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The world is black, red, and white when Nicky comes back to life with a painful jolt, each breath the prick of a searing hot needle piercing his chest.
In the first moment, he is blind.
A crimson haze fills his field of vision when he opens his eyes (though he isn’t even aware that he does so), and for a few drawn-out seconds, he is only able to breathe loudly and raggedly, while his mind is slow to set in again. As is his body, its numbness trapping him in a paralyzing heaviness.
Were his eyes injured? Why haven’t they healed yet? Will this be the time when an injury won’t heal, leaving him vulnerable and reliant on others? Where are the others?
He is utterly alone. Rising panic claws at his flesh, and the air hitches in his throat.
No.
Joe was right next to him when it happened, a grin on his lips as he tried to cheer up the overall tense atmosphere. And Nicky can vaguely remember Andy’s snort and her silhouette in front of him and Booker’s dry retort on his other side until …
Until what happened?
As he tries to reconstruct the past events, his head is simply filled with a static noise whose origin he cannot explain until he realizes that he can’t hear anything else.
It roars in his ears as if he were standing right next to a waterfall, but they hadn’t passed one on their way.
Great …
Before the anxiety which he can already feel as a growing pressure in his rib cage, can take hold of him any further, he focuses on taking a mental inventory. Every time fear threatens to overwhelm him, it helps Nicky to focus on things that lie within his control, and right now it is essential to keep a cool head and find the others.
Okay, apparently his ears were injured, and maybe his eyes are affected as well.
He can’t breathe …
When he exerts himself, he is able to move his toes and his hands too, which is good.
Breathe …
Frosty air bites his skin, and he feels hard, frozen ground beneath his cheek, which is damp where the snow has melted from his body heat. He is lying on his stomach, meaning there is no weight resting on his chest making it difficult for him to breathe. He won’t suffocate.
Even the blurry red obscuring his vision – it’s blood – dissipates the more he blinks and behind the dissolving crust, dark and light schemes take shape again.
Directly opposite his face, he spots a severed foot stuck in Andy’s boot.
Dio …
Leaning on his forearms is a feat of strength, and it takes him several attempts before he can move, with rattling gasps and trembling like a leaf, into a half-sitting position and steady himself on a rough tree trunk, pressing uncomfortably into his back. Disoriented, he remains still for a few heartbeats, staring at the image before him.
The force of the shells has torn craters into the ground, the formerly peaceful white of the snow is stained with blood and dirt, transforming it into an image of horror in which various mortal remains and shrapnel are just an additional gruesome detail.
Not just any remains. Those of his family.
The smugglers, who had actually been their target, had apparently gone by the motto “Go big or go home”, and had wanted to make sure they got every one of them with all of their arsenal.
Regardless of how much suffering and death Nicky has already seen and experienced himself in his long life, seeing wounds and dead bodies has never lost its sharp edges that cut, cut, cut him to his very core.
It takes a while for his brain to process what his eyes are registering, and he feels as if he is in free fall, hurtling off a cliff before the ground breaks his fall with bone-crushing force.
Where is Joe?
Although his entire being is immediately flooded with concern for his family, his primary focus remains on the love of his life, and Nicky notes his stomach sinking into the hollows of his knees when he can’t locate Joe right away.
Before he can stop himself, he’s already opening his mouth, the familiar metallic taste, iron and salt, coating his tongue to call out. For Joe, for anyone, so he’s not alone.
The rational part of his mind, clinging with all its might to his thoughts and keeping the overwhelming fear away from him, stops him with the objection that their enemies might still be nearby.
He listens with bated breath once the static noise has thankfully disintegrated, but only silence surrounds him. No birdsong or even the creaking of trees, just oppressive silence. Silence caused by the explosions, tingling and crackling unpleasantly in Nicky’s ears, making it clear to him that he is on his own for now.
Gritting his teeth as his eyes begin to burn suspiciously despite the cold, he pulls himself together and decides to work his way through his surroundings bit by bit.
His family is relying on him.
Crawling on his stomach as quietly as possible, he reaches a crater. Nicky feels as though the rustling of his clothes and his own heartbeat can be heard for miles around.
He finds Andy first.
Her pulse is missing as he touches her wrist with trembling fingers – he tells himself they’re shaking from the cold – and Nicky hates how much it still throws him off to see the people he loves motionless and broken. Torn apart by bombs, bullets, knives, shredded and sometimes disfigured beyond recognition.
Because they use their gift for something good.
Practiced, he ignores the lump in his throat, because he is a healer. Doctor, paramedic, healer, nurse, male midwife – over the centuries, he has had many names, performed countless medical procedures and has been able to witness the transformation of medicine itself, all the discoveries, insights and methods that people gained and developed.
It’s always different when you know the people you’re treating. But Nicky has resolutely trained himself to draw a clear line between his emotions and crises, so he can operate as efficiently as possible.
As a sniper, patience and a cool head are two of the most important qualities, and it wouldn’t do anyone any good if he puts them all in jeopardy because his emotions threaten to overwhelm him.
Lock them away. Lock away your irrational feelings. Concentrate.
So he brushes it all aside as if he were picking leaves from the crystal-clear surface of a still well, brushes aside how much it disturbs him to see Andy’s proud face chalk-white and waxy, brushes aside that his stomach clenches to the size of a walnut because everything below her waist is raw flesh, blood, torn muscles and bone splinters.
He brushes aside that he wants to curl up into a ball and cry because he is needed.
Because others need him and their enemies might not be far away.
Professionally, he examines his beloved big sister for other injuries, but doesn’t find anything and sets out to look for Joe and Booker after checking that Andy has started healing.
With larger and more serious injuries, the healing process can take a while, Nicky knows that, which is why there is nothing he can do for Andy at the moment. Except find the others and get them to safety as swiftly as possible to avoid further confrontations until the balance of power is restored between them and their opponents.
