Chapter 52: Part 2-1

Bull’s eye rashes covered the entire length of Braeden's arm and his tattoo was distorted by crusted, pustular lesions that peppered his skin from the midpoint of his limb and above. The pent-up fluid in his upper arm had leaked out and dried in yellow slabs, giving his skin a deflated, rubberized appearance. Now Sam could see that the demon’s teeth had speared the eyes of the lion’s head inked on Braeden’s shoulder. Half of the lion’s face was blotted out by the telltale black of necrosis and its mane was streaked with blood and pus. “Is it that bad?” Braeden asked. Sam slapped her forehead with her palm. “You can’t see your shoulder properly, can you? I’m no doctor, but I’d wager my right hand that your wound is infected.” She touched his brow again and hissed. Braeden’s skin was so hot he had actually scalded her. “And you have a ridiculously high fever. You need a doctor.” Braeden gingerly sat up, using his good arm to shift his weight. “Sam, I appreciate your concern, but stop treating me like I’m human. I’m not. This illness or whatever it is will pass on its own accord.” Sam bit her lip. “Will you at least let me help you wash it? It can’t be good to leave dirt in an open wound, even for you.” “If you must.” “Thank you. I’ll be back with supplies in a minute. Don’t move from this spot,” she said sternly. Sam filled a small basin with water in the privy and retrieved a spare tunic and salve from her pack. She soaked the tunic in the water and then returned to Braeden’s side on the pallet. “Put your hand on my lap,” she said. She gently wiped away the dried blood and debris on his forearm. “Does this feel okay?” Braeden nodded, his lids heavy. “Feels good.” Sam edged her ministrations higher on his arm, lightening her strokes when Braeden jerked at her touch. “Still okay?” she asked. “Fine,” Braeden said between clenched teeth. “I’m going to clean your shoulder now,” she told him. She brought the wet tunic close to the teeth marks, hovering right above the angry skin. “Here goes,” she said, and pressed the fabric to the wound. The instant she touched him, Braeden’s eyes rolled up into his head and he fell back against the bed. For a panicked second, Sam thought he might be dead. But he was still breathing. She all but sobbed in relief at the steady up and down movement of his chest. “Idiot man,” she said to his passed out form. “I’m getting Tristan. If you die while I’m gone, I’ll kill you.” Sam dashed down the hall and pounded on the door to Tristan’s rented room with both fists. He answered almost immediately. “It’s bad, Tristan,” she said, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “He’s out cold, and I think his wound might be fatal.” “Take me to him,” Tristan commanded. Sam dragged Tristan to the room she shared with Braeden, but he hardly needed encouragement to go faster. He moved as if he were keenly aware of the urgency of the situation, shoving Sam out of the way and marching over to Braeden’s prone body straightaway. Tristan busied himself with checking Braeden’s vital signs and inspecting his wounded arm, careful to not touch the wound itself. “It’s bad,” Tristan confirmed. Sam threw up her hands. “I told you! Now what? If he dies, I’ll—” Tristan eased off the pallet and came to stand in front of her, placing his large hand on the top of her head. “Let’s not worry until we have to. His vitals are still very strong.” “But his skin is so hot.” Sam showed Tristan the small red burn mark on the back of her hand. “I’ve never seen a fever that can do this.” “Sam, we can’t judge Braeden by the same standards we would ourselves.” “He’s still human!” Tristan dropped his hand and stepped back. “He’s human where it matters, Sam. I want you to know I believe that. But illness is a science, not a behavior, and you can’t deny the demon’s blood that flows through his veins. I don’t think Braeden himself fully understands how it physically affects him.” “So what do we do? Sit around and pray to the gods that he doesn’t die?” “Of course not. I’ll find a doctor, one who is used to dealing with the unusual. I’ll leave now.” Sam nodded tightly. “And me? What do I do while you’re gone?” “Pray to the gods he doesn’t die.” Tristan sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. “And