Chapter 37
Lirael
The impact was catastrophic. Landing gear tearing away, sliding, bouncing across sand and rock. Sebastian's arm tightened until I couldn't breathe, his body taking the worst of the impacts as we slammed against seats again and again.
Something cracked. My head snapped back, stars exploding. The shriek of metal filled everything.
Then stillness.
"Status," Sebastian managed.
"Alive," Marcus groaned. "Pilot's dead. Co-pilot unconscious."
"Fuel leak?"
"Yes. Move now."
Sebastian tried to stand, went rigid with pain. The bullet wound had reopened, blood flowing freely. His left arm hung useless. When he got his feet under him, he swayed dangerously.
"Get the co-pilot. I'll manage."
His eyes found me. His good hand extended. "Can you walk?"
"Yes."
"Then move. This thing's about to blow."
We stumbled out into darkness. The moon was rising—huge, nearly full—painting the beach in silver. Marcus dragged the co-pilot clear while Sebastian and I staggered away.
We'd made it maybe fifty yards when the fuel tank caught.
The explosion knocked us flat. When I could see again through smoke and spots, Sebastian was on his knees beside me, his good hand still gripping mine.
Then his legs gave out. He collapsed onto his back, hand pressing against his shoulder where blood poured between his fingers—dark and viscous in moonlight. His face had gone gray, breathing shallow.
Shock.
"Sebastian—"
"Still here," he managed. "Can't seem to get rid of you..."
"Shut up." My hands moved to his shoulder, assessing damage. The bullet had gone deep, and he'd lost too much blood. The wound needed pressure, needed proper medical attention, but all I had were my bare hands and the knowledge that he was dying in front of me.
"The collar," he rasped suddenly. I felt it—the warning burn at the base of my skull. The dampening collar's systems had been damaged. "Failsafe... triggering..."
His hand fumbled for his pocket, blood-slick fingers struggling with the pocket watch. I covered his hand with mine, helping him pull it free. Together we found the marking on the dial, the twist that would disable the collar's toxin.
The vibration cut off.
"There," he breathed, hand falling away. "Can't have my property damaged..."
Even dying, the possessive claim. But there was something else in his voice—relief that I was safe, even if he wasn't.
I looked around. The treeline beckoned, and beyond it a structure—small, dilapidated, but shelter. "Marcus! Help me get him to that building!"
Between us, we half-carried, half-dragged Sebastian into the trees. The building was an old fishing shack—broken windows, debris-covered floor, but it had walls and a roof.
We laid him down. In the moonlight I got my first clear look at the damage, and my stomach twisted with the understanding that pressure alone wouldn't be enough, that the bullet was still lodged somewhere deep and his body was shutting down from blood loss and shock.
"First aid kit," Marcus said, moving toward the door. "Supplies in the wreckage—"
"Go. I'll keep him stable."
Marcus hesitated, then disappeared. I was alone with Sebastian, and all I could think about was how he'd thrown himself in front of that bullet.
He saved my life.
"Why?" The word escaped. "Why did you do that?"
His eyes found mine, gold bleeding into amber as the moon's pull grew stronger. "Couldn't let them... damage you..." But there was no conviction in it, and we both knew it was a lie.
"Try again. The truth this time."
He was quiet, breathing labored, body trembling. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet I had to lean in. "Because you fought with me. Not for me. With me." His eyes met mine, something raw there. "No one's done that before..."
He trailed off as his body convulsed, a low growl building in his chest. The gold was overtaking amber, pupils elongating. The moon was calling, and pain and blood loss were stripping away his control.
"Sebastian." My hands framed his face. "Stay with me. Stay human—"
A snarl tore from his throat. His hand grabbed my wrist, grip crushing, and I saw his canines lengthening. His whole body began to spasm as the beast fought to break free.
If he transformed now, he'd either die from the exertion or kill me in his frenzy.
"No," I breathed, forehead pressing against his. "No, you don't get to die. Not after taking a bullet for me."
I knew what I had to do. What I owed him.
I pressed my forehead to his again, framed his face, and began to sing.
The words were in the old tongue, a lullaby my mother had sung in dreams I barely remembered. A song to calm wild things, to soothe the savage heart.
My voice cracked on the first notes but I pushed through. As I sang, I felt something shift inside, felt moon dew beginning to form—not in tears but in my breath, in the air between us.
The scent hit him hard. His grip loosened, head tilting, nostrils flaring. It was what he'd been craving, what he needed to keep the madness at bay.
His eyes began to clear, gold fading toward amber. Breathing slowed. Elongated features started to retreat. But he was still dying, still bleeding out, and the song alone wasn't enough.
I knew what I had to do. Knew it would change everything, would create a bond I might never break. But he was dying, and—
I don't want him to die.
Before I could change my mind, I lowered my head and pressed my mouth to the torn flesh.
His body jerked beneath me, a sound half-gasp, half-growl escaping his throat. His hand tangled in my hair, not pulling away but holding me there, and I knew he understood what I was doing.
My saliva had properties—healing properties that could knit flesh and purge poison, but only through intimate contact. It wouldn't remove the bullet, wouldn't repair everything, but it could stop the bleeding, could slow the dying long enough for proper treatment.
I sealed my lips over the wound and let my saliva flow, felt the ancient magic activate, felt it seep into torn muscle and damaged tissue. The taste was copper and chemical, his poisoned blood mixing with my healing essence. I fought not to gag but kept my mouth pressed to his shoulder, kept the seal tight.
His body shuddered. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Beneath my lips I could feel tissue beginning to stabilize, could feel the immediate danger receding. It wasn't complete healing—I didn't have that power, not with the collar still partially active, not with the bullet still lodged inside him—but it was enough. Enough to stop the dying, to pull him back from the edge, to buy time until Marcus returned with supplies.
When I finally pulled away, gasping, my mouth stained with his blood, his eyes were fully amber. Fully human. And the way he was looking at me—
"You..." His voice was hoarse. "Your mouth... you..."
"Don't." I couldn't meet his eyes. "Don't read anything into it. You took a bullet for me. I owed you."
"Lirael." He said my name like a prayer, like a curse. "You saved my life."
"You saved mine first. Now we're even."
"Even," he repeated, then laughed—a rough, pained sound that turned into a cough. "You think that makes us even?"