Captured, they are no use to anyone.
This time, Nicky even dares to sneak, past their backpacks and equipment scattered in all directions, countless dark red and black residues, branches, stones. Blindly, he grabs the least damaged backpack and puts it on – better safe than sorry – because he doesn’t know what else will await him.
The stench of burnt flesh is nauseating, but not the worst Nicky has ever smelled, so he tunes it out and keeps looking for his brother, his husband, anyone.
Per favore, please, bitte, por favor, s'il vous plait, mi …
There’s a brutal gagging sound to his left, and Nicky almost trips over his own feet, changing directions so fast because he knows the voice. Knows the person whose body he has explored countless times, in war and peace.
Yusuf.
It doesn’t matter that his knees go weak once Joe comes into view, or that his heart grows lighter and heavier at the same time as he sees the blood splattering Joe’s face, which despite everything has never looked more beautiful.
Even more beautiful, however, are the dark eyes that stare at him, glassy but undoubtedly alive, when Nicky staggers down a small hill, and Nicky detects the exact moment when Joe – instinctively half in fight mode – recognizes him and his muscles relax with a soundless, weary sigh.
Then he has made it to Joe and Nicky’s hands move as if of their own accord, palpating his face, his torso, deliberately avoiding the stump where Joe’s right arm had been, tenderly cupping his cheeks and maybe pressing Joe’s forehead more firmly than necessary against Nicky’s own.
“Yusuf”, Nicky repeats, over and over again, the name that sings in his blood every day and dispels the shadows when darkness threatens to drown everything out. I’m so glad you’re alive. I’m so glad I found you. I’m so glad you’re here with me. None of it leaves his mouth. Only Joe’s name, a mantra in its own form. “Yusuf, my Yusuf.”
“I’m okay”, Joe returns, his face furrowed with pain, but he nestles his unharmed hand against Nicky’s nape, holding him close. Nicky sees the same reassurance in his expression he too feels because Joe is still with him. Because even this death has not separated them. “Well, except for my arm, but that’s just a scratch.” The joke is weak, but Nicky laughs anyway, brittle and dull. “Are you hurt, habibi?”
“I’m fine, cuore mio”, Nicky assures him while pulling his belt out of the loops in one swift motion. Joe stays silent as Nicky applies the makeshift pressure bandage to where his arm has been, and doesn’t speak up again until Nicky takes a deep, shaky breath.
“It’s already healing, Nicolo. Everything will be fine.” The gentleness and warmth of his voice create a fleeting illusion of security and ease the inner tension that lights Nicky’s nerves on fire.
He allows himself this.
Allows himself to get lost in the heat of Joe’s skin, a stark contrast to the freezing temperatures, like a piece of sun-kissed Malta and sultry summer evenings amidst all the destruction. To get lost in the undeniable love, having accompanied him for more than 900 years, giving him strength when he stumbles, gifting him with a fixed point among blood and ashes to find a way home.
They exchange a kiss, brief and purposeful, with no other intention than to assure each other, tasting the sweet nectar of life on their lips, regardless of how many thorns life may be riddled with.
I love you, Nicky engraves into Joe’s soul, a throbbing echo in his veins, and he absorbs Joe’s counterpart like life-saving water. It’s an encouragement for both of them.
It alerts Nicky to how exhausted Joe looks, and Joe’s flaring nostrils in response to the discomfort of his injury slice into his heart, but Booker is still missing.
In short words, for his composure won’t allow anything else, he reports Joe about Andy, and to his surprise Joe can even tell him more details about their missing younger brother. “I heard Booker back there earlier.”
Weakly, he points to a cluster of thickets, and Nicky swallows the urge to ask Joe again how he’s feeling, whether he is sure he’s healing.
“Heard? Heard while …” Dying?, Nicky doesn’t say, but Joe’s agonized look is answer enough.
“Yeah.” Joe draws in a faltering breath, and Nicky’s intensifying gaze, already gliding over Joe’s figure in search of further injuries, prompts him to point to his arm. “Don’t worry about it, Nicolo. I’ll be back on my feet soon, I promise.”
I promise.
Nicky nods, a jerk of his head, awkward and more reflex than conscious action. Joe understands what he’s trying to tell him, regardless. I trust you.
“I’ll be right back.” Needless to say, he always returns to Joe and would challenge death to do so, but Nicky can’t help himself. It’s hard for him to leave Joe alone after their mission has taken such a bloodstained turn.
Joe squeezes his hand, unspoken gratitude in the familiar touch, because Nicky can tell he needs a moment to recover before slipping back into the mode of a capable warrior, and wordlessly grants his soulmate that moment. “I’m not running away.”
The words are followed by a wink, and Nicky’s lips curve into a barely-there smile without a thought. The movement feels especially heavy but the curl of his lips seems to work wonders for Joe.
And that is enough for the moment.
Following his beloved’s directions, Nicky discovers the last member of their family quite swiftly, though he regrets not waiting for Joe when he sees Booker’s torn-open chest.
Despite his organs already beginning to regenerate, Nicky fights against mild nausea as he examines Booker’s broken ribs, burned skin and the horrifically gaping abdominal wall. The worst part, however, is that Booker is alive.
He’s alive, and the sounds coming out of his mouth are inhuman, sliding right between Nicky’s ribs, causing him to increase his pace.
“Hey, Booker. Hey, hey, hey, I’m here”, he addresses him softly, slipping on ice and crawling the last few feet until his hand wraps around Booker’s upper arm. “It’s me, Nicolo. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Let’s see how bad it is, huh? Probably an improvement.”
He only talks and jokes to provide Booker with an anchor in the agony that is dragging him down into an endless void. Talks to ignore the fact that there is nothing he can do to help his little brother except wait and distract him.
