Extraordinary Book 3 by K.L. Noone

Author:K.L. Noone [Noone, K.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JMS Books LLC
Published: 2020-03-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 3

They didn’t know how to help. How to fight a slow dissolution. Nothing to punch, to throw lightning at, to rage against. No heroics left to try.

Ken and Betty circled around both their charges like short determined moons: doctors refusing to lose a war, parents glaring hopelessness into submission through sheer force of will. John, who was more or less recovered—pale from blood loss but getting better rapidly, thanks to Holiday plus his own accelerated self-repair serum—folded himself gingerly into a chair beside Holly’s bed. Wrapped in blankets, he clung to Holly’s hand, what there remained of it; he held an ink-sketch, a watercolor see-through version, of beloved fingers in his. He did not speak much, though he tried a few times.

Ryan knew what memories would be moving behind those broken grey eyes. He knew what John had lost once already.

He did not have an answer; but he sat down on the arm of the chair and put a hand on John’s shoulder, and John turned and reached for him, pulling him close, face buried in Ryan’s neck.

Ryan held him for a countless heartbreak of time. John’s fear and hope and fear of having hope overflowed into tears once or twice, as strong as he tried to be.

Ryan didn’t cry. Not at first. None of it felt real. Holiday had been hurt before, and had recovered; they all always recovered. They would recover.

Wouldn’t they?

He pushed that thought down and stacked mental furniture atop it. Big furniture. Bookshelves. Holly’s bookshelves, full of volumes. The ones John had built when Holiday had finally openly moved in.

The weather, as Holly had promised, billowed and rioted. Collisions of rain, sleet, thunder, even hail. Howls of banshee wind, yelps of mourning.

His father suggested kindly, after a while, that they should change and eat something. Ryan didn’t know how to answer. John swallowed hard and managed, “Yes,” but then didn’t move. Neither of them did.

Ken went out to the kitchen, sometime after that, and poked around. He came back with soup—chicken noodle, savory and comforting—and grilled cheese with bacon because John liked bacon, and coffee. John ate without really looking when food appeared in front of him, and then looked at empty dishes with surprise. Ryan had a few bites, knew he was hungry, knew about post-battle adrenaline, and couldn’t face more. His stomach flipped, uneasy.

Holly was fading away from them. That was true as the blood on stained robes, and inarguable. He hated it.

The fading was literal. Holly’s whole body grew thinner, less substantial, hazy around the edges. Less defined, an image dissolving into the universe.

Less here. Which Holly had said. Trying to tell them. And now he couldn’t say anything, eyes shut, seemingly asleep.

The heap of Holly’s bloody robes vanished at some point. Ryan guessed that was his parents’ doing, but didn’t ask. Not important.

Eventually John took a deep breath and said, “We won’t leave him alone, but, um, shower…maybe…”

Ryan looked at his arm. Mud and scuffs over yellow and black leather. Inadequate for rescuing.

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