Intrinsical - Lani Woodland [75]
“When you pulled me free.”
The black on his ankle was slowly spreading like a spider web, climbing up his leg. It reminded me of blood poisoning, climbing up his veins toward his heart. I moved to grab it when Brent stopped my hand. “Don’t touch it.”
“Right.” I bit my lip and raised my fingers over it trying to pluck it out using my mind. It clung to him, refusing to let go. I could feel its resistance and I tugged harder. It wobbled a little until it finally pulled free with a loud sucking sound that was lost in Brent’s stream of profanity.
It landed a few feet away from us and shimmered and wiggled gelatinously before vanishing. The wound was blistered and oozing, but the black continued to spread higher. I lifted my fingers and tried to pull the infectious liquid out but it wouldn’t come. Without even thinking about how dangerous it was, I lowered my mouth to the wound and my lips pressed against Brent’s leg, closing over the cut. Brent’s leg jerked and I looked at him, mentally asking if it was hurting him.
He strangled a laugh. “Not exactly.”
Not really feeling reassured, but knowing I needed to hurry, I began sucking on his leg, pulling the poison out, much like my grandpa had done for my sister after a rattlesnake bit her when we were young. The poison had my gag reflex working as it touched my tongue. It tasted horrible, like a mix of moldy grapes, rotten eggs, and open septic tank—chilled, fermented, and topped off with rotten milk. Slowly, the black in his leg began retreating.
It took several times of sucking the poison and spitting it out before I got it all. As soon as the black substance touched the earth, it vanished, absorbed into the dirt, killing the grass. I bent over and heaved, black and blue saliva trickling down my chin. I drew the back of my hand across my mouth, clearing it away, then wiped it on the browning and brittle grass. If evil had a taste, that was it.
Brent looked at me strangely, rotating his ankle a few inches off the ground.
“What?” I asked, leaning my back against the gazebo’s white-painted boards.
He didn’t respond right away and I checked to see if he had fallen asleep, but he was watching me. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“Did it help?” I asked, trying to determine whether he sounded impressed. He nodded mutely, holding up his leg, his pant leg fell enough to see the small, newly formed black scar on his ankle. It looked like a tattoo of a black rain cloud. “Good, because that was totally gross, and if it didn’t help I think I would cry.”
“Weep not, m’lady; it helped,” he said, with a slight bend of his waist. “You can’t keep your lips off me, huh?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Yes, I’m sorry my motives are so transparent.” I mentally threatened to dig up whatever poison I could find and reinsert it into him, causing him to sputter a laugh.
“In all seriousness, thanks,” Brent mumbled, dropping his leg with a hard thud. “That was brave. Stupid, but brave. What if you got some of it in you?’
“I didn’t . . . besides, you would have done the same for me,” I said simply, stretching my sore body.
“Yes, I would have,” he answered without any hesitation at all.
I felt the nightly pull of my death and I slumped.
“Oh, man.” Brent groaned. “I’m too exhausted to watch you drown again.”
“I’m even less up to it than normal,” I complained as we were lifted from the ground and carried toward the pool.
After I had drowned and Brent had failed to revive me, we again walked toward the garden.
“I’m so tired.” Brent yawned, dropping to the ground and pulling me down beside him. “I think I need to sleep.”
“Sleep then.” I started humming softly, a melody I made up as I went along.
“I shouldn’t, though. I need to be ready in case it comes back.”
He sat up straight, slapping his face lightly, trying to wake himself up.
“I’m perfectly capable of keeping watch.”
“Maybe for a few minutes,” he said. He smiled weakly as his eyelids drooped, his face toward the sky and his arms folded across his