“How did they get you, Paul?” I asked quietly as I moved farther into the room. “Did they coerce you by threatening someone else, someone close to you? Or did they simply grab you in the night and put you to work?”

He looked away, shoulders slumping and misery written into his face. “No threats,” he said in a low voice. “They came and took me. No warning.”

The poor guy looked so beaten down, bewildered and torn. “Paul, we can help you.”

“I just need Bryce to get better.”

“He’s still in bad shape, Paul,” I said. “He needs the kind of healing the lord can only do in his own world.” I touched his shoulder. “Would you be willing to go with your friend to that other world for a day or two? He needs it, and it would also give you more time to decide how you want to live the rest of your life.”

He stared at me in baffled shock, clearly trying to figure out if what he thought he heard me say was really what I’d said. “You mean not on Earth?”

“Right,” I said. “Not Earth. The other world. You’d be safe there, under the lord’s protection.”

His eyes went distant. “That’s the only place we’d be safe from Big Mack,” he murmured.

“You need to be safe, Paul. Give yourself this time.”

He focused on me again, confusion and hope and fear in his face. “I need Bryce to get better,” he repeated, voice steadying as he seemed to come to a decision. “He’s my best friend. He . . . saved me.” His chin lifted as he straightened. “Okay. Yes.”

Relieved, I gave him a smile. “It’ll be about two hours,” I told him. “Lord Mzatal is resting right now.” I suddenly realized Paul was still wearing the same blood-soaked clothing. “Damn. You need a change of clothes and a bandage on that arm. Hang tight. I’ll be right back.” I left the room without waiting for a response, headed to my bedroom, and grabbed an old PD t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants that I had a feeling would fit him perfectly, as slim as he was. On the way back I detoured to the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit, a towel, and a wet washcloth.

“Here you go,” I said as I returned. I set the shirt and sweats on top of the dresser. “Go ahead and take that mess off,” I gestured to his bloody shirt, “and I’ll get your arm fixed up.”

Paul looked oddly discomfited. “Um, maybe you can do it if I just pull the sleeve up?” He reached over and began to awkwardly roll up his sleeve above the shallow wound.

I gave him a withering look and cocked an eyebrow at him as I pointedly raked my gaze over his blood-soaked clothing. “It’s a mess,” I stated firmly. “I’d need to soak it for a week in meat tenderizer to get the blood out. Off with it.”

He swallowed, but went ahead and pulled the shirt off to reveal a roadmap of scars on his torso. I pygahed to keep my face expressionless. Three surgical scars along his spine, and two abdominal, including one that started at his solar plexus and disappeared into the top of his pants. Another half dozen irregular scars were scattered randomly, perhaps a result of the injury or accident that had necessitated the surgeries.

“Let’s get the dried blood off first,” I said, very matter-of-factly. I folded the wet washcloth and began to carefully wipe where Thatcher’s blood had soaked through Paul’s shirt and crusted on his torso. He stood silently, not resisting and not looking at me. “Any of these areas still cause pain?” I asked, remaining as clinical as possible. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Um, my back does some,” he said, eyes still averted, “but not you touching like this.”

“Good to know.” I did my best to get the blood cleaned off while I worked around the numerous scars. Some were still red and obviously tender, while a couple had the whiter shade of an older scar, with others falling along a spectrum in between. He’d obviously gone under the knife quite a few times. “Are you done with surgeries or do you still need more?”

“I’m done,” he said quietly. “They said they can’t do anything else until there’s degeneration later.” He exhaled a sigh.

I shifted my attention to the shallow wound on his left arm. It had pretty much stopped bleeding, but was a sticky mess. Didn’t look like it needed stitches though. “Lord Mzatal can probably fix up any lingering issues,” I said while I gently dabbed at clotted blood. “He fixed me up when I was a bloody mess.”

Paul looked at me for the first time since taking his shirt off. “You were a bloody mess?” His brow furrowed, eyes skimming over me as if trying to find the signs of it. “What happened?”

Mouth tightening, I finished cleaning the wound and set the washcloth down, then stepped back and pulled my shirt up to right below my bra, revealing the sigil scars on my torso. Paul sucked in a gasp as his eyes went to the scars and their horrific beauty. Cold prickled over me as the memory of the unnatural pain shifted, fighting to rise up and wash over me from where I’d shoved it down.

“These were cut into me by an arcane blade while I hung from my wrists bound behind me,” I said, voice flat and toneless. “Both shoulders dislocated, fractured cheekbone, and cuts like this all over my torso, front, back, and sides, from the nape of my neck to my tailbone.”

He swallowed audibly. “Oh my god.”

I let my shirt fall back in place and fixed my gaze on him. “Your turn. What’s your story?”

Grief and shame clouded his eyes. “I . . . got beaten up. It was pretty bad.”

Pretty bad? That was the understatement of the millennium judging by his scars. Had Farouche done this to him?

No, I decided after a bit of thought. He’d worked for Farouche only about a year, and some of those scars were obviously older than that. Yet I didn’t think Paul was much more than twenty, which meant he’d likely been a teenager when it happened. Why the hell would anyone beat the everloving dogsnot out of a kid this mild and gentle?

“Who did this to you, Paul?” I asked quietly.

His hand trembled as he touched the scar on his cheekbone. “M-my dad,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry.” I let out a sigh. “It’s even worse when it’s someone you trust, isn’t it?”

“Yes! Oh god, yes, so much worse!” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I never thought anyone else could understand. It’s the worst.” Breath shuddered out of him. “It hurt.”

I knew he didn’t mean the physical pain. My throat tightened without warning in a weird mix of grief and anger. I opened the first aid kit, busied myself with getting supplies out while I regained my composure. “I was betrayed by my lover,” I said when I could control my voice again. “He made love to me, then strung me up and did all that shit to me.” I began to clean the wound with betadine wipes. “It’s the shattering of trust that hurts the most,” I continued. “You trust this person. They’re supposed to be the one protecting you, helping you, and instead they fuck you up.” I found gauze in the first aid kit and carefully taped it over the wound. “And it’s like something’s broken, and you think you’ll never be able to trust or love again.” But I did, I thought fiercely. I did trust, and I did love again. Fuck you, Rhyzkahl.

“Yeah.” His voice broke a bit, and he paused to clear his throat. “I’ve got Bryce. And I know that’s screwy because . . . because I was a prisoner and he was my guard.” He sighed. “But I’ve got Bryce.”

“I have Mzatal,” I said. “And it’s not screwy. I get it. Bryce really cares about you.” I knew damn well he didn’t take that bullet for Paul simply because it was his job. I closed the first aid kit and handed Paul the clean t-shirt.

He pulled it on then looked down at the pale form of Thatcher on the bed. “He does.” A smile touched his mouth. “He does really care. It’s like having the best big brother ever sometimes.” He took a deep breath, shifted his attention back to me and abruptly changed the subject. “Mzatal. From another world. Wow.” A weak chuckle slipped out. “Sorry, still trying to get a handle on it. I mean, he used magic—”