Nine:
Missing my mates, and writhing in agony, I lay. Talia had only left a few times, and Olaf was standing sentinel at my door. I’d never felt so comfortably crazy in my entire life. As a natural-born protector, my situation was a complete reversal of roles for me. Laying like an invalid with multiple festering s***h wounds and a myriad of talon marks, was not fun. Usually, healing wouldn’t be so hindered for me.
Whatever metaphysics augmented the claymore and the Stalkers, also incited my wounds.
“Yer very lucky that this is even healing. Darken Fae have had runs with Reapers stranded across other realms. My brother informed me the festering death associated with the injuries is always fatal.”
Talia informed me, and I winced as she pulled back the dressing on the wounds.
“Great,
