The headlights of the SUV went off as Warshon stopped the engine.
Ten to ten.
The few hours he said he would be away had stretched to over a day. Imagining Nonna's glowering face, he heaved a long sigh, his eyes up at the gibbous moon that had peered over the thinning clouds. He took out the key. The car door clicked shut, followed by his steps up the marble stairs still wet from the rain. Greeted by the caressing warmth of the hallway air, he looked for Mira but found no one on the first floor.
"Warshon?" Nonna's voice came down from the stairs.
He loped up to meet her. "Sorry, I know it takes a bit longer than I said –"
"A bit?" Folding her arms on the railing, the woman tapped a foot.
"I'll pay extra," he chuckled, his head shaking.
"Lucky for you, I actually enjoyed her, or I'd have left half a day ago, and even your money wouldn't change that."
"How is she?"
Nonna hissed with a sigh and threw her head toward his room. "I tried to fix her meals. Poor thing, she wanted to be polite and really tried, but could barely keep anything down."
He frowned. "Did she take her medicine?"
"Of course! What do you think I'm here for?" She scolded with a spiked brow. "And since we're on the subject," she continued, keeping her eyes on his bedroom door. "All the many pills can't be good for her when she already has such a weak constitution."
Warshon nodded. "You're right," he loosed a sigh. "All the medication treats her syndromes but makes her weaker. And every time she's sick, it'll be worse than the time before."
"You have a plan?"
He did. Confident that he could make her healthier than before, he wasn't so sure how cooperative she would be. Nibbling his bottom lip, he said, "Well, I'll go check on her now. Thank you, Nonna. I know you abhor the idea of having me as a son, but to me, you're always like a mother. When your age finally catches up on you, I'll be sure you're fed and bathed." Turning his face to hers, he stooped to grab her shoulders and winked.
"Isn't it lovely how you rub it in? And thanks for the nightmare!" Nonna raised an arm as if she were to swat him and let out a chuckle as he ducked away. "She seems like a wonderful girl," said the woman as she turned to the stairs. "I hope it works out."
Warshon slouched with his hands inside the pockets of his suit pants, his head tipping back as he watched the woman descend the stairs. A wry smile narrowed his gaze while the clacking sound of her steps tapered. "Me too," he mused.
Careful not to make a sound, he sidled through the door to his room and found Mira lying on her side, cuddling an extra pillow. The table lamp Nonna had left on enveloped the girl in a soft glow. He smiled as he crouched by the bed, the back of his hand grazed along her freckled cheek. Her eyes flickered open.
"Sorry," he crooned. "Didn't mean to wake you."
She shook her head. "Nonna insisted I sleep. But I've slept a whole day even my dreams are getting bored of me."
A quiet laugh rippled through his shoulders. "What have you dreamed about?"
"Secret." She pursed those lips like the cherry blossom on the verge of sprouting, her smile impish.
"Is it? Or are you too shy to tell me because I was in it?" He inched closer.
Her big almond eyes widened. She shoved the pillow she had in her arms at his face. "I was thinking how much I should charge you for the secret that wouldn't seem too obvious a ripoff."
Another laugh. It had been a while since he had laughed this much and easily. Erdem made him laugh, too, but not without the heavy undertow. He sat on the floor facing her and rested on the pillow she threw at him. "Well, let me know when you work out the number."
"What if I ask for a thousand per dream?" She tugged on the quilt and buried half her face under it.
"Then, it'd better be a hell of a dream, or I'll demand a refund in a different currency." He narrowed his gaze, his chuckle meaning to tease.
She blinked at a loss while he let himself sink in the emerald green of her eyes. "Nonna said you didn't eat much again today?" he said at length.
"I tried." A mumble. "I'm sorry."
"What can you possibly be sorry for?"
"I don't know," she hummed, one word melting into the next.
"Since you're going to study Tamen medicine," he said, putting away the pillow as he got to his feet. "Here is what we can try."
"What?" Her voice rang behind him while he turned on his heel and slid the door open to the en-suite bathroom. His hand reached for the switch. The suspended pendant lights went on, casting an ambient glow on the marble floor. He hunched down before the vessel sinks and retrieved a medical toolbox from the cabinet's top shelf beneath.
When he returned, Mira had sat up, a pillow tucked to her chest. Under the soft fabric of his white shirt, the shadows of her collarbones accentuated the graceful curve extending to the neckline. So elegant and lovely, she looked like a dream—a dream of his. "Are you going to try Tamen medicine on me?" she asked, looking up. Her lashes fluttered, touching the soft arch of her brows.
He refrained from tracing the shadow limned by her collarbones with his eyes, or to think about the cigar burn on her breast. "Only if you're willing," he replied as he sat beside her, his throat dry.
