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His mind burned.
He could barely perceive anything. He could barely move.
The klah’eel raised his pistol.
Was he going to be killed again? He didn’t think he could take being killed again.
Maxwell opened his mouth to beg when a bullet exited the pirate’s forehead. His heavy body hit the floor a foot from Maxwell’s head.
“Maxwell!”
Maxwell’s thrashing, disconnected mind turned his body toward the voice. He opened his mouth, and a sob came out. “Garrett.”
“I got you. I’ve got you. You’re okay.” Strong arms looped around Maxwell’s confused body, and Maxwell blinked and tried to make the image of Garrett’s face above him come into focus. But his mind couldn’t focus. It kept reaching for things it couldn’t reach anymore.
“Garrett.”
“That’s right. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”
And Maxwell’s mind gave up.
Chapter Eleven
Maxwell blinked up at the rusted ceiling of his bedroom and at the small bits of dust eddying about in the beams of light filtering in from its small holes.
He could see it all so clearly.
Had he slept in his glasses again?
As he reached up to the bridge of his nose to check for his spectacles, he caught sight of his long, pale, elegant hand. He stared at it and swallowed. Right, he didn’t wear glasses anymore. He didn’t need them. He rotated his hand in front of his face a few times, flexing it and wiggling the fingers and watching the play of tendons under his skin.
It still felt like it was his hand. He didn’t look at it and feel like it didn’t belong to him or that it was wrong in some way. It was different, but it was still him.
Something clattered in the room next door, making Maxwell start and causing a starburst of black to appear over the back of his hand.
There was someone in his clinic. Maxwell sat up, rubbed his eyes, and pushed his hair out of his face. His fingers caught in the unfamiliarly long locks, and he grimaced as his scalp twinged. He’d never had long hair in his life. He’d have to find a comb.
Putting his feet on the floor and pushing himself shakily to stand, he heard a few more soft sounds coming from the clinic; the opening and closing of a cabinet, the clink of medical tools jostling against each other.
Standing just on the other side of the door, Maxwell hesitated. Who was he supposed to be? He wasn’t Dr. Terry, that was certain. Word must have gotten around by now that the doctor was dead. Others would have seen him as he was now—a qeshian pirate—being escorted away by armed guards when he and Garrett had returned with the refugees from Thule. But yet, someone had placed him in his own bed in his own room, and he wasn’t tied down.
Maybe he was locked in?
But when he turned the knob, it rotated, and when he pushed, the door opened smoothly with just the usual whine of its ill-maintained hinges.
Maxwell’s breath caught in his throat as he peered into his familiar clinic, and it occurred to him suddenly that maybe his mind had broken in that warehouse in Thule and had locked him into the fantasy he had tried to escape to.
At the sound of the door, Garrett looked up from his sweeping. His eyes went wide, and he just stared at Maxwell for a beat. Then a small smile spread across his lips. “You’re awake.”
Maxwell took in the sight of him—clean, shaved, hair-tousled, a broom in his hands, and a small pile of dirt at his feet, soft eyes—and bit his lip as his chest filled with emotion. He wasn’t sure this felt like being awake. It felt a lot more like a dream. “Maybe.”
Garrett huffed a breathy chuckle and leaned against his broom as he swept his honey eyes over Maxwell’s body. “How are you feeling?”
Maxwell took a moment to take a mental inventory of himself. Nothing hurt. His airways felt clear. His heart seemed to be beating steadily. His chest wasn’t tight. He looked down over himself, and only one thing felt truly strange. “Tall.”
Garrett let out a bark of that glorious laughter, and Maxwell found himself drawn a couple steps toward him. Garrett shook his head with a smile large enough to bring out the dimples in his cheeks. “I hate to break it to you, Maxwell, but you’re still not very tall.”
Maybe not compared to Garrett. Half the room still separated them—a seemingly vast and impassable distance—but even from here, Maxwell could tell that Garrett had a few inches on him at least. Still, Maxwell wouldn’t have to stand on things to reach the top shelves anymore.
