Someone blew the biggest raspberry in Jack’s ear. Warm spittle slapped against the side of his face.
Jack groaned and tried to push the offender away. His hand found hair and wet lips. Ugh.
“Piss off,” Jack said, or thought he did. All he heard was a hoarse grumble that might have been his voice. He couldn’t be sure.
A slobbery tongue tried to drill into his ear.
“Fuck!” Yes, that was him. He shoved out wildly, pushing himself away from the intrusion.
“Sheila! Bad girl. Leave Jack alone.”
The tongue disappeared momentarily, then made a reappearance as the mysterious Sheila blew another raspberry.
“Bad girl,” Blade admonished again, though not so stern. Instead, he sounded inordinately amused. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’re not supposed to be in here. Come on, out of Jack’s room.”
A disgruntled harrumph preceded a series of soft plops that faded away, taking Blade’s soothing voice with it.
What the . . .?
Jack pried his eyes open. All he saw was a dark blur with a fainter blur in the middle. He lifted his hand and tried to blink it into focus. Slowly, it became clearer in the dimness. Five fingers, hand, arm. All there, all more or less how he remembered it. Upon raising his other hand, he found an anomaly. Fingers, then red solidity. It looked like a splint.
He’d broken his arm. That was right.
A memory flashed. Standing outside, the sun blazing down, holding a gun in his right hand, pointed at . . .
“I put a new splint on your arm,” Blade said softly from the doorway. “You’d managed to cut the other one off. Quite the feat given your state of delirium.”
Jack lifted his head to look at him, then let it fall back to the pillow. A headache throbbed in his temples, a band tightening around his head when he moved.
“You’re still dehydrated. Do you think you can drink?”
“Yeah.” It didn’t sound right, so Jack waved in an affirmative way. God, he felt so bloody weak.
Blade disappeared for a while, and then he was back. He perched on the edge of the bed and helped Jack sit up. It stung that he needed help. Propped up on several pillows, he watched as Blade opened a bottle of hydro-lyte. It might have been green, or yellow. Lime or lemon. At least it wasn’t raspberry.
Jack refused to let Blade hold the bottle, taking it in his left hand. It horrified him when it shook as he raised the bottle to his mouth.
“Slowly,” Blade insisted. “I’ve been trying to get fluid into you but haven’t had much luck. I didn’t think to bring the necessary equipment to set up a drip. Something to remember for the future.”
A couple of shallow swallows were all Jack could manage. His arm ached from holding up the bottle, and he lowered it before he could drop it. Throat a little less scratchy, he asked, “What happened?”
“A nasty combination of heatstroke and an infection. I do apologise. I thought I’d cleaned the knife wound well enough, but apparently I didn’t.”
If he hadn’t been two blinks away from falling asleep, Jack would have said it wasn’t his fault. It was all Jimmy O’Dowd’s fault. Bastard couldn’t even keep a clean blade.
“Don’t remember much.” Jack took another small drink.
“That’s probably for the best. If you did, I would be forced to defend my honour, and you’re in no state to reciprocate.”
“Shit.”
“Yes. That too.”
Jack closed his eyes. Things were better in the dark. “How long?”
“Three days. The first one you were lost in some sort of delirium. You were yelling in Hindi at one point. I don’t speak the language, so I’m not sure what you were calling me, but it sounded thoroughly rotten.”
“Great. That would be an India flashback.”
“I wasn’t aware you’d worked there.” Blade took the bottle and screwed the lid on. “I managed to get you back in the buggy and drove here, where I’ve spent the past two days injecting you with some broad-spectrum antibiotics.”
Grimacing, Jack muttered, “That’s why my arse hurts.”
Blade snickered. “Yes. I promise I didn’t touch any more than absolutely necessary. You, however. Rather handsy.”
“Fuck off.”
“Repetition of that one has quite dulled its impact, I’m afraid. Come on, drink some more. Then I’ll let you sleep again.”
“Okay. Just don’t let random tongues in my ears anymore.”
Blade held the bottle this time. “Yes, Jack. Only specific tongues from now on.”
All of his energy turned towards drinking, Jack let that one go by. When Blade was happy with his liquid consumption, he was laid back down and left alone. Jack tried to think through what he’d learned, but fell asleep before he could even remember why he shouldn’t be relieved to see Blade.