Mira nodded, her lips pursing. "If a chef must try many flavors to get better, I guess being a patient gives me an edge, right?"
"That's the spirit." He smiled and opened the toolbox, revealing a stack of blister packages of sterile needles each sealed in an individual tube.
"Are those for needle treatment?"
"Second thought?"
She shook her head, a winsome smile flickering in her eyes. "I've heard of it before, and how needling certain points in the body can help acute conditions. May I?" She looked between him and the blister pack.
Amused, Warshon squinted. He liked her manners hard to come by these days. "Sure."
"Thank you." At his consent, she held one up against the light. "It's even thinner than I thought."
"Only one-tenth the width of a syringe."
"So, basically, I won't feel anything?"
"A mild sting, I'd say,"
"And in theory, you can kill someone with it without them noticing, right?" She prodded at the carotid artery in her throat.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Who are you trying to kill?"
"No one." She dropped the pack and raised her hands halfway. "I was just curious."
"In theory, you can kill anyone with anything sharp. But you're right. You can thrust the needle at fatal spots and kill people without them realizing, provided that you know anatomy well." He peeled off a blister from the pack she dropped. Holding it in his open palm, he handed it back to her.
She didn't take it this time but nudged back against the headboard, her pale feet scraping on the bedding. "So, erm, also in theory," she gulped, her face scrunching up, "You can easily make today my last, and I'd die a blissful idiot thinking I was getting better?"
Taken aback at first, he cracked a laugh and leaned close to the girl so lovely in the soft light. His hand ran in her fleecy, ash-brown hair trimmed terribly, and followed the curve of her scalp to her nape, closing the distance between them. "What an alluring trap you've set," he crooned next to her cheek. "So smooth it's impossible not to fall for it. Smart as you are, however," he paused, his other hand grazing around the saline lock left in her vein. "Do you think I'd wait this long just to kill you with treatment needles? Too many wasted opportunities along the way, and that can't be right. Wouldn't you agree?"
She squirmed, a whimper fleeing from her throat. "Maybe you're the kind of hunter who'd fatten their quarry before the kill," she mumbled, her cheeks tucked to the shoulder as she dodged his gaze.
"Calling me a hunter while you're the one who set the bait," he chortled. "And let's say, for the sake of the argument, I'm that hunter, and you're the quarry. Why should I execute you in my own bed?"
"I don't know," she ventured, her voice hardly audible. "I don't know you, not really. You could be a psychopath for all I know, and this could be your quirk?"
He could feel his smile fade as did the glee in his chest. "Valid point." He let go of her. "While I don't know what a psychopath would do in a situation like this – hell, maybe I do seem like one, judging from all that you've seen – here is what I do know," Propping his elbows on parted knees, he dipped his head, his eyes lifting. "You're nauseous when you eat, and you have no appetite. All the medicines only make it worse. But you need to eat to get better, if you want your immunity to fight for you, that is. And may I remind you, it has always been your call whether you want to proceed with the treatment." Turning to the shoulder, he straightened and hooked his hand under her chin so she wouldn't look away when he looked her in the eye. "I want to help you. But do you want my help?"
Her lips trembled without a word.
His heart softened. He loosed a sigh. As he let go of her chin, he grabbed her hand and put the blister pack back in her palm. "How about this," he continued. "I'll tell you all the points I need to needle on your arms, and you can try them on me first, just to see how I react. And if I'm still alive, we switch turns."
She blinked, those emerald green eyes looked incredulous. "You sure you want to be the guinea pig? I've never…"
"Neither have you treated bullet wounds before but you did well. Alcohol swaps at the bottom. C'mon." He darted a glance at the toolbox.
Drawing a long breath, Mira flexed her hands.
"Starting from the lung channel," he said, sliding his thumb on her hand where it applied. "At the wrist joint, in the depression between the radial artery and the tendon, that's your first point, here."
"What if I miss and puncture your artery?" she breathed through clenched teeth.
"Well, then, I'll think of some other ways for you to make up for it."
The second she flinched, he grabbed her wrist. "The body isn't that fragile," continuing in his gravelly croon, he leaned to her ear the shape of a conch shell, his eyes following the elegant line of her neck. "Even if you puncture my artery, with a needle this thin, you'll give me a bruise, no big deal."
She angled her head while risking a sideways glance at him, her pearl-white teeth scraping her bottom lip.
"Now, unfasten the safety pin at the tip, and give the handle a tap."
She snapped her eyes back to the needle, her cheeks puffing out.
"Breathe," He chuckled. "You're doing great."
"That's it?"
"Now remove the tube, and pinch the handle between your thumb and forefinger, use your other fingers as a cushion to steady your hand when you insert about half a centimeter under the skin."
