Chapter Five
John woke before Angela. He laid without moving for a few long moments, assessing the damage to his body. Surprisingly, he felt fine and tried to sit up. The lightening bolt of agony that raced down his arm from his shoulder told him that keeping still was probably his best option. A strained "Shit." forced it's way past his lips before he could stop it. A second, softer one followed as he flexed his fingers. The blood in his arm felt like acid, burning through the cells.
He laid back down gently, and tried to see his arm, but couldn't turn his head far enough to see. Nausea made his stomach churn and roll. He swore, knowing that if he tried to sit up again he would throw up. Cool fingers brushed against his arm, and he tensed, waiting for the pain. She didn't touch his arm at all, content to let her fingers rest on his wrist.
"John?" Angela asked, the question clear in her tone.
"My arm," He said tightly, lacking the strength to elaborate. Those reassuring fingers left his wrist, and he instantly missed them. He felt the bed dip as she sat up. Her fingers hovered over his arm, close but not touching. He was paler than she'd ever seen him before. Though he didn't know it, he had lines of tension around his eyes and mouth. She lowered her hand to touch the dressing, and decided against it, swinging her legs off the bed before disappearing into the kitchen.
She came back a minute later, carrying the first aid kit and a bottle of whiskey, complete with a glass. She set the first aid kit down, and poured a healthy measure of the amber liquid into the glass before holding it to his lips. He knew what she was doing, and drank the fiery liquid in a single gulp, coughing a little as it went down. He met her eyes without speaking, and she poured him another glass full. She inclined the empty glass, as if asking if he wanted another. He shook his head, once, declining the offer. Though he would love to drink himself to oblivion, there was work to do later.
The alcohol wasn't enough to get him drunk, but it was enough to dull the edges. Realising that she would have a problem unwrapping his arm, he gritted his teeth and rolled onto his side, feeling his stomach heave as he moved. He hated being unwell. It made him weak, and that was one thing he couldn't stand to be at any time. In his mind, being ill wasn't an excuse for being defenceless. He fought back the sickness, closing his eyes as the room span around him.
"Ready?" She asked him in a worried tone. Neither of them was looking forward to this. He nodded slightly, not opening his eyes. He felt incredibly tired. Part of his mind wondered at it, but he didn't have the energy to care.
She picked up the scissors and gently cut the bandage open. He didn't flinch as she lifted his arm to remove the wrap. The wound had bled through the gauze, sticking it to the raw surface. She felt him tense even more as she lifted the edge of the gauze, trying to get it off the cut without doing too much more damage.
It came free slowly, wrenching the occasional curse from him. He was mostly silent, letting her work without complaining. It was a good thing- she knew that it had to hurt, but a cry of pain would weaken her resolve to deal with the wound far too much. She wouldn't be able to do it. At last, the wound was uncovered, except for a few tiny spots of gauze stuck to the surface. She picked them off, not wanting to risk a worse infection. Next she wet some cotton wool and used it to clean the dried blood off his arm.
The surface of the cut didn't look too bad. It was angry and inflamed around the edges, but there was no pus coming from it. It just looked incredibly sore rather than badly infected. Something white caught her eye. I picked all of the gauze off, didn't I? She thought, rubbing her finger over it. It was hard and rough to touch. Grabbing some tweezers, she took hold of it and pulled. It moved a tiny bit, letting her see that it was a sliver of claw. It was sticking into the muscle of his arm, and she guessed that it was causing him the pain.
Taking a firmer hold on the sliver, she pulled again, trying to ignore his soft moan of pain. It was hard and she could feel her eyes filling with tears for him. Gripping the tweezers more firmly, she caught hold of the sliver again and pulled it straight up. It came out cleanly, followed by a gush of blood. She grabbed some gauze, using it to mop up the blood as she examined the wound.
There was two more identical splinters. She dealt with them in the same way, then checked for more. Finding none, she smoothed some antiseptic cream onto it, covering it well before layering more gauze on top. Another bandage finished it off and she taped the edges down well.
"Done?" His question was slightly slurred, and she didn't think it was from the whiskey.
"Yes. It doesn't look too bad." She said, tidying the wrappers and waste up.
"That wasn't too bad." He said dryly and she couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic.
"Well, my mother did want me to be a nurse." She told him. "She didn't consider working for the police a proper job for a lady." Angela said it with some acid in her voice. She resented her parents for a lot of things, most of them relating to her choice of job. She hated them for their treatment of her sister. In fact, she blamed them for Isobel's death.
He struggled to sit up, and she helped him, keeping a steadying hand on his good shoulder. "What did you take out?" He asked and for a moment, she was startled until she remembered he must have felt the removal of the splinters. She picked up the bag she had put them in, giving it to him. He examined the bag, not liking the way they looked. Each splinter was about the length of his thumb and was about the same thickness as a piece of spaghetti. He shook one out, holding it up to his face to examine it more closely. It was still caked in his drying blood, which rubbed off on his fingers. He didn't seem to mind.
"Well?" She prompted him after a few minute's silence.
"I'm thinking." He said in the same dry way he had before.
He sat in silence for another minute before slipping the splinter back into the bag and standing. The clothes he was wearing were crumpled and blood stained. He itched to get out of them, but first he needed to check something out. She followed him through the apartment and into his tiny study. It was another room he didn't use often. It was a dark room, made darker by the books crammed into every available space. He took his time finding the one they needed.
It was a large old book, with a faded leather cover that had once been a rich dark blue. Dust lay thick on it, and John was forced to blow it off before he could open the book. He sat down at the small desk without thinking, and flipped to the back. Of course, there was no index in the actual book, but a long time before someone had been kind enough to add one. It was written on parchment in black ink that had become brown over time. Tracing a finger down the list, he located the page he needed quickly and turned to it.
A full page picture of the Agvi King stared out at them. It looked menacing, and he wished that he could slam the book and not look at it. Each ridge and scale was drawn in intricate detail by a caring hand. It repulsed him that someone could find the Agvi attractive enough to spend time drawing. In the bottom corner of the picture, there was a signature and as John read it, he realised that the drawing had been made by a woman.
Ignoring the picture, he turned his attention to the text. The line was written there and he skimmed it, making sure that he had remembered it correctly. He had and he moved on, looking for reference to the King's attacks. There was a scant paragraph at the bottom of the page, which he read one quickly. Startled, he read it again, making sure he understood it accurately. She'd seen his reaction on his face and leaned over him to read it. She brushed against his injured arm and he bit down on the cry of pain.
She traced her finger over the paper, reading the words aloud " The Agvi - also known as Acolytes of Perdition- are known to be relentless in their pursuit of those they consider prey. They are spiteful creatures with a streak of torment inside of them. They enjoy playing with the victim, much as a cat would a mouse. Cunning and clever, they plan attacks in detail, unlike most other demons. They are to be feared, for they spell death to whoever shall cross their path. No known method can kill them. No-one has been known to survive an attack. The claws are fearsome things, as thick as a ladies' wrist and as long as her forearm. They are the main weapon, and cause terrible wounds. The author believes that there may be a way to kill the Agvi, but it has never been tried."
She turned the page, but there was no more information. Desolation was seeping into her soul. It seemed that John was doomed. He however, seemed pleased by the information and was already pulling out another book. She caught a glimpse of the title, but it was in Latin and she couldn't understand it. The book was well worn, and he obviously used it often because he turned to the page he needed straight away. He read a few pages, turning back as if to double check his facts. A smile began to spread as things became clear to him
"I know how to kill it." He said with a smirk.