Booker’s feet scrape helplessly in dead leaves and snow, blood blisters forming on his lips, and his gray eyes are sightlessly directed at the sky. He is deaf to Nicky’s words, insensate to Nicky’s touch, completely overtaken by the all-consuming anguish of the fight for survival.
"Sébastien, Sébastien," Nicky hears himself say dully, as if he were underwater, as if his voice alone could offer Booker some comfort. "Je suis ici, petit frère, I'm not leaving you, you hear me?"
Gurgling, Booker chokes, lungs not fully healed yet, and Nicky thinks he’s going to break down here and now, screaming, crying, sobbing.
He feels his family’s pain as if it were his own, and still, it is impossible for him to relieve them of the torment they are going through. There is nothing more terrifying than having to watch the people one loves suffer.
“You know what? I think I’ve liked you better before”, Nicky jokes, the quip a rotten branch in his voice splintering into hundreds of pieces, tries to block out how the tissue of Booker’s body is gradually, so so slowly repairing itself. How he dies, and Nicky is doomed to be unable to do something, no matter how small.
Then Booker becomes completely motionless, and a dry sob erupts from Nicky, unexpected and too rapid for him to react before he manages to keep his emotions in check again.
He has to get them to safety. There’s still a chance their enemies are nearby or will return, so he has to make sure they’re not found.
A hiding place.
They need a hiding place.
Without further ado, he grabs Booker under the armpits and starts dragging him to where Joe is waiting for them. Of course, Nicky is aware that he’s not the physically strongest of the team, but if there’s one thing he has, it’s steely perseverance and a fierce determination to protect his family, no matter the cost.
Despite the bone-chilling temperatures, which become increasingly icy as the sky grows darker by the minute, he is drenched in sweat when he finally reaches the spot where he left Joe in the care of the forest. His arms quiver with exertion, his back feels like a listless shell pierced with hot knives, and Booker has still not returned to the world of the living.
The quietness behind him is the first indication that something is wrong. The second is the gut feeling Nicky has learned to listen to, and he closes his eyes, bracing himself before turning around. The invisible shield he’s raised in front of him, hoping to soften the force of the coming blow, shatters like glass, and Nicky’s world tilts dangerously.
Joe is dead.
Ash-grey is his skin, his proud, athletic body (which Nicky can’t get enough of, can never get enough of) is strangely slumped as if someone had cut the strings of a marionette and carelessly discarded it.
Nicky doesn’t remember putting Booker down, gentle and careful, let alone moving a single muscle, breaking out of the paralysis the shock has thrown him into, but suddenly he is kneeling at Joe’s side, fumbling through the fabric of Joe’s clothes with his numb fingers, desperately searching for the one injury he overlooked.
For the arm has already grown back almost completely up to the elbow, and Nicky knows from experience that a severed limb is often not enough to kill them with their healing abilities.
Joe lied.
A mistake. Nicky made a mistake, and now Joe is dead, and he is alone again.
Joe liedliedlied.
Don’t worry about it, Nicolo. I’ll be back on my feet soon, I promise.
Why did Joe lie? Why wasn’t Nicky more attentive? The exhaustion, the dull gleam in Joe’s eyes, it was all right in front of him, and he was too blind, too stupid, to piece together the clues to another wound.
“No.” Nicky loathes how childish and small his voice sounds, how lost he feels. “No, no, no, Joe. Why did you … please come back. Yusuf …”
The realization eats through his insides like acid, and Nicky hisses, more out of anger at himself for not recognizing that Joe was doing the same thing Nicky would have done in his place.
Lying to protect and reassure.
In this already difficult and stressful situation, with Andy and Booker put out of action by their fatal injuries and Nicky’s nerves stretched to a breaking point, Joe did the only thing he could to make things easier for Nicky and help him focus on those who needed support more urgently: concealing his own injury, which was more serious than the missing arm.
Because Nicky would never have willingly left him alone knowing that he was lethally wounded.
“You and your big heart”, Nicky mutters through clenched teeth as the lump in his throat grows larger with every painful second he has to spend in this terrible forest, surrounded by the corpses of his family.
Where is the wound? What injury did I miss? Has it healed yet? Then why isn’t Joe waking up?
It doesn’t help when Booker wakes up again behind him, only to leave this life once more, againagainagain, in agony, while Nicky suppresses tears of frustration and ire at himself, and frantically searches Joe’s body for the wound he can’t find.
Somewhere, Andy is probably dying alone while I’m failing miserably at every turn.
Be quiet, Nicky harshly commands the small voice residing in every human being and creeping into our consciousness at the most inopportune moments.
With clumsy hands, he cups Joe’s head, leaning down as if he could breathe some of the life that keeps Nicky in this world into Joe, and force him to reveal what has escaped Nicky’s attention.
Joe remains unbearably silent.
There is no laughter, no cheeky grin, no sparkling eyes, and Nicky can’t stand it, so he turns away, hoping to be of greater use to Booker.
Oblivious, completely consumed by the gnawing desire to be helpful in some way, any way, as irritating as ants under his skin, he wipes the annoying moisture from his palms on his trousers.
Only to discover that his hands are not wet with sweat or melted snow, but slick with blood.
In the blink of an eye, he is back at Joe’s side. His uneasy premonition is confirmed when his fingers gently feel the back of Joe’s head and find matted, wet strands of hair instead of soft curls.
“Oh, are you kidding me?” Head trauma is not to be taken lightly, not even in their case. Never. They have gained enough experience in this area to conclude that an injury to the head shouldn’t be dismissed as harmless.
According to their assumption, damage to the brain caused by injury is much more difficult to repair because it is such a complex organ. Of course, they haven’t yet been able to prove this theory due to them keeping their abilities under wraps for good reasons, but so far, head injuries have always caused them difficulties.
