Twenty Five

Nausea and pain came and went in ever-tightening whirlpools. Clara could see only a blur of colors around her: she was conscious that the figure he trailed; Vick was carrying her, every one of his steps slamming into her skull like an ice pick. She was aware that she was clinging to him and the strength of his arms a comfort. Very distantly, she knew that she was gasping for breath, and she heard Vick say her name.

Then everything went silent. For a moment she thought that was the end of it: she had died, died battling demons she thought never existed, the way she did, she never thought she coul and a surge of what felt like ice spilling through her veins. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain, but the cold of whatever Vick had done to her was like having a glass of water dashed in her face. Slowly, the world ceased its spinning, the whirlpools of nausea and pain lessening until they were only ripples in the tide of her blood. She could breathe again.

With a gasp, she opened her