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“Did they hurt you?” he growled.
The corner of Luther’s lips twitched—just slightly.
“Stay there. Stay strong. I’m coming.” There was shouting. Shuffling feet. The groaning of shifting metal and wood. “I’m coming for you,” he shouted again.
We both froze in place as something ancient, something profound passed between us. It was a primal force that transcended word and thought, as powerful as a crack of lightning, a child’s first breath, the endless depth of the sea. It was not of this world but entirely woven within it. It warmed my blood with a calming peace I’d never known, yet filled me with the terrible dread of a fate I could not avoid.
“Diem,” he whispered. “Luther,” I answered.
“I’ve got you,” someone said, softer. “You’re going to survive this. I promise.”
Their voice was familiar in a way that felt like more than a memory, like it wasn’t my mind that knew them but something deeper, something far more intimately ingrained.
“Alright. I’ll just, um, go get a dress for her.” “Pants. She—she normally wears pants.”
“Touch her, and I’ll rip off your fucking arms.”
