“A restorative. Brigid said you were clear for it when you woke naturally.”
Now Riley eyed the glass with more interest. “Like the one Bran made for Sawyer?”
“Brigid tamed it down.”
“Spoilsport.” But Riley took it, drank it. “How long does it take to— Okay.” The dragging hangover from long sleep faded off, and at last—at last—her head felt clear. “I’d like a few samples of that for the next time I go on a tequila binge.”
“Riley.”
“Don’t start again, Sash. I may have been half off last night, but I remember enough. This isn’t on you.”
“I need to get it out.” Sasha eased onto the side of the bed. “Do me a favor, okay? Let me.”
“Okay, but if you wander off into stupidville, I’m cutting you off.”
“I know it could have been anyone who walked out of the house alone—that it was random and opportunistic.”
“So far, you’re in the right lane.”
“But it was you. I know any one of us could have been used as a false face to draw you away from the house, into the woods. But it was me. It horrifies me, and it enrages me to know you have an image of me attacking you, hurting you, almost killing you. Switch places for a minute, and tell me it wouldn’t do the same to you.”
Grateful her mind was clear, Riley took a moment to organize her thoughts—and feelings with them. “I thought it was you. When you called me, when I went with you. I thought it was you when you knocked me like a sledgehammer into what felt like a concrete wall. I thought it was you,” she repeated even as Sasha’s lips trembled. “And you’d been possessed, taken over by Nerezza. My bell had been rung, and hard, and right then, lying there, looking at you, I thought she’d gotten into you somehow. I tried for my gun—I remember that—I remember if my arm hadn’t been useless and I could have, I’d have shot you. I’d have tried to hit you in the leg, but I’d have shot you, thinking it was you.”
“Defending yourself against—”
“It horrifies me, and it enrages me to know I’d have shot you. We’re both going to have to get over the horror and the rage, Sash. That’s it. Move it away, or they’ve won this round.”
“I want the rage.” And it burned in the blue of Sasha’s eyes. “I want to give her pain, and misery, and horror for making you think, even for an instant, I’d hurt you. For making you have to choose, even for an instant, to hurt me.”
“Okay.” Riley nodded. “Rage is good. We’ll keep it. But we’re square, you and me.”
“We’re square.”
“Excellent. I have to get up.”
“You still need rest.”
“I really have to pee. I mean seriously pee.”
“I’ll help you.”
“Let me just try to get up on my own. I feel reasonably okay.”
She managed it. A little wobbly maybe, Riley considered, but the room stayed steady and her vision didn’t waver. “So far, so good. It’s not about modesty—I don’t have that much at the best of times— but I’m going to try to empty my now desperate bladder by myself. Stand by.”
She didn’t bolt to the adjoining bathroom, but moved briskly, and felt grateful she could. But no amount of gratitude could match what she felt when that desperate bladder emptied.
“Success! Could a hot shower be next?” She stepped out first, held out her bandaged hand. “How about taking this off first?”
“Let me get Bran or Brigid.”
“Why?”
“They’re so much more experienced.”
Riley just lifted her eyebrows. “I’m on my feet. I’m lucid. I pick my own healer. Take it off for me, check it out.”
Understanding—the creature with her face had mangled the hand; the woman, the friend, would judge its health—Sasha unwound the treated bandage.