A tremor ran through his right hand, setting it quivering. The fingers of his left hand joined in a moment later, and the muscle aches followed. Fatigue washed over him, yet he knew closing his eyes would do nothing but shut him in the dark, alone with his memories, as sleep refused to come.
Sweat pricked on his brow and back, and Nolan’s mouth went dry. He could feel the first hints of chill even in the warmth of the steam-filled bathroom.
The pain of his beating had helped to push back the cravings momentarily. His chest, stomach, arms, and face still bore the marks left by Two Square’s goons. But the pain would pass—no, had already begun to pass—as his body healed itself. He didn’t know how or why it did. Most likely one of the many hush-hush experimental augmentation treatments he’d undergone during his days in the Silverguard. No one had offered him any answers, and he was beyond caring.
His pain would pass, the bruises would fade, and the cuts would close, but the piece of shrapnel stuck in his spine would never let him walk again. Thousands of nanosurgeons in the Nyzarian Empire, and not a single one had dared take the risk of pulling out the shred of steel.
It was a mockery, the cruelest of jokes. No matter how many times other wounds healed, that one refused. The one injury that he needed to recover from would be with him—his curse—until the day he died, confining him to a wheelchair the rest of his life.
The shakes got worse, and Nolan felt the craving—the all-consuming need, worse than any hunger or thirst—clawing at the back of his mind. Hands trembling, mouth drier than the barest patch of Terra Omega’s Sandlands, he gripped his wheelchair’s arms so hard his knuckles cracked and the armrest creaked.
Then his eyes fell on the medicine cabinet above Tanis’ sink. He was moving before he realized it, his arms on autopilot sending his wheelchair rolling toward the sink. With trembling hands, he reached up for the cabinet and swung the door open. As Nolan caught sight of the bottles standing in neat rows on the glass shelves within, the craving sank icy claws deep into his brain, shoving all reason aside and replacing it with the driving, irrepressible need to dull the pain, to wipe away the memories and feelings of failure and lose himself in the calm, soothing void.
He pawed through the bottles, his movements frantic, knocking over a handful in his desperation to find something that could take the edge off. The clatter of pills called to him like a siren’s lure, beckoning him, insistent, amplifying the yearning to a crescendo.
Desperation flared within him with every bottle he searched. They were nothing more than simple painkillers and supplements—not a single opioid or narcotic stronger than aspirin among the lot.
With a roar of frustration and anger, he knocked the bottles from the shelf and off the sink’s edge, scattering them across the floor. His breath burned in his lungs and sweat streamed down his face, arms, and chest. The cravings drove a dagger into his gut, clawed at his mind, tearing any hint of rationality to shreds. He could think of nothing beyond the all-consuming need to satiate that hunger now.
But he had nothing to make it go away. Nothing to dull the insistence. Or to hide his condition from Tanis. She’d spot the signs of a junkie quickly unless he found some way to cover it up.
Then he remembered Tanis’ words, her offer to pour himself a drink, and the glass bottles he’d spotted on the bookshelf. Instantly, he spun his wheelchair toward the bathroom door and wheeled himself through her messy bedroom, and into the living room. Snatching a bottle off the shelf, not caring what it was, he tore off the cap and gulped down the alcohol.
Vodka seared its way down his throat, but he ignored the burn. That momentary sting was far better than the inexorable cravings. He didn’t stop drinking until he’d emptied half the bottle and the first dulling effects of the potent liquor kicked in. The world grew fuzzy around the edges, a hint of numbness tingled through his fingers, and the overwhelming urge to shoot up diminished. Barely.
Alcohol would dull the cravings for a few minutes. But it never kept them at bay for long. He’d have to find something to take soon, or else the shakes, sweating, and irresistible hunger would return.
As the insistence faded, sanity reasserted itself. Through the vodka-induced blur, Nolan realized what he’d done. Oh, shit! He’d left the bathroom a wreck. He couldn’t let Tanis see that. Couldn’t let her know that he’d ransacked her medicine cabinet.
He wheeled back to the bedroom and into bathroom, then set about gathering up the bottles strewn across the tiled floor. Even as he reached for the last dropped bottle, the ding of the elevator echoed from the apartment’s main room. He raced to replace the bottle, shut the cabinet door, and wheel himself out of the bathroom.
“Garrett?” came Tanis’ call as she emerged from the elevator. “You still—ahh, there you are.” Her eyes narrowed at him. “And you’re naked.”
Nolan found himself suddenly self-conscious, keenly aware he sat only in his underwear. He resisted the urge to cover himself with his hands—he couldn’t hide the mess of bruises, welts, lacerations and the gauntness of his frame.
He forced a smile. “Hey, you said you were bringing clothes, and there was all the bitching about my old outfit smelling like shit.” His grin broadened. “Don’t tell me you work in a peeler bar but are somehow uncomfortable seeing so much skin.”
“Oh, please!” Tanis rolled her eyes. “Just caught me by surprise, that’s all.” She hefted the bundle in her arms. “And you’re in luck. I’ve got something to cover your scrawny ass up.”
Nolan felt the stab of anger, but bit down on a retort. The insult was the norm, standard operating procedure, not a crack at him over his condition. But he felt its sting anyway, accompanied by the memory of his gaunt, lean frame in the mirror.
“Here.” Tanis threw him a pair of pants. “And you’re in luck. They had this in the lost and found.”
Nolan recoiled from the shirt she held up. The color alone—a terribly garish mixture of lime green, hot pink, and sky blue—was bad enough, but someone had thought to add flashing LED lights. It was the sort of thing favored by visitors to Shimmertown, clothing that mingled with the glitz and neon lights of the district.
“Or, Clive said you could borrow his back-up shirt.” Tanis held up a simple black shirt, one four sizes too large for Nolan.
Scowling, Nolan gestured to the black shirt. “I’d wear a tent over that eyesore any day.”
Tanis threw him the shirt. “Before you dress, though, I’ll give you a once-over. On the couch, Soldier.”
Nolan obeyed, wheeling himself toward the soft-looking sofa. “There’s that gentle bedside manner that earned you your name, Cruella De Vil.”
“Hmph.” Tanis shrugged. “Way Master Sergeant Athos told it, he gave me the name because I spent my time stitching puppy dogs like you back together.” She waited until Nolan levered himself onto the couch—a task made difficult by the pain of his fading bruises, the effects of a half-bottle of vodka, and the weakness in his arms—before kneeling next to him and examining his wounds.
“He’s sweet on you, you know,” Nolan said, half-conversational, half to distract her attention from any telltale marks of his Blitz habit.
“Who?” Tanis didn’t look up from her examination of his torso.