Focusing on her hand without as much of a blink, she did as bid. "That's half the width of a forefinger nail, right?"
"That's right, Mira, and excellent job. I feel a tingling." His eyes never left her face, and when she smiled, so did he.
After she put the last needle in the crook of his elbow, Warshon propped the other hand next to his cheek as he leaned on a pillow. "So, how do you feel?"
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Scratching her nape to avoid his gaze, she squeezed an eye shut. "It didn't hurt?"
"Like I've said, only a mild sting."
She heaved a long sigh of relief and curled into herself.
"Are you ready to switch turns now?" He glanced at her with a smile as tired as he felt. How he yearned to lie down now in his own bed and fall into a slumber with her in his arms. He let the yearning slip upon seeing her nod. Plucking out all the needles she left in his arms, he put them away in a sealed sharps container and instructed the girl to lie supine. Besides the points in her both arms, he did her lower legs and four points around the umbilicus, explaining what each one was for as he went along.
"Ok, we're all set," he said, "Leave them in for half an hour, and let's see."
"Thank you."
Another mumble that melted him.
"Thank me when it works."
"No," she insisted. "I'd been dead had it not been for you. So, thank you." She turned her head on the pillow, her usually averted eyes seeking his, which took him by surprise.
He reciprocated. "You're welcome."
"But why?"
"Every doctor swears an oath that he will treat whoever comes for his aid, friends or foes alike," he intoned, returning his gaze to the front, his voice raspy, tired, as he thought about the oath. Do no harm. He wondered what happened to those who broke their oath. "I don't know whether you still see me as a foe, but a life for a life," he continued, clasping his hands under his chin. "You saved me at the port. To return the favor, I'll make sure you have a long, healthy life, Mira." Tossing his head back at her again, he smirked.
"About the port," she paused, pursing her lips. "That, what was, erm…"
"You want to know what the hell that bunker was all about?" he finished it for her.
Her long lashes fluttered, imploring.
He cocked a brow. "What do I get in return for letting you on such a secret?" How about you tell me those dreams you have in exchange?"
"You sure? I have a gazillion dreams. By the time I finish telling, you'd be too old to remember any of it."
A laugh rasped out of his throat. "How about one dream? And tell me, how you did get into writing?"
She drew in her chin, those almond eyes looked feline from his angle. "You remember that?"
He shrugged. "Everything about you is kind of hard to forget."
She blushed and twisted in the sheet.
"Careful," he grabbed her waist so thin he could feel each of her bones. "You don't want to bend the needles. That wouldn't be pleasant."
"Sorry."
"Stop apologizing." He grinned, his hands tightening. "Here is one thing about me, I hate it when people apologize."
"Why?"
He turned to the front again. Outstretching his elbows on either knee, he looked vacantly at the paneled wall and the shelving unit next to the door where the phantom mask was kept. "It's such an easy way to get out of any guilt, to exonerate, as if a pitiful sorry would change anything. As if all the wrongdoings committed intentionally should be forgiven upon an apology. Don't do what you'll be sorry for, is what I'd say."
Fearing that his rant might have scared her, he tipped his head to his shoulder but found only in her eyes a brew of hesitance and fury such as he had never seen in her before. Weak as she was now, the girl risked all that to cross the Huron Sea undocumented and survived; she was anything but meek.
"Good point," she said at length, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"Now, you know one thing about me." Swiveling to face her, he curled up a leg, his eyes narrowing. "Do I at least get a peek into those dreams?"
"I have a recurring dream," she hummed, averting her eyes again. "In it, I was out at the sea with Santiago, an elderly fisherman who hadn't caught a damn thing for eighty days. On the eighty-fifth day of his streak, he caught a marlin that came larger than his skiff. Unable to haul it, he let it tow him, tow us, further into the sea. He appreciated the marlin and even respected it. He felt he and the marlin could be friends, until the third day. Dehydrated and delirious, he knew he couldn't hang on much longer if he let the marlin drag him any further, so he harpooned it out of choice."
Warshon cocked a brow, his head tilting. "Are you implying again?"
"Maybe." She shrugged. "It's actually a story my dad told me, a novella by a man named Ernest Hemingway, uncovered from the world that came thousands of years before ours. While I was on the ship, I found myself dreaming about the story. Either I was with Santiago as his helper, or I was the marlin. And in either scenario, we did what we must to survive. I wondered if it applies to what you said about apology. Whether it's the wrongdoings we intentionally commit or ways for us to exonerate, don't we all do it to survive, to serve our purpose, one which we consecrate? I mean, every villain considers himself a misunderstood hero, right? Is there a self-righteous act of cruelty that isn't done in the conviction of meting out justice?"