“Okay.” Nicky takes a calming breath deep into his lungs, savoring the sting of the bitterly cold air. “Okay, okay, okay, okay, one thing at a time, Nicky. Find cover.”
Luckily for him, their enemies seem to have truly believed that they’ve eliminated them with their arsenal, but that doesn’t mean they won’t come back to make sure and search for reusable equipment.
Time is of the essence.
As quickly as he can, Nicky sets about combing the area within a five mile radius in search of shelter. He doesn’t dare venture any further from his family members. Thorns tear at his gadgets, roots make it hard for him to move swiftly, the falling temperatures and the approaching darkness worry him, as do Andy, Booker, and Joe, whom he left behind vulnerable and unable to defend themselves, but eventually his efforts bear fruit.
On a hill, he finds a small cave, little more than a recess in the rock, but Nicky immediately turns back. He doesn’t have time to look for something better before the pitch-black night finally swallows everything, and he can’t see his own hands anymore.
Even though it’s tough for him, he moves Andy into this makeshift shelter first, and a lump of guilt spreads in his stomach when he sees that her position on the ground has changed. It means she was utterly alone when she awoke in agony, utterly alone when she died.
Oh Andy …
Their leader may often seem like a pristine glacier – frosty, unapproachable, indestructible, and a true force of nature – but Nicky has seen the others through their best and worst moments over the centuries, at the height of unbridled happiness and immensely devastated, just as they have seen him. Any glacier can melt, and Andy isn’t immune to fear either.
None of them is. And that, in all the strangeness that constitutes their immortality, makes them human.
He wraps her in his jacket, which, unlike Andy’s own clothes, has remained largely undamaged, and begins the climb with her in his arms, desperately trying not to notice that she’s lighter than usual, with almost her entire lower body missing.
Despite Nicky’s fast pace, he’s slower than he intended, taking only the time to get Andy into a somewhat comfortable position and put down his backpack before hurrying back down the trail.
As he heads toward Booker and Joe, both still unresponsive – Nicky doesn’t know whether to be relieved, as they’ll be spared the pain, or concerned due to the deep-rooted fear that this time it’s final – he hears approaching voices and swallows a string of angry Italian.
“Are you sure the lady was lying here?” A deep baritone voice asks, grunting dismissively in response to the mumbled reply. “Unless the body suddenly decided to take a little stroll, we have a fucking problem, you idiot!”
“There can’t be any survivors,” a third voice chimes in, cold and cutting, undeniably that of a woman. “Check on the other bodies, and God help you if you come back empty-handed! And collect the bloody things, we might be able to use them!”
Unanimous confirmations ring out, and Nicky struggles to control the growing spikes of fear that thrive within him, turning his insides into a thicket of thorns.
He can’t carry both at the same time.
Though his heart stubbornly refuses to make a decision, his reason has long since weighed his options and made a rational choice.
“Mi dispiace, fratellino,” he whispers in Booker’s ear, pressing a kiss on his forehead that speaks of shame and regret, laced with the sorrowful burden of his action. “I’ll come back for you, I promise.”
It’s the biting wind that makes his eyes water as he rushes to the cave, glass beads on his lashes, the prickling of impending danger at the back of his neck.
It’s the wind, not tears.
If one compares only the extent of Joe’s and Booker’s injuries, Booker’s are much more visible, appearing more severe to the naked eye, and are therefore more convincing in terms of concealing their healing qualities. They also serve as more proof that the grenades did their job and killed them.
Or at least one of them, which might give them a slight head start.
Halfway to the hideout, Joe gasps abruptly, and Nicky almost loses his footing for a heartbeat, frantically trying to press his beloved’s face against his chest to stifle Joe’s sounds and reduce the chance of their enemies hearing them.
“Shh, shh, shh, I’ve got you, Yusuf”, he murmurs into Joe’s curls, reveling in the fleeting elation that Joe’s heart is beating. “Be calm, I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”
Contrary to his words, Nicky’s euphoria is extinguished by a lack of fuel, confronted by Joe’s glassy eyes, unable to focus on Nicky’s face, the slowness of his blinking, and the slurring of his voice. “N … icky?”
“Yes, I’m here. You’ll be okay. All of you will.” Nicky involuntarily tightens his grip on Joe, whose body suddenly seems so fragile and breakable. His jaw grinds under the pressure of his clenched teeth, overwhelmed by the ‘what if not?’ he has stubbornly avoided ever since their plan went disastrously wrong.
He indeed is the one in their small family who firmly believes that everything happens for a reason. That their gift should be used to do good, and that they are destined to find each other because it is destiny, and they’re not meant to shoulder the burden of their existence and the weight of their immortality all by themselves.
However, that doesn’t mean that his belief in this doesn’t waver from time to time. He, too, isn’t infallible – the unforgivable deeds of his first life testify to that – and he, too, has doubts when the world shows its ugliest face.
And right now, Nicky feels how pure, naked fear - paralyzing and sowing despair – overwhelms him with a powerlessness that threatens to destroy what little control he can muster.
He’s afraid that the people who’ve stood by him for centuries won’t heal. He’s afraid that he’ll fail to help them. He’s afraid that they’ll be found. He’s afraid of how many more times Joe, Andy, and Booker will die in his presence while he is forced to wait on the sidelines.
To be patient while bones straighten, limbs grow back, organs regenerate, and tissue fuses together. While they die, only to be born into a world of blinding pain and breathe their last breath once more.
“You’ll be okay”, Nicky repeats, his voice lowered, firmer than necessary, yet firm enough to drown out the underlying tremor in his words. Completely exhausted, he lays Joe down next to Andy, hoping that their body heat will help against the cold if when Andy wakes up.
