Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,83

my blood is draining out onto the half-frozen ground.

She’s so, so beautiful.

If this is the last thing I ever see, I can die peacefully.

“Nessa,” I wheeze. “You came back.”

She clutches my hand, squeezing it tight.

“You’re going to be okay,” she promises me.

Probably not, but I won’t argue. I have to tell her something, while I still have time.

“Do you know why I sent you away?” I ask her.

“Yes,” she sobs. “Because you love me.”

“That’s right,” I sigh.

Marcel is kneeling down beside me, clamping his hand over the worst of the wounds on my stomach. Klara is doing the same on my shoulder. She’s got a nasty cut on her cheek, but otherwise looks alright.

“Call an ambulance,” Klara says to Nessa.

“No time,” Marcel tells them.

I wish Nessa would lay her head on my chest. That would keep me warm. But I can’t lift up my arms to pull her close.

Marcel is saying something. I can’t hear it. His voice fades away, along with the gray sky and Nessa’s lovely face.

26

Nessa

We take Mikolaj to a safehouse in Edgewater. Klara drives, while Marcel shouts directions and rips open a medical kit with his teeth. He tears into a little packet containing a long tube and a syringe.

Mikolaj is sprawled out across the back seat. His eyes are closed and his skin looks gray. He doesn’t respond when I squeeze his hand. I’m trying to hold a cloth tight against his stomach, but it’s difficult with how wildly Klara is driving and how soaked the cloth has gotten already.

“What’s your blood type?” Marcel barks at me.

“What? I—”

“Your blood type!”

“Uh . . . O positive, I think,” I say. I’ve donated a few times during the blood drives at school.

“Good,” he says, relieved. “I’m AB, which won’t work.”

He shoves the needle into Mikolaj’s arm, then says, “Give me yours.”

He makes me stand, half-crouching in the speeding car, so my arm is higher than Mikolaj’s.

“How do you know how to do this?” I ask him.

“I was in medical school in Warsaw,” he says, his speech muffled because he’s wrapping a long rubber band around my arm, while holding one end in his mouth. “Got myself in trouble popping pills to stay awake. Started selling them, too. That’s how I met Miko.”

He jams the other end of the cannula into my vein.

Dark blood speeds down the tube into Mikolaj’s arm. I can’t feel it draining out of me, but I pray to god it’s moving fast, because Mikolaj needs it badly. I’m not even sure he’s still alive.

After a minute I think a little color has come back into his cheeks. Maybe that’s only wishful thinking.

It’s funny to think of my blood mixing in his veins. I’ve already had a bit of him inside of me. Now he has me inside of him.

“Left here,” Marcel says to Klara.

Klara is intently focused on the road, hands rigid on the steering wheel.

“How is he?” she says, unable to look back at us.

“Don’t know yet,” Marcel replies.

We pull up in front of a building that looks deserted. The windows are dark, some smashed and some covered with cardboard. Marcel stops the blood transfusion, taking the needle out of my arm. He says, “Help me with his feet.”

We haul Mikolaj into the building, trying not to jostle him.

As soon as we’re through the door, Marcel shouts, “Cyrus! CYRUUUUS!”

A little man appears in the hallway—short, balding, with deeply-tanned skin and a white goatee.

“You didn’t call to tell me you were coming,” he rasps.

“Yes I did!” Marcel says. “Twice!”

“Ah,” Cyrus says. “I forgot to switch on my hearing aid.”

He fumbles with the device nestled in his right ear.

“We should take him to a hospital,” I murmur to Marcel, highly concerned.

“This is closer,” Marcel says, “No one will take better care of Mikolaj, I promise you. Cyrus is a wizard. He could stitch up Swiss cheese.”

We carry Mikolaj into a tiny room filled by what looks like a dentist’s chair and a couple cabinets of medical supplies. It’s a jumble of mismatched items, old and older, most of it rust-speckled or dented. I’m becoming more worried by the minute.

Once we’ve deposited Mikolaj on the chair, Marcel shoves Klara and me out.

“We have this,” he says. “Go and wait—I’ll call you if I need anything.”

He closes the door in our faces.

Klara and I retreat to a little room with an ancient TV, a fridge, and an assortment of couches and chairs. Klara sinks down into an overstuffed armchair, looking exhausted.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?”