Her trembling shoulders told him all he needed to know: she was deeply hurt, and he hated seeing her cry.
Without a word, he eased her up from the bed where she had slumped and, gentle as he could, brushed the tears from her face. She let him. Her voice was small and ragged. "Do you think she will hate me now?" Her tear-wet grey eyes searched his for reassurance.
"Of course not," he replied, measured and steady.
"Do not patronize me." She pulled back slowly. "I know I upset her. I didn't think—she's so unwell." The sentence broke, and the tears began again. "I was selfish and thoughtless. I don't like losing her like this. It aches." She pressed a trembling hand to her chest.
Hal watched her—calm, contained—listening as she unburdened herself of the things that had been and the things that might have been. He felt no great stir until she said her heart ached; that line pricked something sharp and possessive in him. He could understand the depth of her friendship with Vesper, but to hear it put into words—that it cut her so—stung more than he expected. He had always believed himself entitled to the greatest share of her affection, not some random spirit whose rank he deemed low. The thought tightened his fists, and for a heartbeat he almost forgot that she was still in torment.
"I have no idea what to do, Hal," she said, tapping his chest lightly to call him back. "What would you have me do?" Her face lifted to meet his.
He drew a breath, forced down the rising temper, and took her hands in his. Every ounce of anger he felt he swathed in concern, because this moment, above all, called for steadiness. "Clear your head first," he said at last. "Put yourself right before you speak with her. In truth, I have somewhere to take you."
"Really?" Her eyes brightened, eager at the prospect.
"Yes." He inclined his head. "Somewhere I think you will want to see."
"This is the second time since I met you that you have taken me somewhere," she teased, tucking stray hair behind her ear.
"Do you not wish to come?" he asked, holding her gaze. She turned away as if embarrassed by the attention.
"Not at all." She bit her lip, feeling an unspoken tension between them. The room felt suddenly too close; the air warmed. She decided that any small change would be better than brooding alone. "Never mind. I'll follow."
"Good." He opened his arms. When she stepped into his embrace, the relief in his face softened into a sweet smile. He had every intention of doing this often.
They vanished the next instant.
Only then did Vesper, exhausted and searching, come into the chamber. She had spent long minutes scouring the mansion for Saskia, finally thinking to look here—too late. She called the name and listened for any reply, every step an effort. Finding no sign, she turned away—and was cut with a sudden, searing pain down her spine.
"Argh!" she cried, clutching her chest. The burning flared again, worse than before, and she collapsed to the floor, keening aloud.
"Ves!" Khalan rushed in, Nathan at his heels.
"It's the burns again!" Khalan cried. "Do something!"
"Ves—" She knelt beside her. "Breathe."
Vesper clutched at Khalan's arms, squeezing until they reddened. "Let her go, Khalan!" Nathan snapped when he saw the bruising inflicted by the tight grip.
"But she's in pain!" Khalan shot back, furious and deaf to reason.
"Let her go. I'll see to this." Nathan's voice, when he spoke, was calm but final.
Khalan's glare could have cut glass. "Of course you will," she spat. "You knocked her out before. You do nothing but stand there, and yet you refuse me the least help? Stay out of this!" With that she shoved Nathan back and turned all her force to Vesper.
Nathan watched, uncomfortable and bound by a secret he could not reveal. He had no wish to draw attention to his true nature in front of Khalan—no wish to be seen as other. But he could not let Vesper's suffering burden her this much when he knew he could help matters. He needed to act, and to act without witnesses.
Quickly, with a single, almost imperceptible motion, he pinched Khalan's neck. She slumped, out cold before she hit the floor. Nathan laid her gently across the nearest bed and turned back to Vesper, who still shrieked in pain.
He needed to know what stalked her from the inside. There was a power within her, something that writhed to be free. Without hesitation he extended one elongated claw and, with terrifying precision, pricked the hollow of her throat. He tasted a droplet of blood—then again—letting it touch his tongue. The sensation sharpened his sight. A chill ran through him and his eyes widened.
'It can't be' he shook his head in disbelieve. Seeking further affirmation, he tasted her blood the second time and the result came out same. He could not be wrong. This was an ancient discerning ritual, keen to only the demon race, there was no way it's results could be misleading.
However, he still struggled to believe.
She was but a lowly tortoise-form spirit by rank, and yet she carried within her, something vast. He could scarcely believe it, but the evidence lay plain and metallic on his tongue. Whether this was portent of blessing or doom he could not yet say. First things first: he must free her.
He forced her spirit-form outward. The tortoise-shape shrank and twisted, every strain of it wracked by pain. Lucifer's hand trembled with a sliver of pity he had not expected; the creature she held within was no small thing. With a deliberate, careful motion, he cracked her shell—not cruelly, but precisely—so that what lay within might emerge. Golden light flooded the room in a warm, blinding wash. A perfect egg of burnished gold rolled free and pulsed with a gentle, inner heartbeat.
Nathan picked it up, turned it in his hands, and felt a strange, familiar tug. He wore a look of something between triumph and wonder. He had saved Vesper in the worst but only way possible. How she was going to deal with a cracked shell would be nothing close to fine but in his hand sat an old acquaintance, or perhaps an old name.
"Long time no see, Spirit king," he murmured, as if greeting an ancient comrade returned at last.