Joe doesn’t even seem to notice where they are, let alone recognize Nicky as anything more than a presence at the edge of his perception. He stares blankly at the cave ceiling, an indication of the severity of his head injury, and Nicky kisses him with everything he has and places him in the recovery position in case he needs to throw up. “Stay with me, Joe.”
He leaves their makeshift cover before his reluctance to leave his love and big sister alone becomes too great to fight, for he has made a vow to Booker that he will keep at all costs.
I’m coming, Sébastien.
Meanwhile, night has spread across the horizon like a dark silk scarf, and it’s so cold Nicky’s fingertips are gradually going numb and his breath rises into the sky in pure white clouds.
Twilight hangs like smoke over the land, significantly limiting his vision, but he can still see, and that’s all that matters.
To his dismay, three of the group he had overheard earlier have found his younger brother, and his heart skips a beat when Nicky realizes that Booker is alive.
Not only alive but also hurling insults, one more vile than the other, at the three men, while his chest is still half open like a cracked walnut. The three strangers have also found Nicky’s sword. One of them holds it in his hand, clearly inexperienced.
“How the hell is this guy still alive?” One of the men kicks Booker’s foot tentatively, and Nicky bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.
Booker manages to flip him the bird, which is quite admirable considering he’s writhing on the ground, half dead, blood staining his teeth red, and pushing his own intestines back into his body with the other hand. “P-Pilates…gros con!”
For that, he receives another kick, this time hard and intended to cause him harm. Nicky’s fingers dig into a tree trunk, and while his attention remains focused on the action, he’s already scanning the means at his disposal to overpower the enemies.
To his advantage, they have their backs to him as they huddle around Booker, apparently clueless as to what to do with him. Apart from Nicky’s sword, they’re armed with simple firearms, but only two of them have them drawn, and only one is directly aimed at Booker.
“Should we kill him?”
“And alert the others? It’s bad enough we lost the lady and the other two guys. We don’t need to show them where we are by shooting this jerk over here.”
The third man with Nicky’s sword nods. “The way he looks, he’s about to die anyway. We’d just be wasting ammunition on him.”
Booker groans softly, but shows them his teeth in a bloody grimace. “At least…I look…better…than you.”
The one who is still vigilantly pointing his gun at Nicky’s brother doesn’t seem convinced. “He’s got a pretty big mouth for a dead man.” His gaze darts around the surrounding area, but remains fixed on the forest opposite Nicky. “I don’t want to take any risks, or Mathilda will give us hell.”
“Shit, so we’re reporting it to her?” Sword guy runs his fingers nervously through his hair.
Their leader snorts. “Of course we’re telling her, you idiot! She’ll find out either way.”
Number Two puts his gun away, pulling out a knife, and Nicky sets into motion. “Okay, I’ll slit his throat and then it’ll be over and done with.”
“Are … you done … with your bickering?” Booker spits, the red saliva a grotesque splash of color against the white. “I…would…like…to die in peace…”
When Booker spots Nicky behind his adversaries, he doesn’t let on in any way, but he visibly relaxes before the light in his eyes goes out.
“See? Everything worked out on its own…what the hell…” Quick as an arrow, Nicky breaks Sword Guy’s wrist, taking back his weapon, and rams it into his stomach without hesitation.
As he spins around, he sees out of the corner of his eye that Number Two is aiming his knife at him, simultaneously trying to draw his gun – a mistake. Nicky blocks the attack with cold indifference and ends the life of this scum who wanted to slit his younger brother’s throat without a blink or remorse.
He now inflicts the same fate on him, not caring in the slightest about the blood splattering hot and sticky across his face, and turns, growling, to the third member of the trio.
The element of surprise has vanished with his first kill, and the leader of the small party wastes no time, firing multiple shots at Nicky.
The first bullet hits him in the shoulder, the second tears through his liver, and he doesn’t even feel the third, because there’s only anger. Raging, seething wrath.
Anger at these people who chose to exploit and kill others. Anger that they hurt his family. That they are still hurting them. Unbridled anger that his family is dying because of them, and he can’t do anything about it.
The leader’s composed demeanor evaporates when the empty click of his gun signals an empty magazine, and Nicky, with his cheek gaping and his ear torn off – where two bullets intended for his head had hit him – charges at him and finishes him off.
Each breath tears his lungs apart, and he has to brace himself on his knees for a moment, simply pausing. His face burns where the grazing shot wounds are healing, and it’s unpleasant to run his tongue along his slowly closing cheek. The metallic taste makes him nauseous, and he gags twice before he manages to compose himself enough to turn to Booker.
Booker. Hiding. Quickly.
Getting Booker into the cave is a tremendous effort; not only because the Frenchman is far taller and stronger built than Nicky, but also because of Nicky’s own battered condition, the cold, and the barely visible roots and rocks.
At some point, he loses count of how many times he stumbles and can’t suppress a silent prayer when the cave comes into view after what seems like an eternity.
Andy is still dead, much to his dismay – or dead again, the malicious voice in his head whispers – Joe unconscious but at least breathing, and Nicky gently lays Booker beside them, biting his knuckles hard to keep his composure. To keep going, because he is sure he’ll never get up again if he lies down now.
Our backpacks. Supplies, clothing, and first aid-kits.
He considers setting off one last time this evening, but his legs are shaky, as if his muscles have turned to jelly, and he can barely feel his limbs, the cold creeping dangerously into his very bones.
Their bodies need nutrients to generate enough healing energy, and Nicky remembers packing some cereal bars and dried fruit, as well as a change of clothes and a small first-aid kit for any potential victims.
But he can’t go on…
He’s lost all sense of time, and there is no point in getting lost in the dark and dying a miserable death, so Nicky wipes his numb nose on his sleeve and decides to continue the search the next day and first inspect what he can work with here.