The next time he awoke, it was naturally and he felt better. Still pathetically weak, but the headache had lessened, and he could focus further than a foot in front of his face. Levering himself up on his left arm, he managed a better look around. He was in a small room, bare brick walls, a long, thin window high on the far wall, covered with black plastic, little pinpricks of sunlight scattered across it. His bed was low and narrow, though solid and well padded. The sheets were fairly clean, if a little rank from his sweat. Except for the cast he was naked, which he’d be embarrassed about when he had the strength. An overturned plastic crate was a makeshift bedside table. A couple of hydro-lyte drinks sat on it, as well as a tray with an almost empty antibiotic bottle and a packet of needles and syringes.
Jack opened a drink and did his best not to guzzle it. Warm and raspberry, but it helped all the same.
“Feeling better?”
Blade stood in the open doorway, leaning against the frame. He wore his suit pants, shoes, and nothing else. Arms crossed over his lean torso didn’t hide the finely honed muscles of his chest or abdomen. Wiry, but strong. His skin was pale, with a faint pink touch of being out in the sun. The colour made the scars stand out. A long slice over his left hip, another just under his right ribs, and the starburst of a large-calibre bullet between his sternum and left shoulder. Lucky shot for Blade. Probably highly unlucky for the shooter. Above his arms, his chest was bare of hair. Beneath them, a thin line of dark hair traced from his navel down into the top of his pants.
Jack hauled his gaze off him. “Yeah. Much.” Teeth aching with grudging effort, he added, “Thanks.”
“My pleasure. Do you feel like walking? You should probably start to move about.”
As much as he wanted to just lie down and never move again, Jack nodded. The sooner he was ambulatory, the sooner he’d be able to hold his own again.
Blade approached him. “I’ll take you to the other room. It’ll give me a chance to wash the sheets, at least.”
“Uh-uh.” Jack waved him back. “Pants first.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t already seen, Jack.”
Jack glared. It hurt to do so, but he didn’t care. “Pants. Now.”
“As you wish.” He left and came back a moment later with Jack’s jeans. “Laundered and patched. I think you’ll find I’m a deft hand with a needle and thread.”
“Yeah, yeah, get out.”
Blade got, but Jack could hear his evil little chuckle all the same.
Pulling his jeans on was an effort that almost defeated him. He was panting by the time he could do up the buttons. Lying flat on his back, exhausted, he stared at the ceiling. Exposed beams, corrugated tin. Too much like the torture shack for Jack’s comfort. He rolled over, nearly fell off the bed, and caught himself in time.
“Are you decent, Jack?”
“Goddamn it,” he hissed. Could the bastard get any smugger?
“Too bad, I’m coming in.” Blade swept in and found him trying to stand up. “Do take it easy. I don’t want to spend another two days tending to you.”
Grumbling about the indignity of it all, Jack had to let Blade help him. He wouldn’t have made it to the door if he didn’t. He’d been badly injured before. Hard to avoid it in the service and with the Office, but he didn’t think he’d ever been so weak. Hard, too, not to notice the texture of the skin under the arm slung across Blade’s shoulders—smooth over solid muscle and warm from the sun. Harder, even, to ignore the pressure of the assassin’s hand on his stomach, there to keep Jack from pitching forwards. The heat from Blade’s hand, callus-rough and firm, seemed to sink right into Jack’s gut. He made the mistake of looking down and seeing the assassin’s pale skin against his darker shading. The stark and fascinating contrast made him so dizzy he stumbled. Which set off a little series of near disasters, resulting in him being draped over Blade more than he had been and much more of that smooth, warm skin pressed against his own.
Blade’s huff of breathless laughter, combined with a gentle squeeze of his hands, went right through Jack like a blast from a jet engine.
“Are you steady now?” His breath shivered across Jack’s neck. When Jack found answering impossible, he added, in a low, concerned tone, “Do you wish to go back to bed?”
Christ. Blade needed to stop talking. It wasn’t helping Jack’s efforts to keep his cool at all.
“No,” Jack managed between gritted teeth. He scrounged up every scrap of energy he could and pushed off of Blade. Didn’t get as far as he wanted, but at least he reduced the surface area of contact back to his arm over Blade’s shoulders. “Just hurry up.”
“As you wish, Jack.”
He was light-headed by the time they left the bedroom. Vision swimming, he took in the other room through a haze of weariness. Slightly larger, it was open to the world along one side. Bright sunlight streamed inside, making Jack flinch, his lingering headache spiking.
“Here.” Blade held out his sunglasses. “I think you need them more at the moment.”
Absurdly grateful, Jack put them on and immediately felt better. He recognised the esky from the buggy, the scavenged weapons, and the sleeping bags. Stacked against the wall opposite the opening were several more plastic crates.
