and I came across a rite.”
“A rite?” I echo, too tired for anything vague or complicated.
“For protection,” Damon says, stepping closer. He leans in and presses a slow kiss to the side of my neck, his lips warm and grounding. “For people caught in the in-between.”
My gaze drifts back to Timothy, pale and still beneath the thin hospital blanket, machines keeping a steady rhythm around him.
Hunter opens the backpack and carefully lays out a few items on the table: a small bundle of dried herbs, a vial of golden oil, and a shallow silver bowl with a pestle. Damon helps him clear space, the two of them moving with quiet, practiced reverence. The scent that rises as Hunter mixes the herbs with the oil is earthy and sharp–sage, myrrh, and something faintly floral. It cuts through the sterile hospital smell, bringing something alive and sacred into the room.
Hunter dips his finger into the mixture and gently dabs it onto Timothy’s forehead, drawing a small, deliberate mark–a circle with three lines extending outward like roots reaching into the earth. The motion is tender, almost prayerful, and it strikes me that they’ve become so good at this when a few months ago it was new and strange.
They’ve moved from the shadows to the forefront, stepping into the roles the House of Night needs. When Hunter speaks, it’s with authority, “Vitam tuam vitae nostrae alligo,” he murmurs. “I bind your life to our lives. Stay with us.”
He turns to me, touching the same mark between my brows. The oil feels cool at first, then warms against my skin. Hunter marks Damon next, and then he hands the bowl to Damon, who gives him his own mark.
The air in the room feels charged with quiet power and intention. It doesn’t feel like magic in the storybook sense. It feels like love–desperate and stubborn–trying to tether Timothy’s soul back to this world. Back to us.
I squeeze Timothy’s hand tighter, the mark on my forehead tingling faintly, and whisper, “We’re here. We’re not letting you slip away.”
The three of us stand around his bed in the dim hospital light, marked and bound together, refusing to let go.
Damon is the one who forced me to go home.
He stood in the hospital hallway, hands gentle on my shoulders, and told me Timothy would be safe with Graves watching over him. I needed to shower, sleep in a real bed, and let my body rest for a few hours. He and Hunter still had to deal with the frat–sorting out who was loyal after everything that had happened. I didn’t argue. I was too exhausted to fight him.
But I couldn’t help noticing the new ring on his finger as he spoke. The Baron King’s ring. I’m not upset. I trust Damon with every broken piece of me. Still, it’s another reminder of how much has shifted in such a short time.
I come out of the shower feeling slightly more human, steam curling around me. My hair is long and pulled back like it’s been since the Mercer Christmas party. I slip into one of Damon’s oversized t-shirts and a pair of soft sleep shorts, then pull my hair up into a satin bonnet. My gaze lingers on my throat, where the collar was once cinched and heavy–a constant reminder of who I belonged to. Timothy had put it on me as a punishment after the fire, but it linked me to him. I liked it, and I miss it. It’s just another piece taken from me.
I open the bathroom cabinet looking for my lotion. My skin feels dry from the days of being inside the hospital. I find the bottle up on the shelf and when I pull it out something falls into the sink.
Frowning, I pick it up. It’s a dried flower–a dahlia–petals brittle and dyed black. Must be left over from a ceremony. I can’t remember.
I set it aside and pump the lotion in my hand, then coat it over my arms and legs, increasingly starting to feel more human again. The bed feels like heaven when I finally crawl into it, bone-tired, every muscle aching with the weight of the last few days.
If only my mind could slow down the way my body has. It feels so quiet in here compared to the hospital–no machines or interruptions–the little things that told me he was still alive.
Ares pads into the room on quiet paws and pushes his big nose into my hand, demanding attention.
“Hey,” I murmur, scratching behind his ears. I was scared of him at first–this massive dog with his sharp teeth and intense stare–but he’s turned out to be such a sweet boy. “Where’s your dad?”
His tail wags hard, knocking against the side of the bed, and he jumps up without invitation, circling once before curling heavily at my feet with a contented sigh. A few minutes later, the bedroom door opens. Hunter steps in, shadows deep under his eyes, exhaustion carved into every line of his face. Ares’s tail thumps happily against the mattress, but he doesn’t get up. Hunter stops short when he sees me curled on my side in the big bed.