His muscles are screaming for a break as he staggers into the cave and falls to his knees, the urge to cry becoming almost unbearable, so he hurriedly busies himself with the backpack he’d managed to retrieve safely.
In the dim moonlight, he spreads out the contents of the backpack – which he identifies as Booker’s by a small hip flask – in front of him. A singed sweater, a pair of pants, a charred blanket, a water bottle that is fortunately still intact, socks, boots, and three cereal bars, as well as a torn bag of dried fruit that Nicky had forced Booker to put into his bag.
Thank God you listened to me, Booker.
The haul is meager, but it’s better than nothing, and Nicky is grateful for every tiny morsel.
Without wasting any more time, Nicky sets about equipping the battered members of his team for the freezing night, checking the condition of their clothing and replacing anything that’s no longer useful. Andy is already wearing his jacket, so he pulls Booker’s singed sweater over his head – it’s no good if he dies while the others are still unconscious - and tucks the three of them under the blanket, which is not as wide and thick as he’d like.
He sets aside pants, socks, and boots for Andy when she’s fully healed, and her legs have grown back.
He tries to get them to drink a little water, but his efforts are in vain, so Nicky prepares himself for a tough night. He can’t make a fire to warm them and himself because the risk of revealing their location is too great. All he can do is hope that sharing their body heat will be enough.
He settles down next to Joe, so close that his side presses against Joe’s back, finding some comfort in the warmth of his body, his gaze fixed on the cave entrance, his sword at the ready, one of the pistols he took from the trio, among other weapons, reloaded beside him.
The cold is already getting to him, but Nicky stoically ignores it and focuses on the piece of dried apricot he’s eating with slow, careful bites and the minimal sips of water.
Calmati…
Inhale…exhale…air flowing in, lungs expanding, air flowing out…
Calmati. Inhale, and exhale.
Calmati.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The night is a nightmare.
After an indeterminate amount of time – it could have been hours or just five minutes, Nicky’s brain is solely concentrated on keeping his body going – Joe has a seizure. It’s not unusual with a head injury, and Nicky senses the warning signs before his brain even fully registers them.
Although it’s not the first time he’s witnessed a seizure, the external circumstances and the fact that it’s Joe are what trigger the anxiety taking hold of Nicky, making it difficult for him to remain calm.
Murmuring soothingly, Nicky removes any objects that could further injure Joe, shoves the backpack under Joe’s head after hastily emptying it, and silently counts to ten, then to twenty, fifty, and one hundred, clinging to the increasingly thinning thread that’s keeping him from completely losing it.
If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s patiently waiting for the right moment, but right here, at the mercy of the harsh wilderness, dark and cold and lonely, waiting is the worst thing imaginable.
Joe’s seizure can’t last more than a few minutes, but for Nicky it feels like an agonizing eternity. Like hell.
As the seizure subsides and Joe sinks into what Nicky hopes will be healing unconsciousness, he exhales the breath he has been holding and is about to sit up and move around to get his blood flowing in his limbs – he doesn’t like how fast his own heart is beating and how cold his hands and feet are – when Andy shoots up with a wet cough.
“Andy!” Nicky stumbles toward her, his hands outstretched to tell his older sister with a familiar touch that she’s safe. At least as safe as they can be at the moment. “Andy, I’m here. Everything will be fine. Sorella…”
For a split second, hope allows itself to flicker in Nicky’s chest, then Andy’s mouth opens like a blood-red gash, and a hideous groan is ripped from her throat, a broken sound, wounded and raw, crushing the hope effortlessly.
“Shh, shh.” Nicky wraps his arms around Andy, holding her as her body convulses in pain, her breath ragged and mingled with grunts and whimpers, stifled cries that Andy holds back with clenched teeth. “You’re not alone, Andy. We’ll patch you up, and then I’ll make you a whole tray of baklava. How does that sound, hm? We can even go to McDonald’s for all I care, you just have to concentrate on my voice, you hear me? Isn’t McDonald’s tempting? Greasy fast food, milkshakes, Andy, Andy, Andy.”
He rocks her back and forth as she doubles over, almost losing what little composure he has left when Andy starts to cry. “Make it stop,” she begs him, the words gasped, her blue eyes veiled and blind to everything except the chaos within her body. “It hurts so fucking much, please make it stop!”
Involuntarily, he presses her harder against his chest, curling over her as if he could shield Andy from everything the cruel world has in store for her, as if he could absorb the pain tormenting Andy and save her from further suffering. “I know, Andy, I know, I know, I’m so sorry.” His tongue stumbles over letters, mixes up languages, and repeats words like a broken record. “We’ll take a long break after this, huh? Just sleeping in, good food, relaxation, and doing whatever we want. That’s a good plan, isn’t it?”
He kisses her head, searching her ancient face for a sign that she understood him and his attempts to cheer her up. She is dead.
And something inside Nicky, which had clung on successfully and stubbornly until now, dies too.
The noise he spits out sounds particularly loud and plaintive in the unkindly silence of the night, and he lays Andy on the ground, tucking the blanket tightly around her and rubbing his face with trembling hands. How is he going to manage this? “Give me the strength to get through this…” He prays weakly, the plea directed at no one in particular. “Give the s-“
“C-Constance?” Booker’s hoarse, slurred voice makes Nicky’s heart skip a beat, and he has the feeling it takes longer to return to its normal rhythm. “Is…that you? Constance?”
In a flash, Nicky is at his younger brother’s side, wondering what higher power has decided to let everything go wrong on this mission, when Booker’s forehead is burning hot beneath the back of his hand.
“This can’t be happening…” On one hand, Booker’s sudden fever is a welcome distraction for his mind, which is additionally tormented by Andy’s latest painful demise, giving him something to focus his dwindling energy on. On the other hand, it amplifies the worry that now permeates every aspect of Nicky’s being, because it’s yet another hurdle.
