Genevieve staggered, dropped to her knees, and then put her hand to the wound, clawing at it. In horror, she pulled her fingers back from the blood. “It burns. It shouldn’t do that. It shouldn’t do that!”
A firm hand pulled her to her feet. “Don’t touch it—are you healing?”
“Yes, but I wish I wasn’t,” she answered, and then, without thinking, put her hand back to the wound. Her fingers pulled at it. “I have to get it out of me. I have to get it out.” Cassandra yanked her hand away, and twisted her arm so as to brace her up against the doorway, where she leaned as Cassandra then buzzed. She felt a moment’s hesitation—she knew Amanda by name only, and wondered if there was any good way to request entrance when one’s passport is one bleeding, delirious child. When Amanda came to the door, however, no explanation was needed.
“Genevieve!”
“Can I crash here? I’m having a bad…uh, life. This is Cassandra. Cassandra, Amanda, Amanda…eh, talk amongst yourselves.” She appeared to black out, and fell up the stairs.
“What happened to her?” Amanda demanded.
“She’s been shot with—something. I think there’s some kind of poison involved.”
The two women worked to manage the unconscious Genevieve up the stairs, Amanda pulling, Cassandra taking her by the legs. The girl came back to consciousness just before being pulled onto the rug, and squirmed.
“I’m not bleeding on a Persian rug. Towel…and alcohol.”
“We need to wash off the blood, let me…” Cassandra offered, but the now-conscious woman broke free from her attempts at further assistance, feeling and stumbling her way into the bathroom, reaching for something down by her boot. At first, the movement puzzled her, but then she saw what the woman had reached for—her knife.
“Genevieve, don’t…” Amanda cautioned, standing by the door, and then her eyes widened in horror. Genevieve sliced into her own shoulder, drawing a good quantity of blood that she mostly directed towards the sink, with general success. She put down the knife, where it clattered into the sink, and then, with the one useful hand, began rifling through the medicine cabinet.
“Let me help you..” Amanda then said. She reached for the knob to turn on the faucet, but her hand was stopped. Genevieve glared at her, sternly.
“No…water. I…have a good idea what this is. No water. You have rubbing alcohol?”
“No, I never…would vodka do?”
“In a pinch…or a shotglass,” the girl said, her voice strained. She reached for the knife again…and pushed it in deeper, as if searching for something. “I wish it would stop doing that.”
“Doing what?’
“The healing…burns…” And then, evidently, the tip of the blade found what it was looking for—she dislodged a ball from the wound, and it clattered into the sink. Her head tilted upwards, and Amanda managed to catch her as she fell. Cassandra reached in an arm, and twisted the knob. The contents of the sink steamed on contact with the water. She quickly shut it off.
“Where do you keep the vodka?”
“I’ll…you stay with her, I’ll get it.” Amanda lowered the girl to the floor, rose and brushed past Cassandra, who then knelt. Strangely, a half-remembered magical phrase drifted through her mind—something taught her by Hijad. She found herself speaking it aloud, and was caught off-guard when Genevieve chose that moment to let her eyes roll back to gaze at her directly.
“I don’t know what it means, but it sounds good,” she muttered, and then tried to rise. Cassandra restrained her.
“No, it isn’t good for you to try to stand. Let us help you.” Amanda then came in with the bottle and a hand towel. She wet the towel with the liquor, and then stooped to tear Genevieve’s shirt, which was already in shreds due to her use of the knife. The girl struggled.
“Calm down, I’ve washed out wounds before,” Amanda said. “I worked with Florence Nightengale in the Crimea, after all.”
The girl, nonetheless, reached for the towel, and attempted to pull herself up. Amanda’s eyes met Cassandra’s, who tried again to restrain her. “I’ve acted as a healer, off and on, for three thousand years, personally.”
Amanda’s mouth dropped open. “You’re that Cassandra—Duncan’s friend?”
“Hello—great you’re making each other’s acquaintance. And I have a masters in Biochemistry and a pretty nasty bit of acid still turning my innards into oatmeal, so if you don’t…” Genevieve dragged herself to her feet, and reached once again for the knife. She pulled her skin back open, and held out her hand. “The bottle?” It was handed over, and she spilled a good quantity on the wound, and then a good quantity in her mouth. She gasped. “There.” The wound began closing, and she staggered, before collapsing again, this time, for good.
“Very Rambo,” Amanda commented. “Take the feet?”
“I had the feet on the stairs,” Cassandra responded, reaching under Genevieve’s arms.
“Who did this?”
“Have you ever heard of the Gauntlet?”
Amanda nodded, slowly. She’d heard of them. She wished she never had. If it seemed bad enough calling the Game just that—the Game called the Gauntlet was even more inaptly called.
Posted on Sep 9, 2000, 7:27 PM from IP address 172.163.238.73