Weylyn pushed his worry aside, and became practical. “What are we doing out here, with the freezing rain lashing down? Let’s get her inside!”
Weylyn supported me, so I could hop on my good ankle only, as we all headed for the house. Orin and Keegan stationed themselves on either side of me. Brann scrambled ahead, to open the front door for us, and get things ready.
“Sorry I’m so lame.” Literally, since I can’t put any weight on my left foot. I looked at Orin and Keegan, flanking me keeping alert in case of trouble. “I sleepwalk one time, and now I need bodyguards.”
“Sleepwalking?” This registers with Weylyn. “No one said anything about that.” The worry in his voice was clear. “Have you sleepwalked before?”
Dub’s words came to me. “It was not a dream, little bird.” That’s what he’d said. I was confused. If it wasn’t a dream, was I sleepwalking?
“I don’t... I’m not sure. Could I have done it and not know about it?” ‘Katie would know, I thought. We should ask — wait! Katie? Where is she? Is she okay? The jolt of fear hit me harder than the pain of my wounds. “Oh my god, Katie! Where is she? Where’s Katie?!”
Weylyn tried to calm me. “Don’t worry, she’s safely away.”
“Away where?” I tried to quell the fear in my voice.
“She went to Crossroads. She left just after you went to bed, but before all this... madness.”
Keegan chimed in. “And best she did. They don’t know she exists, and you don’t want her caught in the crossfire, do you?”
So, typical Katie. She’s out on a pub crawl. As she often said, “it’s always happy hour somewhere.”
This was too much at once. I felt dizzy, and had to grab Weylyn tight so I didn’t fall. He stopped, and crouched down in front of me. “Jump aboard. Come on, I’ll carry you.”
I climbed onto Weylyn, piggy back style, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Giddyap,” I said, my lips an inch from his ear. Weylyn carried me through the back door, and headed for the kitchen. I dismounted, as he sat me down on the big, sturdy breakfast table. “Leave the meter running,” I said.
“You’re not going anywhere right now,” Brann said. He had hurried ahead, and had already gathered enough first aid gear to stock a paramedic van. “We have to clean your wounds, and get you warm and dry.”
“I’d say we can skip the laundry, and toss those rags in the bin,” said Keegan. A little too eagerly, I’d have to say.
Brann pointed at Orin and Keegan, and commanded “You. You. Out. Check the perimeter.” With minimal grumbling, those two left, feet dragging a bit.
Weylyn turned to Brann. “Me too?”
“No, not you,” Brann sighed, as he slumped into a chair. His breath came in huffs, almost panting. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He looked up at Weylyn and me. “No hangover like a dark magic hangover.”
I couldn’t argue there. I felt like a grilled shit patty on a stale bun.
“Both of you just take it easy,” said Weylyn, a comforting take-charge tone in his words, even though he wasn’t exactly in tip top shape himself. His heart boxers were streaked with mud and gore. His sleeveless shirt was nonexistent and he was covered in bruises and cuts. But none of his injuries diminished the kind concern is his eyes.
“Quit stalling, wolf boy,” Brann muttered. “Take her clothes off and get her cleaned and bandaged.” He glanced at his own shirt, soaked and tattered, taking it off and chucked it into the trash.
Weylyn helped me sit up, as he peeled away the shreds of my tee shirt. He sucked in a breath, as he saw the full extent of the whip’s damage.
“I will never exfoliate with that cheese grater again,” I quipped, trying to ease his worry.
“You were kinda badass,” he tells me, causing me to laugh. “At least you knew where to put the pointy end of that toy sword. That was a surprise to all of us.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” I said, trying to wriggle out of my torn, filthy shorts. Then I turned to Brann. “You still have it, right?”
“Have what?”
“My dirk, duh?”
“Yes, yes. Forget about the sword,” he muttered.
I was having trouble getting the shorts down over my bum, and my struggles made my back flare with a searing pain.
“Easy. Let me,” Weylyn said. “Put your arms around my neck. Good. Now raise up a little.” I held on to his broad shoulders and thickly muscled neck to get my butt up off the table. He tugged off my shorts and panties with a single quick (and, one could safely speculate, ‘practiced’) tug. This was not the way I envisioned presenting myself to Weylyn in my birthday suit. Still, the look in his eyes did not show any disappointment, despite how bad I must have looked.
He turned to the counter. When he turned back, he put a shot glass brimming with single malt next to me. He lifted his own glass in salute. “Drink up. For the pain.”
The whiskey burned going in (stinging my split lip), and going down. “Woof. Now that’ll put hair on my chest,” I said.
“That again?” But judging by where Weylyn’s eyes seemed to be focused, he was checking to see if he could find any of said hair.
“Ready?” he asked, when I put the glass down.
“Yes. No. One more.” He filled both our glasses again, and I fired the second shot down. The first slug was already spreading it’s warm effect, and the second gulp didn’t burn at all going down.
Brann had already spread a couple clean towels over the table, and Weylyn told me to lie face down. He strategically positioned a towel over my rear end, then poured hydrogen peroxide over some sterile cloth. He paused with the cloth over my back. “Are you ready?” Before I could answer, he dabbed the peroxide against my whip wounds.
“JESUS!” I screamed.