bathe. Definitely bathe.” Bathing seemed so self-indulgent, but Tristan was right that there wasn’t much Sam could do for Braeden in his absence. She knew how to clean and bandage a basic wound, but she daren’t risk touching Braeden’s shoulder again. She had no choice but to wait for Tristan to bring back a doctor, hopefully one who was open minded. Still, Sam kept her bath short, not bothering to wait for the water to heat. Now that she had rinsed away the layers of dirt and grime, a smattering of minor bruises and cuts were visible across her pale skin. She couldn’t entirely credit her skill in battle for her relative lack of injury; she’d made several mistakes, as Tristan had been sure to point out. She’d been lucky—no, not lucky—protected. Out of some sort of misguided sense of chivalry, Braeden had watched over her to distraction. She refused to be the reason he got himself killed, now or ever. If he recovered—when he recovered—she’d lecture him about it. Maybe she’d even challenge him to a friendly duel to prove her point. To Sam’s great displeasure, Tristan didn’t return until dusk, the Uriel surgeon in tow. “You brought him?” she asked incredulously. “But he’s with the Uriel!” “Lovely to see you again, too,” the surgeon said. He set down a large physician’s bag by Braeden’s pallet. “For the record, I’m not ‘with’ the Uriel—I work with the Uriel.” “There’s a distinction?” Sam asked. “Yes, it means they pay my bills, but I report up to no one. And my oaths of medicine come before any Uriel business.” “He was the best man for the job,” Tristan said by way of explanation. Sam folded her arms and regarded him skeptically. The surgeon unpacked his bag. Sam blanched when he dumped out the conical mouth gag and three long needles onto the pallet. “It’s true,” he said. “The only other doctor in Pirama is a quack.” He withdrew a magnifying lens, hooked retractors, a bottle of leeches and a hand fan. “Besides, I studied demon anatomy. Your Paladin thought that might come in handy.” Sam ignored the smug look on Tristan’s face. “I wasn’t aware that demon anatomy was a study.” “It’s not, not officially, anyway. But when more and more of my patients started coming in with injuries inflicted by demons, my curiosity was piqued. I’ve conducted quite a few autopsies on demon corpses over the past year.” Sam’s scowl encompassed the surgeon and Tristan. “Braeden’s not a corpse yet, in case you haven’t noticed.” “I’ve yet to mistake a live patient for a dead one. Now, move aside,” the surgeon said.  He sat down on the edge of the pallet and grabbed Braeden’s wrist. “His body temperature is severely overheated, but his pulse is steady. How long has he been out?” Tristan looked at Sam. “Sam?” “A few hours now,” she said. “I touched his shoulder – there, where it’s all black – and he collapsed.” “Did you try to rouse him?” the surgeon asked. Worry sunk like a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach. She’d been too nervous to touch Braeden again after he collapsed – she hadn’t wanted to make things worse than she already had. But what if her inaction was responsible for even greater harm? “No, should I have?” “No harm done,” the surgeon said. “I’ll try now.” He slipped his arm underneath the armpit of Braeden’s good shoulder and wrapped his other arm around Braeden’s lower back, carefully moving him into a seated position. The surgeon snapped his fingers at Sam. “Grab that fan and start fanning him. He needs cool air.” Sam jumped to obey him. “Like this?” “Good.” The surgeon tapped on Braeden’s clavicle with his knuckles, eliciting a hollow sound. “Braeden,” he called softly. “Braeden, can you hear me?” Braeden’s eyes fluttered open. Sam exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “What happened?” Braeden croaked. “What are you doing here?” “According to Sam, here, you passed out, likely from pain,” the surgeon said. “You’re quite ill, lad.” “Impossible,” Braeden said flatly. “I don’t get sick.” “On a scale of one to ten, with one being perfectly fine and ten being gods awful, how would you say you feel?” the surgeon asked. “Five,” said Braeden. The surgeon lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe six.” “So we can agree, then, that your body is out of balance with its normal state.”