I have not seen Xaveon since the night she saved me and left me on that rooftop. I tried to continue life as it was before she left, just with the crushing feeling of worthlessness and loss. Every day reduced to three simple goals–food for today, shelter for tonight, survival until tomorrow. And then again. And again.
First, I tell myself her absence is intentional. She's avoiding me, hunting in different districts, not wanting to be followed.
But after a few days, worry overrides guilt.
I know her patterns now, after weeks of following her through the Narrows. Know her preferred hunting grounds, her usual shelters, the rooftops where she goes to rest. I check them all methodically, forcing down the growing panic when each location turns up empty.
Something's wrong. She always stayed in this one district. She would not leave far and if she did she would come back. I'm certain. She's in trouble. I can feel it in my bones, in the same way I used to sense when my mother's drinking would turn violent, when the other children's teasing would escalate to something worse. I need to find her. And I don't care if she will want to get rid of me for that. Her safety is more important than mine. She saved me twice.
After a long time searching in the cold weather, I find her on the roof of an old warehouse in a nook that mostly shielded her from view but not from the elements, curled like a cat, with her wings and tail wrapped around her. At first, I think I'm too late. Her skin is gray-pale, her breathing so shallow I can barely see her chest move. She looks more like a wounded animal than the powerful monster I saw her as to this point. Then her eyes flutter open, unfocused.
"Xaveon?" I drop to my knees beside her. "Oh gods, Xaveon, can you hear me?"
She makes a sound that might be my name or a groan. Her skin burns under my hand, hot enough that I jerk back instinctively.
Fever. Serious fever. The kind that kills if left untreated.
I make a decision in seconds. She can't stay here, the church I stayed at last night is too far, too exposed. The place from the night before won't do either. Then there's only one place left. If I can get her there, I might be able to...
What? I don't know how to treat demon fevers. Don't know if water and cool cloths will help or harm. Don't know anything except that leaving her here means watching her die.
"I've got you," I tell her, sliding my arms under her body. She's lighter than she should be, from too many days without feeding, without proper rest. "I've got you, just stay with me."
Getting her to the cellar is harder than I imagined. It's darkening and there aren't many people on the streets, so at least there's that, but she's semiconscious, occasionally thrashing with delirium, her wings beating against my face and making navigation through narrow spaces nearly impossible. But I manage somehow, fueled by desperation and the absolute certainty that letting her die is not an option.
The cellar is exactly as I remember it. Located under a bakery, it's clean and stashed with spare flour but also some bread. There, surprisingly, are no rats and it's right under the oven so it's toasty and warm. The owners keep other supplies like spare blankets there, but don't go in as often as one might imagine and the lock is hard to pick for the average street rat, but I can do it just fine so it's a plus actually, because no one else wanders down there. By all means, it's the perfect hideout, except that's the reason I can't be there often. If the owners find me, I will never be able to return, so I save it for emergencies.
I settle Xaveon on a pile of blankets, then sit back to assess the situation. Fever. Chills. Labored breathing. I've seen these symptoms before, in my mother during her worst bouts with drink-sickness, in other street children who caught whatever diseases festered in the slums' standing water.
Water first. I have a bottle of it in my coat. I wet a cloth and press it to her forehead, and she leans into the coolness with a soft sound that might be relief.
"That's it," I murmur, more to calm myself than her. "You're going to be fine. You're strong. You've survived worse than this."
Have you? a small voice in my head asks. How do you know? What do you really know about demon physiology, about what they can and can't survive?
I push the doubt away and focus on what I can control. Keep her cool. Keep her hydrated. Keep watch over her breathing and hope her body is strong enough to burn through whatever infection has taken hold.
The first night is the worst.
Her fever spikes near midnight, hot enough that I'm afraid her brain might cook. She thrashes, mumbling words I don't understand, occasionally crying out in what sounds like pain or terror or both.
I hold her down when the thrashing threatens to injure her on the stone walls. Whisper reassurances I'm not sure she can hear. Change the cloth on her forehead over and over, watching the fabric grow warm against her burning skin.
"Please," I whisper at some point, though I'm not sure who I'm begging. "Please don't die. Not because of me. Not because I was too stupid to–"
I can't finish the thought. Can't acknowledge the guilt that's eating me alive. It's very possible that the stress of the guard deaths, the extra caution she gave, the energy she wasted saving my worthless life all contributed to this.
Near dawn, when her fever finally begins to break, I'm so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open. But I don't let myself sleep. Don't let myself stop the constant vigil of checking her temperature, adjusting blankets, ensuring she's still breathing.
The second day brings new complications.
She's conscious more often now, but the consciousness is fragmented, confused. She looks at me sometimes like she knows who I am, sometimes like I'm a stranger, sometimes like I'm someone else entirely.
"Master," she whispers once, her voice small and frightened in a way I've never heard before. "Master, please, I'll… please don't…"
The words chill me more than the fever ever could. I don't know what she's dreaming about, but this is what her mind returns to when defenses are down. This strong warrior begging for mercy. I don't know what terrifying thing could make her do that.
"You're safe," I tell her, smoothing her hair back from her sweaty forehead. "No more masters. You're free."
I don't know if the words reach her, but her breathing calms slightly.
On the third day, she wakes up properly.