As far as he can tell in the pale moonlight, Booker’s abdominal wall and chest have mostly closed, but the fever tells him how exhausted Booker’s body already is from the difficult healing process. Fever is also one of those things they have to deal with more often than they’d like when handling serious injuries.
Since fever actually mobilizes the body’s defenses against a wide variety of pathogens, Nicky suspects that a slower healing process in their bodies triggers alarm signals that cause them to raise their temperature in an attempt to eliminate any potential viruses.
But like so much else about their abnormal traits, the universe has never deigned to provide an explanation.
“Sébastien?” Nicky reaches for Booker’s hand, which clutches his wrist with astonishing strength, as if afraid of being abandoned. “You’re safe, little brother. Don’t worry.”
Booker doesn’t hear him, his hand like an unyielding handcuff of flesh and bone. Muttering, he continues in French, begging his wife Constance for forgiveness, imploring her to stay with him, assuring her how much he loves her and that he never stopped.
Each of his words, revealing so much about what Booker usually keeps so carefully to himself, nicks little paper cuts into Nicky’s skin, irritated by the whipping air.
Without thinking, Nicky answers him in Booker’s native tongue, assuring him that he’s not alone and never will be, speaking soothingly as he gently frees himself from Booker’s grasp to fetch some snow for Booker’s burning forehead.
As Booker becomes increasingly panicked the moment Nicky moves away from him, Nicky delves into his memories until one of the rare moments manifests itself in which Booker had told them something about his family.
The notes of the French lullaby that Booker and his wife used to sing to their sons at bedtime sound off-key and wheezy at first, but gain strength and clarity as Nicky immerses himself in the song.
He sings as softly as possible, moving Andy and Joe closer to Booker in the hope they will benefit from his feverish heat. With a handful of snow and the water bottle, he returns to Booker, who’s begun to address his three deceased sons as well, telling them how much he loathes himself for his inability to protect them.
The inner darkness that Booker hides from them, and which now, in his weakened state, spills out, pains Nicky immensely, but he continues singing steadfastly, placing snow on Booker’s forehead, careful not to let the melting water run into his eyes.
“We love you, Sébastien,” Nicky finally assures him, the fading melody still hanging in the air between them.
Booker tosses his head restlessly from side to side, naked fear etched on his features. “Don’t leave me alone!”
“Never.”
He manages to get a little water down Booker’s throat but he refuses solid food, so Nicky tries to repeat the same procedure with Joe. He wakes him long enough to get him to take a few sips and even to nibble on one of the cereal bars. With Andy, Nicky is content just to moisten her lips.
Nicky does this a couple of times, checking his team’s health at irregular intervals, pacing along the entrance of the cave, shuffling more than walking, switching his sword from one hand to the other, which proves difficult due to his now clumsy hands.
His body has stopped shaking, a fact he barely registers, for all that remains is the desire to complete this mission – the very one that has brought them into this predicament he so detests – and to get his family away from here.
It’s easy for him to make the decision.
As soon as the first light of day breaks, he’s on his way, deadly determination, his sword and the weapons of the slain smugglers his only companions. He will find them before they do.
His entire body feels strange, but Nicky is adept at ignoring his own discomfort.
He’ll finish what they had started.
This has nothing to do with logic, nor with careful planning or reason. There’s only the frantic desperation to get his family out of here, no matter the cost.
It’s not difficult to follow the tracks left by their pursuers, and the small cabin in a clearing, which appears to serve as their command center judging by the parked car, seems strangely peaceful in the snow-covered landscape.
Two guards stand in front of the house, but they pose no obstacle for Nicky. He kills them quickly and quietly, carefully lowering their lifeless bodies to the ground, holding his breath as he opens the foolishly unlocked door, and slips inside.
He can’t remember much about the house. His body switches to autopilot, his mind has lapses, like a blackout, caused by the wild, primal instinct to function and show no weakness.
Screams, blood, pain. That’s all there is.
He moves more clumsily than usual, his punches and movements are sluggish, earning him a few injuries, even though Nicky is at the point where he feels nothing but the burning desire to survive.
Someone breaks his hand, but he doesn’t even notice, whirls around, hacking at everything that comes into his blurring field of vision, shooting until his magazines are empty, fluidly switching weapons, a single, ominous dance.
The only mercy Nicky grants his enemies is a quick death.
He dies too, probably more than once, and when he comes to for the umpteenth time, he’s lying on his back in the driveway, the woman and gang leader, Mathilda, dead in the car she was going to use for her escape
Her head has been thrown forward by the force of a shot, now exerting continuous pressure on the horn, explaining the nerve-wracking sound that is splitting Nicky’s skull.
With a slow blink, he detects a firearm lying beside him in the snow. He must have used it.
Huh. So far, so good.
It takes him a good ten minutes to get into a sitting position, and he falls four times before he finally gets to his feet, which feels kind of funny.
As he searches the house, which seems to be happening in slow motion, he hears a whistling, strained noise and wonders if someone left a tea kettle on the stove.
He doesn’t find one. What he does discover, however, are their remaining backpacks, two of which are badly damaged. He doesn’t immediately manage to transfer the most important things into the undamaged one, and finds himself staring at a stain on the wall for twenty seconds because it looks like a kangaroo. Eventually, he straps on Joe’s scimitar and Andy’s axe and starts heading back.
The strange whistling sound follows him, and he doesn’t grasp at first that he’s the one causing it.
He’s the tea kettle.
The faint murmur of voices emanating from the cave is a good sign, and Nicky sends a quick prayer of thanks to heaven. Or perhaps, he’s just thanking the nearest tree trunk; he’s not entirely sure.
