December - 1897

December - 1897

They had burst through the door of her little house at full pelt, it was a wonder the door hadn’t flown off in their wake. Slamming it, Vanessa cast a quick lock charm onto it and let out a sigh. Her breathing was far from easy, however the lock would hold out the very worst of what was out there. The noise was a different matter; however that could be ignored for the time being. Right now, the health of her companion was more of a concern.

Alistair had taken a deep wound to his left shoulder and a blow to the side of his head. The creatures that had dealt such an injury were now back where they belonged but the damage was already done. There was a small trail of blood leading from the door to the place he had sank onto the floor and his eyes had already taken on that glassy look of someone who wasn’t quite there anymore. Striding over, she cast the spell that would show his essence and he began to glow slowly. The dimmer parts were where his wounds were, obviously, but there was something else she saw that was troubling – the dark area around his lungs; that was something else. What it meant, she was unsure of and for the moment she pushed it from her mind.

Her cold hands fumbled at the fabric of his torn jacket. The moment the found the seam, she yanked the stitches and revealed the ugly, bleeding wound. “This is deep,” she said, feeling a rise of panic in the back of her mind. The dark haired man rolled his head to look at her with those dull eyes and tried to smile.

“Not your way,” he said. It felt as though he had slapped her. His aversion to her magic she knew well enough but in the face of such danger it always hurt more. She sighed.

“I could heal this wound easily,” she said, protesting despite already knowing the answer. He shook his head. She would not go against his wishes in this matter, or any matter it seemed. Rising, she headed to the cabinet and picked up what she needed to heal it in more conventional means. He winced when she began cleaning it.

“This way is better,” he said, his voice was a hoarse whisper, “This way, you don’t get hurt for my sake.”

She opened her mouth to protest when there was a huge thud against the door. A glance was exchanged between them before she placed his hand on the binding of his wound and got to her feet. What she found at the door was not what she expected. There was a squat man in a straight cut coat glaring up at her. “What do you want?” she asked, not in the mood for politeness. The man’s gaze narrowed somewhat and he shook his head.

“We all know what you do here,” he snorted, “The least you can do is do it quietly, not everyone wants to be disturbed by your actions!” His face was one of disgruntled anger and she was already too annoyed to bite back her own.

“And what actions are those sir?” she said, her back stiffening.

“Bringing men back here, this is a respectable neighbourhood.” She raised her wand behind her back and glowered at the idiot before her.

“Is that what you think this is? A cathouse?” her ire crept into her voice now and she knew it. The man stuttered a little at that, “Do you mistake me for some common whore, here to service the likes of you?” Before she knew what she was doing, she had her wand jammed into the man’s throat and she was forcing him back a step. “Take yourself away from my doorstep and never return,” she spat, “I am many things but a whore is not one of them.” Her pitch rose; after everything she had been through that day, this was the last thing she expected.

The man took a step back and she followed. “You’re lucky I don’t hex you for your tongue, get out of my sight!” she snapped. The man straightened up, gave her a derisive look before turning on his heels and striding off. She turned and slammed the door behind her, heading straight back to her now unconscious friend.

Another look at his vitality painted a grim picture. There was a bitter choice to be made now, she could try and use more conventional magic to save him, or she could resort to the methods she knew best. He would hate her for it, of that she was certain but he would be alive to do so. Closing her eyes, she uttered what she knew would be the final words to her friend, “I’m sorry,” she said, running a hand over his cheek before straightening and beginning the process of healing him.