“This is your stash of equipment?” he asked curiously.
“Indeed it is. We’re just lucky I always keep a well-stocked first aid kit with my gear.” Blade leaned him against a wall. “Stay there. I’ll fix you a seat.”
“I’m good,” Jack insisted.
“You’re trembling all over. You’re not good.”
The seat consisted of several of the crates covered in one of the sleeping bags. As Blade guided him to it, he said, “I don’t fancy lifting you off the floor, so please don’t fall off.”
“Try not to.” Jack aimed for dry sarcasm and got to pained embarrassment. He hated feeling helpless.
“Call if you need anything.”
Blade made sure Jack had a drink before stripping the sheets and disappearing outside with them. Jack dozed, waking at intervals to find Blade checking on him. At one point, Jack stirred at a loud blatting noise. He looked up and found a long, dusty face about two inches from his own. Large, slitted nostrils flared and the big, floppy lips quirked up into an absurd parody of a smile. Above that, huge black eyes blinked ridiculously long lashes at him.
“Holy shit,” Jack gasped.
The camel grunted and lifted its head, exposing a long neck and shaggy body. It was huge, towering over him on four thin, knobbly legs. Jack was about eye level with the grossly callused knees.
Jack stared at it with something close to horror. This was the thing that had tried to shove its tongue in his ear. It returned his look with a gaze of dull curiosity, blinking and chewing absently.
“Not again, Sheila.” The weary exasperation in Blade’s voice caught the animal’s attention. It twisted its neck and watched him approach, then lowered its head to butt at his shoulder when he was close enough. “Yes, yes, I know you’ve been lonely, but you can’t keep bothering Jack. He’s still sick.”
Sheila blew a rude raspberry.
“Don’t talk back. Now, come on, outside.” Blade pointed imperiously to the opening. “Hurry up. Outside.”
Groaning, the camel turned ponderously in the small space and lumbered outside.
Into the stunned silence, Jack muttered, “What the hell was that?”
“That was Sheila, my camel.”
He was sick. Imagining it. Blade hadn’t said what Jack thought he’d just said.
“She sort of came with the building, actually,” Blade continued. “In truth, this is her home. Her stable. We did kick her out, so I can’t blame her for wanting back in.”
Maybe if he went along with the absurdity, it would be over quicker. “Stable?”
“Yes. This used to be part of a homestead. Abandoned some time ago, I believe, but Sheila seems to have stuck around. Even if she was very young when they left her here, she must be rather old by now, but still a sturdy girl.”
“Jesus, it’s an animal, not your old spinster aunt.”
Blade laughed. “Not an animal lover, Jack?”
“I like dogs. Besides, it stinks.”
“You’re no bouquet, either. In fact, if I bring you some water, will you wash?”
God, yes. Yes, he wanted to wash, but the mere thought of it was exhausting. “Maybe later.”
“All right. Are you hungry?”
Jack wasn’t sure, but he nodded anyway. Anything to stop Blade gushing over his camel. His camel? Christ.
Food was watery porridge. It took Jack half an hour to finish his bowl, but he managed it. Needed a nap afterwards, but that was okay because when he woke he felt stronger. The sun was going down, blazing a red streak across the horizon. Jack staggered to his feet and tottered towards the outside world. He used the wall as a prop, stopping when it ran out. Leaning there, he took in the new landscape slowly.
Still flat as a pancake, but with less red dirt and more plants. Some even seemed to have a touch of true green to their leaves. To the south he saw the ruins of the homestead, a brick house with a crumbling veranda and caved-in roof. Weeds had dug through the foundations, sprouting from windows and through the gaps in the roof. The remains of a garden had gone feral, the surviving plants shrivelled, pale versions of their former glory. There were still touches of colours in a few flowers, violet and orange and yellow.
Between house and stable were the remains of a couple of holding yards. Old palings scattered in the scrub, rusting curls of barbed wire here and there. Not far away was an old hand-cranked pump on a bore. Blade worked it up and down, a bucket under the spout, while Sheila ambled around him, begging for pats, which he offered up happily. His body glistened under a sheen of sweat, catching the dying rays of the sunset, turning him golden. A fallen angel sans wings.
Jack growled at his wandering imagination. The absolute last thing he needed was to start feeling sympathetic towards Blade. He was an assassin. He’d purposefully set out to destroy Jack’s cover with Mr. Valadian, used him as bait in a trap. He wasn’t someone you started to like.
Still, Jack couldn’t seem to stop watching the man. The man who might very well kill him when his reason for keeping him alive ran out.