I've slightly updated Chapter 42 to explain why Asmodeus sent Jane to Cania, instead of her actual home. :)
The yellow eyed tiefling was frowning when I regained consciousness, dark brows pulled down in deep concentration.
He looked younger up this close; skin smooth but for the pattern of scars that littered him. This close, I could see the notches in his horns, could smell the faintly ashy smell I'd come to expect of his kind.
As my senses returned to me one by one, I suddenly remembered to recoil at his nearness.
He held me in place, hands on my arm and brows pulling down tighter. He hissed for me to be still.
Pain, white hot and sharp, pierced through me, pulsing from my shredded arm. I tried to tug away again, to shield my injury from prying eyes and fingers alike.
"Be still," he hissed again, teeth gnashing in frustration.
"Go to hell," I managed to snarl back.
His eyes snapped up to me, amusement curling his lips in that sinister smirk, and I suddenly felt a laugh tearing its way up in my chest. It turned hysterical, a horrible hiccuping thing, tears squeezing from my eyes.
"Go to hell," I repeated through my growing laughter, barely recognising my own voice.
His smirk dropped away as his hand, cool to the touch, ran across my forehead, pushing aside the sweaty strands of my hair plastered there. Distantly, I wondered why his skin was colder than mine — didn't tiefling run hot? But then I heard him mutter something, before he shifted from my vision, his hard grip finally gone from my arm. As the room spun, I realised that I was lying on my side, in a place that wasn't my cell.
Yet more white walls of ice, though…
My laughter died as the pain became too much. I thought of fighting — or running — but knew that if I attempted to stand I would almost definitely topple over. With a whimper, I pulled my arm closer to my body, my knees closer to my chest.
"Give me your arm," he was back, his voice carefully even.
When I didn't respond, he grabbed for it again, dragging another cry of pain from my lips. Without any warning, he peeled the material away. Through my slowly healing nose, I could smell rotting meat and infection.
"More stubborn than an ox," he muttered, and I felt a distant swell of pride, despite the disgust lining his words. "Fighting them on the stairs…" His hair fell around his face as he shook his head.
Now was my chance to escape. Maybe the only chance I would get…
I hissed as a fresh jolt of pain ran up my arm and I let my head fall back in tired defeat.
So much for fighting him…
I faded in and out of consciousness as he cleaned my injury; the rags that had been Valen's tunic pulled away to reveal the gruesome damage the claws of the devil had wrought. His hands were not gentle, but nor were they unnecessarily cruel, and he worked quickly, prone to muttering to himself.
He gave me no warning when he began cutting away at dead skin, and I found my last reserves of energy as I bucked and kicked and hissed. He gave up quickly, leaving me panting and spent on the table, as he rifled through shelves somewhere to my right.
No more…
I groaned, attempting to sit.
The world listed. It felt as if the table shifted beneath me, and then suddenly I was tumbling forward. As the floor started rushing towards me, I heard the crash of glass and the sound of scrambling feet.
"Blast!" the tiefling hissed.
Hands grabbed me roughly — saving me from what would have been a painful tumble from the table.
Panting, I found the wall with my hand, bracing against the cool smoothness of it as I coughed, a horrible wet sound. The hands on my shoulders tightened.
When I finally had control of my body, the grip fell away.
I didn't attempt another escape, my pride now just as wounded as my body. Instead, I did my best to catch my breath, gasping where I sat.
Moments later the scar-lined hand was back in my face. I stared at the dark skin, tinted red. At the black nails filed into tips. And then at the shaved root in his palm.
I squinted, unable to identify it.
"Chew on it, you daft woman," he thrust the hand closer to me.
I glanced at him sceptically, blinking at the bright light of the room as it haloed his tail, wiry frame. He noticed my hesitation.
"And just why would I poison you, after all these days?" he pressed in amusement, as if reading my thoughts. And then, as a mumbled aside; "You'd be better off than me by far, if I let you die."
At the mockery in his tone, I snatched up the roots, stuffing them in my mouth and chewing through the dry bitterness of them. They scratched my throat on the way down.
