“What about your people?” she asked.
Stiles shook his head again. “Gone,” he said, his eyes moving to the ground at his feet.
Dylan could feel some of the tension shift in Wyatt’s body, could feel him relax his hold on the butt of his gun. “You should move north,” he told him. “There are a few cities that way who take refugees from other places.”
Stiles nodded. “I’ve heard of them,” he said.
“You should come with us,” Dylan said.
Wyatt grabbed her arm and pulled her away from Stiles. “No,” he hissed in a low whisper. “He can’t come with us.”
“Why not?”
“Look at him,” Wyatt said, gesturing widely with his other hand. “He is too thin, too sick to be of any help in a fight.”
“How many fights do you plan on picking in the next few days?”
Wyatt stared at her, anger making a muscle jerk in his jaw. “Have you already forgotten what happened in the ruins?”
Dylan could feel the color draining from her face, but she didn’t back down. “We can’t leave him here alone. What if something happens to him? That would be on us.”
“How would we know?”
“We would know,” she said quietly.
Wyatt studied her face for a long minute. “And if he tries to cut our throats in the middle of the night?”
“I thought he was too sickly to be much of a fighter?”
“Not much fight in backstabbing.”
Dylan glanced over at Stiles. He had wandered to the edge of the lake and was squatting, cupping water into his mouth with his hands. She noticed that there was a bloodstain on the back of his shirt, just above the waist of his pants.
“He’s injured,” she said quietly, gesturing to the stain for Wyatt’s benefit. “We should help him.”
Wyatt glanced over at Stiles, turning slightly so that his shoulder rubbed against Dylan’s. As it did, she could feel the war of emotions floating through his body. Fear was dominant. But so was empathy.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “We’ll take him with us. But the first sign of trouble…”
Dylan reached up and pressed her lips lightly to the angle of Wyatt’s jaw. A flash of pleasure ran through her, a minor flash compared to the touch of his hands on her head that night the pain burst through her skull, but similar. “Thank you,” she whispered breathlessly.
She felt his eyes on her as she walked over to Stiles and sat beside him.
“We want you to come with us,” she said quietly.
Stiles looked at her, gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you.”
She touched the stain on the back of his shirt. “Are you injured?”
He glanced back as though trying to see the spot himself. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it forward. “Oh,” he said, “that was days ago. I think it has pretty much healed now.”
“Can I look?”
He shrugged.
Dylan lifted the edge of his shirt. There was a long cut along the bottom edge of his ribs that ran over his spine. But, as he had said, it was mostly healed. Dylan ran her finger along it and watched as the redness of the knitted wound disappeared. She could feel a tingle in her fingertip as she did it, knew that it was something inside of her that was healing his wound. All these years she had thought it was only Donna who could do this, but it seemed something inside of her was growing and maturing, that she could do more than she had ever thought possible.
After leaving the ruins, Dylan thought about the wound on her side, the pain in her ankle that had seemed to indicate a broken bone or a dislocation, but which was completely healed by the time she woke the following morning. And she remembered the redness in her skin that disappeared each time she imagined her skin as it was the morning she left D dorm. She had healed herself. To prove it to herself, she had waited until Wyatt was occupied as they settled in for the night a few days later and used her knife to slice into her palm. Within seconds of visualizing it the way it had been before, the wound knitted itself
Stiles shook his head again. “Gone,” he said, his eyes moving to the ground at his feet.
Dylan could feel some of the tension shift in Wyatt’s body, could feel him relax his hold on the butt of his gun. “You should move north,” he told him. “There are a few cities that way who take refugees from other places.”
Stiles nodded. “I’ve heard of them,” he said.
“You should come with us,” Dylan said.
Wyatt grabbed her arm and pulled her away from Stiles. “No,” he hissed in a low whisper. “He can’t come with us.”
“Why not?”
“Look at him,” Wyatt said, gesturing widely with his other hand. “He is too thin, too sick to be of any help in a fight.”
“How many fights do you plan on picking in the next few days?”
Wyatt stared at her, anger making a muscle jerk in his jaw. “Have you already forgotten what happened in the ruins?”
Dylan could feel the color draining from her face, but she didn’t back down. “We can’t leave him here alone. What if something happens to him? That would be on us.”
“How would we know?”
“We would know,” she said quietly.
Wyatt studied her face for a long minute. “And if he tries to cut our throats in the middle of the night?”
“I thought he was too sickly to be much of a fighter?”
“Not much fight in backstabbing.”
Dylan glanced over at Stiles. He had wandered to the edge of the lake and was squatting, cupping water into his mouth with his hands. She noticed that there was a bloodstain on the back of his shirt, just above the waist of his pants.
“He’s injured,” she said quietly, gesturing to the stain for Wyatt’s benefit. “We should help him.”
Wyatt glanced over at Stiles, turning slightly so that his shoulder rubbed against Dylan’s. As it did, she could feel the war of emotions floating through his body. Fear was dominant. But so was empathy.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “We’ll take him with us. But the first sign of trouble…”
Dylan reached up and pressed her lips lightly to the angle of Wyatt’s jaw. A flash of pleasure ran through her, a minor flash compared to the touch of his hands on her head that night the pain burst through her skull, but similar. “Thank you,” she whispered breathlessly.
She felt his eyes on her as she walked over to Stiles and sat beside him.
“We want you to come with us,” she said quietly.
Stiles looked at her, gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you.”
She touched the stain on the back of his shirt. “Are you injured?”
He glanced back as though trying to see the spot himself. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it forward. “Oh,” he said, “that was days ago. I think it has pretty much healed now.”
“Can I look?”
He shrugged.
Dylan lifted the edge of his shirt. There was a long cut along the bottom edge of his ribs that ran over his spine. But, as he had said, it was mostly healed. Dylan ran her finger along it and watched as the redness of the knitted wound disappeared. She could feel a tingle in her fingertip as she did it, knew that it was something inside of her that was healing his wound. All these years she had thought it was only Donna who could do this, but it seemed something inside of her was growing and maturing, that she could do more than she had ever thought possible.
After leaving the ruins, Dylan thought about the wound on her side, the pain in her ankle that had seemed to indicate a broken bone or a dislocation, but which was completely healed by the time she woke the following morning. And she remembered the redness in her skin that disappeared each time she imagined her skin as it was the morning she left D dorm. She had healed herself. To prove it to herself, she had waited until Wyatt was occupied as they settled in for the night a few days later and used her knife to slice into her palm. Within seconds of visualizing it the way it had been before, the wound knitted itself
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