She cut herself off when she met his intensive gaze. "Not that I was trying to invalidate what you said," she added, blinking a little helplessly. "I agree with you, completely!"
Enthralled by how she wove one thing into the next without breaking so much as a sweat, he couldn't take his eyes off her, not even for a moment. Never had he considered himself a hero, misunderstood or otherwise, nor that he had anything to do with justice. But her questions pommeled at him, forcing him to inspect all he had done over the years, the drives behind every act he didn't care for. "What happened to Santiago?"
"After he killed the marlin, its blood attracted sharks. He fought bravely, killing each one. When he saw the marlin's mutilated carcass, he pitied it for what it had suffered even after death and apologized to it, though it was himself he should have pitied. After all, he had caught nothing once again and had nearly died on the expedition. But stoic as he was, he saw it as how life ought to be, one quest after another, whose failures an inescapable experience. He went back to sleep and dreamed about lions on a shore, which, I believe, testifies to his standing valor that can't and won't be dwarfed by hardship."
"And what happened in your dream?"
"When I was the marlin, I let him catch me," she said, giggling at herself as if she could very well see herself broaching the water like a fish. "When his skiff failed to haul me, I pushed it for him. I pushed him to near the shore and capsized the skiff. I swam back, as did he, though in the opposite direction. We both return safely to where we belong. It's a happier ending, relatively speaking, right?"
Warshon brooded over the possibility of her implying him as the fisherman and she the fish. He gripped her hand despite himself, his fingers interlacing with hers. "Maybe Santiago would love to have you as a companion. Didn't he appreciate the marlin?"
Flustered at his touch, she trembled and tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, unwilling to let go, like perhaps Santiago when he caught the marlin. Anticipating for the words to cut, for her to tell him that the land and the sea could not cross, she flashed at him that winsome smile again. "If only the sea could come home to the land, and the land find home in the sea, that'd make quite a dream."
"It's a dream," he whispered. "Anything is possible." Fearing what he might do he'd have to apologize for later, he loosed his grip.
Blinking at a loss as she turned away to the window, the girl gulped, her teeth scraping her bottom lip. "Should it be your turn now?" she murmured, her voice a purr.
He huffed a long sigh, the tips of his fingers grazing hers. "The bunker, let's call it a self-righteous act done in the conviction of justice."
She withdrew her wandering eyes and bored into his. "The Phantom Lord, that's what Kovács Dolma called you when the DEA came that night at the Port."
"You know his name?"
"Courtesy of being kept for a week."
He chuckled. "What about it?"
"Ever since you took the stage, the other three cartels in the Republic disappeared, all their members, either died or were thrown behind bars. You're quite a monopoly in what you do, and you decide who your buyers are."
He glanced down at her hand, beautiful like every part of her he wished to imbibe. "Your point?" he rasped.
"From the Commonwealth's perspective," she continued, a quaver fluctuating in the overtones of her voice. "You're a ruthless drug lord, and self-righteous. But the Commonwealth really isn't your concern, and you don't get to interfere with what your clients there, nor can you work with our DEA to take down our syndicates. However," she gulped, her hands shaking so much he could feel it. "From the Republican perspective, you're a misunderstood hero, and your people are fools for not seeing the good you've done."
When he struggled to find words to reply, she asked, in a tender voice that made his heart ache, "Does Santiago still want to keep the marlin alive?"
Warshon got to a knee on the floor as he ran his fingers along her shaky arm, his lips grazing along the back of her hand to the tips of her nails.
The timer he set for the treatment went off.
He lifted his head, a smile narrowing his gaze. "That's gotta be the most interesting thirty minutes I've had in treatment." Flipping open the toolbox, he took out a cotton ball and pressed it against her wrist while he withdrew the first needle.
"You're all set," he said, sealing the sharps container again. How do you feel?"
As Mira sat up, her stomach grumbled. She put a hand around it, her cheeks flushing, her eyes squeezing shut.
He laughed, his hand around her nape. "Do you think we can try to get something to eat?"
Risking a glance up at him, she drew in her chin.
"Is that a nod?"
"How did it… How did you… I mean…"
"Magic," he teased, rising to his feet in the same breath he lifted her up from the bed. The pain from the wound spread from the posterior deltoid and made him wince.
"Stop doing that! You're hurting yourself!" She gripped his shirt, panic straining her face.
"I won't drop you." He smirked. "I promise."
"I can walk!"
"I know." He looked her in the eye. "But I also want to carry you."
"How's your wound?"
"It's fine. But if you want to see me naked, I wouldn't mind you taking a look." Upon seeing her cheeks flush, he loosed another chuckle. "A life for a life," he crooned. "I meant what I said."