When he accidentally kicks a loose rock, the voices abruptly cease, and Nicky can’t even blame his family. There are mountain lions here, and they can be very dangerous, indeed.
Upon entering, Andy lowers the stone she’d been clutching, ready for battle, and Nicky cannot suppress a sigh of relief. His older sister is sitting upright, and beneath the blanket, he can see a leg that has almost completely grown back.
Joe stands erect, the charming, bird’s-nest-like state of his curls almost brings Nicky to his knees. Booker, too, is unsteady on his feet, though he supports himself against the cave wall.
What irritates Nicky, however, are the horrified faces of his family; Booker stares at him in shock, his mouth agape, Andy mutters a curse under her breath, and Joe’s dark eyes, finally clear, are wide in terror.
“Holy shit…” Andy finally says, as blunt as ever, and Booker looks a little green around the gills.
“Mon dieu…Nicky?” He asks incredulously.
Unceremoniously, Nicky drops the weapons and backpack he’d brought with him to the ground, searching Joe’s face for an explanation for the other’s behavior. Maybe he should greet them first. After the past few hours, that seems appropriate.
“Hi,” he says, quick-witted, giving a small wave that looks more like the twitching of a dying bird.
Joe tentatively approaches him, a look of dread in his features, the origin of which Nicky still cannot discern. “Nicolo…” He whispers, tormented. “Your hands…”
“Oh,” Nicky says, feigning understanding, even though he doesn’t understand anything at all, and collapses.
It’s warm, is Nicky’s first observation as his senses return to the surface from the sticky, pitch-black depths, and he instinctively snuggles closer to the primary source of warmth that turns out to be a body more than familiar to him.
“Habibi?” A soft voice reaches his ear a little later, a voice Nicky can’t get enough of even after 900 years, and he forces himself to open his eyes. To see Joe, to make sure he’s okay, that he’s safe. And because, despite his slightly clouded mind, he can hear the underlying sorrow in that single endearment. A sorrow also betrayed by the tension in Joe’s muscles.
It takes Nicky a while to concentrate on Joe, whose face hovers above him like the sweetest of promises. The love of his life looks infinitely tired, with haggard features, dark shadows under his eyes, and worry lines that transform Joe’s expression into a tight-lipped thing Nicky doesn’t like.
“Nicolo?” Joe asks again, his dark eyes darting hastily over Nicky’s face, then returning to his as if hoping to detect a reaction in them. “Can you…are you…are you with me?”
“Always,” Nicky whispers back, nothing but the pure truth that will always remain the same. As he slowly turns his head – each movement aching like dull muscle soreness – he discovers he’s lying on Joe’s lap, carefully wrapped in a blanket. Booker and Andy are sitting nearby, watching the scene intently, but still holding back.
The room they’re in looks like a train carriage, crammed with various shipping containers, among which they’ve distributed their belongings and set up a small, temporary camp.
Nicky’s family is bloodied and battered, exhausted and filthy, but they’re alive.
Booker’s torso is no longer gaping open, hidden beneath an oversized flannel shirt. Andy’s lower body half has completely grown back, and she sprawls on a duffel bag in worn jeans and boots. Joe’s gaze is crystal clear, his curls encrusted with blood, both arms intact and functional.
“You’re okay.” It’s not a question, but a statement, trembling with relief like a loose leaf in the wind, and the fear for the people who have accompanied him for centuries, which until now had lain like a prickly ball of steel in the pit of his stomach, melts away.
He isn’t ashamed of the tears that can ultimately flow now that he has achieved what he has been striving for, his highest priority. For the past several hours, Nicky hadn’t allowed his emotions to get the better of him, no matter how often he had been on the verge of collapse.
Seeing his team members healthy is the only trigger needed to release all the pent-up emotions like a river whose waters had been slowed down by a dam.
“You’re okay,” he repeats, crying, reassuring himself so that reality seeps into every fiber of his being.
“Yes, we’re okay.” Joe does not attempt to hide the tears welling up in his eyes as well, gently nudges Nicky’s forehead with his own, pulls the blanket tighter around him, and kisses him harder than necessary on the forehead. “We’re okay, my heart. We’re okay. Thanks to you, ya amar. Oh God, Nicky…” He takes Nicky’s hands, which, amazingly, can feel again, and presses them to his chest. “Don’t do that again.”
“Me?” Nicky repeats, a mixture of sobbing and sniffling, wiping his runny nose. “You should heed this request! Do you have any idea how scared I was? I thought…” His voice falters, and Joe pulls him closer with a choked sound, as if he wanted to fuse their bodies.
“You did a damn good job, Nicky,” Andy chimes in, her blue eyes resting kindly on Nicky. The past pain and remnants of trauma are lingering in her expression, but she manages a small, proud smile. “Thank you for everything you did for us, sweetheart.”
Booker joins the conversation after clearing his throat. “You looked like Death itself, and I’ve never been so freaked out by you while having so much respect for you at the same time.”
“One of my easiest tasks,” he replies dryly, and now it’s Joe’s turn to snort.
“Nicky, your fingers were turning black, your eyelashes were white, your face and lips were blue, and you looked like you’d been tearing apart a slaughterhouse.”
Despite being confronted with a fraction of the unpleasantness of their recent mission, Nicky merely shrugs. “Finishing the job was a piece of cake.” I had to get you out of there.
Of course, Joe picks up on the message between the lines, the seriousness softening into something gentle that ignites a spark in Nicky’s stomach and has nothing to do with physical warmth. “Are you really okay?”
Nicky feels like he could sleep for four days straight and eat an entire buffet. His muscles are stiff, every tiny movement is excruciating, and he’s had enough snow and cold for the rest of the year, but he gives Joe a crooked smile.
“Yeah,” he says, without even thinking about his answer. “I’m fine now.”