I grimaced, but said; "Still better than that half-rotten bread you've been bringing me."
A surprised smile tugged at his lips, lighter than his smirk, but then he turned away before I could properly see it. When he turned back, he had more of the shaved root in hand. Passing it to me without a word, he returned his attention to cleaning my arm. Fresh blood was warming my side in rivets — all I had to show for my pathetic attempt at escape.
He muttered to himself, as he wiped the blood away, and — this time — he warned me before he cut at the last of the dead skin.
I hissed through the pain, chewing on more of the offered root, and marvelling at how quickly the fog was fading from my mind.
When he held up a needle and thread, eyebrow raised in challenge, I felt more like myself than I had in days. I pulled up a lip in a half-hearted snarl, but allowed him to continue.
Gritting my teeth as he worked, I finally took stock of our surroundings.
The room was similar to my cell in design, but larger by far. I didn't sit atop a table, as I had initially suspected, but a chunk of ice carved from the wall. Behind me were frozen shelves of jars and boxes, sterile and organised.
Hell's sickbay, it seemed.
Like everywhere else I had been, there were no windows; the sole door the same expanse of metal as my cell — no handle or lock in sight.
"You wouldn't get far," he chuckled, eyes still on my arm.
I felt myself tense at the accusation, before attempting a more relaxed posture… Or at least as relaxed as I could be, with that damn needle tugging and pulling at my skin.
He offered me another handful of the root, and — this time — I took a moment to analyse it; holding it up to the light and running my fingers over the hard fibres.
"Guklulla root," he said.
I shoved it in my mouth, embarrassed that he'd noticed my interest.
"Helps with pain, or infection," he told me, as if we weren't enemies. As if he wasn't about to march me back to my cell. He watched me from under his brows, smirking. "Going to write it in your little diary?"
I flinched at his words, feeling the absence of my belongings afresh.
"You read it?" I pressed, feeling suddenly bare before him.
He looked pleased at my discomfort.
"Not much to do when my ward is sleeping through the day," he shrugged.
"I'm sorry my slowly dying was boring to you," I snapped, flinching as he tugged the needle through harder than before.
He chuckled, yellow eyes flashing dangerously as he threaded the puckered flesh of my arm back together. It was going to be one hell of a scar.
I grimaced.
"So much for immortality."
He smirked again. "You won't have to worry about wrinkles," he told me. "But — my advice — maybe avoid angering our barbed friends, from here on out."
I tugged my arm away as soon as the thread was tied, before pointedly snatching the bandages off the slab beside me.
"You humans truly are grateful creatures, aren't you?"
The gleam in his eyes set my teeth on edge.
"Oh, I'm sure this was all from the goodness of your black old heart," I hissed as I wound the bandage around my arm with angry, jerking movements. "Devil's never have an ultimatum."
He laughed, shrugging — as if I'd just caught him with his clawed hand in the cookie jar.
"The boss man wants you ready for a fight, I'll make you ready for a fight."
I tried my best to school my features into careful indifference, but he noticed the poor attempt, his eyebrow lifting skeptically.
"Not that I think you'll be much good in one," he added far too casually, wicked smile firmly in place. "Tell me, did your tanar'ri fight all of your battles for you? Or is that just another rumour?"
I narrowed my eyes, ignoring the obvious taunt for what it was, as I tied off the bandage with a resolute nod. It would do.
He scoffed, obviously disappointed in the lack of conversation. "Well, don't expect my help out there." His arms crossed atop his chest.
Out there.
If we were going out at some point, my chances of escape were already lifting.
And if they were stupid enough to give me a weapon. Give me Enserric…
I tried not to let the hope show on my face.
When the tiefling eventually lead me back to my cell, and we descended down the spiral stairs with one of the barbed devil's in tow, I had to fight a smile at the distance he insisted remain between all of us.
No, I grimaced at the sting in my arm; I wouldn't be trying that again.
I just had to survive long enough for this apparent fight. Long enough to get outside. Because if there was one thing I was good at, it was running.
Whatever followed could only be better than here.