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I carry Cat into the long, low building, which now smells of soap and fresh flowers, instead of like antiseptic and Dr. Cross’s chai tea. I only notice the change subconsciously, occupied by the far more pressing task of laying Cat carefully on the clean infirmary sheets.
“Thank you,” Sasha says. “Now I’ll need you to leave?—”
“No!” I bark. “I’m not going anywhere!”
“Fine,” Sasha says, unwilling to waste time arguing. “The rest of you, out. There isn’t room for six in here.”
“I’m going back to the challenge,” Professor Howell tells me, with a concerned glance at Cat. “Report to me as soon as you can.”
Leo and Ares seem even more hesitant to leave, but Sasha shoos them out unceremoniously, closing the door in their faces.
Then she turns all her attention on Cat, swiftly checking her pulse and her pupil dilation, lifting Cat’s shirt to examine her abdomen and listen to her breathing, then gently running her hands down Cat’s limbs, checking for breaks or sprains.
By this point Cat is coming to, letting out a groan of such pathetic softness that my heart clenches up in my chest. I’m sick and furious—what the fuck was Lola thinking, making Cat climb up on that rickety pile of sticks?
“Is she alright?” I bark at the doctor. “How bad is it?”
“I think . . .” Sasha says, gently feeling Cat’s head and neck, “that we have a very lucky girl here . . .”
“That didn’t feel so lucky . . .” Cat moans, those thick black lashes fluttering against her cheeks.
“Get me a basin of warm water,” Sasha orders, pointing to the cabinets.
I hurry to obey, testing the temperature of the water, then filling the basin. I bring a clean cloth as well. Sasha adds a little disinfectant that makes the water foam, then begins to gently clean Cat’s face. The dirt comes off, but not the freckles, which stand out more than ever against her pallor.
I was worried that she’d broken her nose or knocked all her teeth out. But it seems like the blood is all coming from a gash along her hairline.
“Why is it bleeding so much?”
“Head wounds always do,” Sasha says calmly. “You know that, Dean.”
I look up at her sharply.
She gives me a small smile. “Oh, yes. Snow has told me all about you.”
“You call him Snow?” I ask, curious.
“Sometimes,” Sasha says.
I search Cat’s face, wanting her to open her eyes all the way so I’ll know she’s alright.
“Don’t squeeze her too hard,” Sasha says.
I look down at my hands, which are tightly clasped around one of Cat’s. I hadn’t realized I was gripping her hand.
“Is this your sister? Cousin? Lover?” Sasha says, noting my intense concern.
“She’s my . . .” I look at Cat, and now those dark eyes do open, and fix on mine. “She’s my friend,” I say, squeezing her hand once more.
The corner of Cat’s mouth twitches in quiet amusement.
“Her name is Cat Romero,” I tell the doctor.
“Cat,” Sasha says gently, “do you feel any sharp pain or pressure anywhere on your body?”
Cat takes a deep breath, eyes half closed, focusing on what must be a thousand aches and pains.
“No . . .” she says after a moment. “Just a lot of dull throbbing.”
