THIRTY-TWO
If not for Grey’s occasional moaning and snoring, Sage would have thought him dead. All the color had drained from his face. Sweat clung to his brow, giving his features an odd, waxy sheen in the dim light of the motel room.
Sage fought to stop herself from calling a doctor. Could a Terra develop infections from their wounds? The healing factor in their magical blood had not really been tested. Sage kept a silent vigil through the long hours until the first rays of light pierced the blinds.
Grey shifted, crying out as he tried to move his bad leg. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes.
“I’m here.” Sage was at his side in a flash. “Tell me what to do.”
“Close the blinds,” he ordered hoarsely.
“You look like you’re dying. Tell me what to do.”
“Just let me rest,” he barked at
