We just can’t win.
An air of defeat hovered in the car like a thick fog, and Daria kept pressure on Hope’s wound. The shirt Betrayal had given her to use was soaked within minutes, the wet squishing sounds of the blood-drenched fabric making her stomach twist with nausea.
“Hey,” a rasping breath hissed.
Daria darted her gaze from the wound to his face, and Hope’s green eyes, hazy with pain, stared up at her. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered.
A dry laugh, or maybe a sob, choked past her lips, and she stroked his cheek, leaving behind a trail of blood. “You’re not supposed to be the one saying that.”
His brows furrowed. “Of course I am. I’m Hope,” he muttered, words slurred. Before Daria could muster a response, his eyes drifted closed and his breaths evened out, hitched as they were from the gaping wound in his chest.
“He’s right, you know. It’ll be fine,” Death echoed from the front.
Meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror, Daria nodded, though her heart wasn’t in agreement. They healed so quickly, she knew she didn’t have to worry.
They’d suffered so many losses. First Wrath and Sofia, caught by Pandora, and then Misery and Truth and everyone else taken by the curse. Now they were just set back even further by Hope’s injury.
Without responding, she turned her attention back to Hope, studying the sharp line of his jaw and the soft curve of his lashes tickling his cheek as he rested. His brows twitched as he slept, and Daria hoped it wasn’t out of pain.
By the time they arrived home, even Daria’s eyes were heavy with exhaustion, and she trailed slowly behind Betrayal and Death as they carried Hope into the house. As they tackled the stairs, Daria went into the kitchen and opened the cabinets, searching for a glass. It wasn’t until she reached for the pristine clarity of the glass that she realized her hands were painted red from the tips of her fingers, streaking up her arm, and finally trailing off near her elbows. Mostly dry, blood caked over her skin in an ugly rust color, and she paused with her fingers outstretched. Disbelief blew through the fog of numbness that had been creeping in.
Water, she reminded herself.
Her fingers closed around the first cup, the glass chilled against her hand. She grabbed three more without hesitation, and she filled all of them from the tap. Balancing all four glasses was a struggle, something that normally would have been second nature after working in the bar. But usually her hands weren’t trembling so badly that water sloshed dangerously near the lip of the cups.
Tucking a glass into each of her sides, she grabbed the other two with her hands and carefully made her way up the stairs. A grunt sounded, followed by a muffled curse, and she paused in the doorway.
Death and Betrayal were situating Hope on the bed as gently as they could, a towel spread out underneath him. “He’ll be fine by morning, most likely,” Death commented, and Betrayal nodded grimly.
Her steps were silent as she entered the room, but they both turned their heads as if sensing her presence.
“I brought everyone water,” she said. “If it’s okay, I’m going to shower and then I’ll come sit with him.”
Death’s eyes narrowed as he studied her, pausing on her hands full of water glasses and covered in blood. When he crossed the room, he moved slowly, as if afraid to spook her, and he took a glass from one of her hands.
“That’s fine. Thank you for the water.”
A shaky smile and, “You’re demons, but hydration is still important,” was all she offered.
Betrayal chuckled gently as he took a glass from her, and then another, before walking one over to Hope’s bedside.
“I’ll be in the garage, but if you need me, just holler,” he said, and Daria nodded.
Death hovered for a moment longer, his violet stare trying to penetrate the mask she forced on. Eventually, when she nodded her head toward the shower, he dipped his chin once and then left the room.
Daria didn’t touch her water as she sat it beside Hope’s and then turned toward the shower after a careful glance over his figure. Sound asleep, chest rising at a comforting pace.
The bathroom lights seemed blinding as she flicked them on, making the red streaking her arms so much brighter.
With a muffled groan, she stripped her shirt off and dropped it on the floor. The xiphos clinked against the countertop as she laid it down, and then her pants were next. She ignored the streaks that coated her stomach from leaning too close to her arms as she’d applied pressure to Hope’s wound.
I’ll have to burn all of them, she thought with a glance at the pile of clothes.
The tile was cold as she walked to the shower, turned the water on, and stepped under the steaming hot spray.
Brushing her long, dark hair away from her face, she threaded her fingers through the wet strands and turned her face up to the spray. Her unsteady breaths blew water off her lips, and she raked her hair back once again before glancing down.
Pale red water circled the drain, and she held her arms out to get the majority of the blood off before reaching for a loofah and the body wash. It smelled citrusy and woodsy all at once, and it conjured an image of the sunshine cutting through the trees on a bright morning.
That was what she focused on as she rinsed off the fight. She imagined the breeze softly swaying the branches, and a mug of coffee warming her hand as she basked in the peacefulness.
No fighting, no blood, no worries.
When she blinked open her eyes again, the blood was gone, she was clean, and her hands were no longer shaking. She turned off the water with a squeak of the old knob and stepped from the shower. Water dripped down her body to pool on the floor, but she dried off quickly and wiped up.
She paused in front of the mirror, eying the pile of dirty clothes.
Didn’t quite think this one through, did I?
Exhaustion tugged at her persistently, especially after the sweet lull of her daydream and the warm water.
Peeking her head out of the room, she found Hope still sound asleep and tiptoed to the dresser, pulling the drawer open slowly.
She grabbed one of his shirts, a random burnt orange color, and thought about stealing a pair of his boxers too. But she didn’t think they would fit.
Shrugging, she snuck back to the bathroom and changed, sighing at the light scent that still clung to the shirt, similar to the body wash she’d used. The shirt draped to mid-thigh, and she left it that way as she grabbed the dirty pile of clothes and took the towel with her.
Her steps were quiet as she crept from the room and down to her own, donning a pair of underwear and leggings after throwing her old clothes in the hamper.
Comforted by the fact that Hope was asleep, she fought her tiredness and took the steps to the first floor.
Death was sitting at the bar, a mug of coffee in his hand as he stared at the dark liquid inside the cup.
“Hey,” she murmured quietly, trying not to startle him.
He just blinked up at her and nodded. “Hey, feel better?”
“Yeah. I do,” she admitted. “Exhausted. Are you okay?”
“I’m tired too,” he replied, shuffling his mug as if showing it off. “Want some?”
Daria shook her head and took the seat beside him. “What do we do now?”
Death shrugged. “I’d rather not think about that right now. But I do think we’re going to have to trust... you know,” he mumbled, and tilted his head toward the garage. “I don’t relish the idea of bringing yet another person into this, but I don’t see what other options we have. We can’t afford to lose anyone, and if he has an army of dumb humans at his beck and call… sorry,” he offered at the last second, glancing to her.