and I thought he was pushing me away, but then his arm wound around my back, and his hand settled gently on my achy bicep. I must’ve grimaced, because he slid his fingers to my ribs. “Here I was hoping to ply you with alcohol to get a second free peepshow; instead I earn hero-status for life. Prison isn’t half-bad.”
I smiled, his humor deflating my ballooning mortification. “Oh come on, it’s awful, but your cellmate is pretty awesome.”
He chuckled, and the vibrations combined with his warmth made me sink into him a little more. “She’s a handful, though.”
After several breaths, I said, “Good thing you have such big hands.” Wine-brain made my thoughts very slippery.
Said big hand gripped my side a little harder, and then Remo propped his bristly jaw on top of my forehead. “We should try to sleep.”
“Yeah. We should.” If only to stop spouting humiliating, drunken declarations. Big hands? Seriously, Amara?
Even though I didn’t think I’d sleep, I’d obviously underestimated my level of exhaustion, because I fell down that rabbit hole as swiftly as I’d fallen through the portal.
20
The Wreckage
I awakened slowly, my mouth vinegary, my palate fuzzy, my left arm leaden, and my ear numb from where it was still pressed against Remo’s shoulder. I blinked around me, wondering if I’d been asleep for a minute or for several hours. My stirring must’ve awoken Remo, because his head rolled off of mine and his palm popped off my ribcage.
I shifted so he could pull his arm out from around me, and then I stood and stretched. Before the silence could grow awkward, I said, “Ready to go check if anything’s left of our world, hero?”
That made him smile. And in turn, it made me smile.
Good. We were good.
He ran his palms down the sides of his face, then pressed himself to standing. “How’s the arm? Is it swollen?”
Between the fabric sling, the compressive sleeve, and the weak lighting, I couldn’t tell. “I don’t know.”
He peeled the white fabric away and prodded my flesh. It felt like he was touching my very bone. When I hissed, he stopped and tucked it back into the cloth.
“It’s broken isn’t it?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. But whatever you do, don’t use it today.”
“I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. How’s your head?” I’d had a slice of pie last night; Remo, to my knowledge, hadn’t eaten anything, and wine on an empty stomach was a killer.
He rubbed his brow. “It’s felt worse.”
I was curious as to when it could’ve felt worse, because my brain personally felt like it was bobbing inside my skull.
“Grab the wita, and let’s go.”
I lifted my tattooed hand toward the orb, which landed like a feather inside my palm. Since it was our only source of light, I kept it aglow as we made our way toward the exit.
Before he unlatched the door, he said, “Stand behind me.”
Since I didn’t care to get more banged up, I did.
The latch clicked, and then Remo drew the door open, and it seemed like every piece of furniture and every brick of the inn converged inside the cellar. I swear, things kept coming, crashing, rolling. At some point, I thought we’d get buried alive under chairs, cracked ceramic, and broken mirrors, but fortunately, the influx stopped. Unfortunately, by the time it stopped, the pile we needed to scale was treacherously tall and loaded with jagged points.
“Have any advice on what sort of tool I could make with my dust? Besides a lighter . . . I don’t think creating a pyre would be very safe considering there are no exits.”
“A cast. You should make a cast.”
“How will that help us?”
“It’ll immobilize your arm and protect it.”
That jammed my lips together and poked at my heart. Filing his kindness away to analyze later, I stared at the pile until an idea clicked. One that would help us. Not just me. “Stand back, Farrow.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to try something.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Always. I’m the Trifecta, after all.”
His teeth flashed as he stepped back.
I turned my glowing orb into a bucket of glue, which I handed him, because it was darn heavy. “Can you toss it?”
His eyebrows hitched up. “What is it?”
“Glue. It’ll lock the debris together and coat any sharp edges.”
“You think there’s enough?”
“Duh. It’s magical glue.”
I wasn’t sure if he was convinced, but still, he threw my wita concoction onto the mound of twigs and glass. After a few minutes, I prodded the base of the pile