Read Good intentions Online

Authors: Kay, Elliott

Good intentions

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Good Intentions By Eliott Kay Copyright 2011 Eliott Kay Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Cover photo by Jesse Means. (Thank you. Again.) Warning: “Good Intentions” contains violence, sexuality, nudity, inappropriate use of church property, portrayals of beings

divine and demonic bearing little or no resemblance to established religion or mythology, trespassing, bad language, sacrilege, blasphemy, attempted murder, arguable murder, divinely mandated murder, justifiable murder, filthy murder, sexual promiscuity, kidnapping, attempted rape, arson, dead animals, desecrated graves, gang activity, theft, assault and battery, panties, misuse of the 911 system, fantasy depictions of sorcery and witchcraft, multiple references to various matters of fandom, questionable interrogation tactics, cel phone abuse, reckless driving, consistent abuse of vampires (because they deserve it), even more sexuality, illegal use of firearms within city limits, polyamory, abuse of authority, hit and run driving, destruction of private property, underage drinking, disturbances of the peace, disorderly conduct, internet harassment, bearers of false witness, mayhem, dismemberment, falsification of records, tax evasion, an uncomfortably sexy mother, bad study habits, and a very silly white guy inappropriately calling another white guy “nigga” (for which he will surely suffer). Al characters depicted herein are over the age of 18, with the exception of one little girl who merely needs to get her cat out of a tree. Don’t worry, nothing bad happens to her. She makes it through the story just fine. To Erica “You don’t have a soul. You have a body. You are a soul.” —C.S. Lewis

Prologue

It would’ve been a beautiful spring morning except for the war. The sky was clear. A mild wind passed through the trees above him, sending ripples through their lush, full leaves. The only things keeping the birds from singing were the gunfire and the tanks. One rumbling tank, anyway. It was his tank, rolling on away from him. Beyond that was the fleeing enemy tank. The other German tank sat burning nearby. He could hear it, could smell the smoke. Simon lay on his back, looking up at the rustling leaves in the trees. His whole center seemed to be on fire, yet wet at the same time. “I told your men we would stay with you,” someone said. His eyes glanced to his right, where the old Gypsy woman knelt over him to gently pul the tommy gun from his grip. She set it down and took his hands in hers. There were other Gypsies nearby, but not close enough to speak. “I should be with them,” he coughed. She shook her head. “Your men will carry on. They will win. Your fighting is done.” The old woman brushed a bit of dirt from his forehead. “You look a bit young to be the leader.” “Officers kept getting kil ed. I got moved up to replace them. Battlefield commission. Guess I was doing something right.” “How long have you been fighting?” “Since North Africa. Two years? I guess three now?” “Hm,” she nodded. “Not as long as for us.” “No.”

“You could have turned away from this fight,” she said. “The Germans are done. Broken. Only a matter of time now before they give up. You were outnumbered. Why did you attack?” “They were going to kil you. And hey, my guys are winning, aren’t they?” The old woman smiled a bit. “I like you Americans. You know, not many of your allies would give their lives for Roma. We are not worth so much to others here. They see us only as thieves.” He managed a grin. “Oh, well , let me try this afternoon al over again then,” he coughed, plainly not meaning it. After a moment, he asked, “Do many Gypsies speak English?” “Not many. Nor do I,” she smiled sadly. The old woman looked down at his hands. “Do you play the piano?” “Huh? No. Never.” “Ah,” she said, then shrugged. “You have a musician’s hands.” Then her head cocked curiously. She touched the ring on his finger. “You are married?” “Engaged,” he corrected. “Got engaged in Paris.” “What is her name?” “Marie,” Simon said. “Librarian. Smartest girl I ever met. I guess I should’ve taken that staff job and stayed, but I couldn’t just abandon my guys.” The old woman nodded softly, saying nothing. “I’m not going to see her again, am I?” She was still looking at his hands. “I am sorry,” she told him finally. “You have been through this before…many times. You will be through it again. One more time, I think.” She had at first seemed as if she had seen too much sorrow and pain to cry for anyone, but a tear fell from her cheek onto his palm. “One more time. Then, maybe, you will be happy. Maybe. Maybe.”

Chapter 1

No Good Deed…

Spooky as it was, the full moon and the stilllness of the night wasn’t the scary part. It wasn’t the cemetery just on the other side of the hedge, either. No, it was walking through the pools of direct light under the street lamps that freaked Alex out the most. By the second or third such spot, he realized that maybe he shouldn’t have dressed al in black to walk down the street in the middle of the night. After al , some cop might rol by and think, Hey, I wonder if that dude in al black with the black backpack and black gloves is up to something shady? Once he got to the thin al ley between the cemetery and the storage rental complex, though, he felt better. He lingered in the darkness for a few deep breaths, reminding himself that no, really, people don’t do crazy cult stuff in graveyards under the full moon. That was al just movie bul shit. The climb up the vine-covered iron fence wasn’t too hard. Alex wasn’t a serious athlete, but at least he was thin and in relatively decent shape. He was feeling good about the climb until it came to the three strings of barbed wire at the top that had been concealed by al the leaves. Okay, he thought, no problem. I’m not impaled, just scratched. I can afford another sweatshirt. Just go slow, haul it up, over and okay not there, that’s another barb, grab that overhanging branch, haul it up, ow ow ow my leg ow fuck! It was awkward. Had any of his friends been there, they’d have made fun of him and cal ed him a slowpoke, a klutz, a total pussy and a thousand other shitty things, but he made it over. His landing was surely less noisy than a car crash. Okay, that’s just nerves, he thought. I’m doing fine. Just a rustle and a thump. No big deal. Alley cats are noisier.

Nobody’s here. I’m fine. I’m fine. Total ninja. Then his cel phone went off. “Fuck!” he hissed, and clutched at his back pocket. The sounds of his Tool ring tone reminded him that yes, he was in fact a complete tool for forgetting to put the phone on vibrate before he went sneaking into a graveyard. He silenced it, then looked at the display while trying to cover up the light from the screen with one hand. It was Jason, who would probably keep calling until he got an answer. Alex cursed his friends for being nineteen and stupid…mindfully including himself on both counts. “What?” he hissed by way of greeting. At least the cemetery still seemed quiet despite the disturbance. No sirens, no floodlights or groundskeeper’s flashlights, no ghosts or zombies. Yet. “Yo, nigga, where you at?” “Jason, when you get your ass beat by some black guy who doesn’t like hearing white people cal each other that, I’m seriously gonna point at you and laugh.” “Yeah, if you ain’t runnin’. Seriously, where are you?” “Doing my photography homework.” “Hmm. Way to spend your Monday nights.” “I need night shots,” Alex said tersely. “I thought you only took that class ‘cause it was full of hotties?” “Yeah, well , the cute ones are al taking the class real seriously, so I guess I’d better, too. Jason, I can’t talk right now,

what do you want?” “Jus’ cal in’ to say we’re playing’ pool if you wanna come.” Alex sighed and rolled his eyes. The lesson here was to come up with his good photo concepts before his friends decided on something fun to do. “No,” he said, “not tonight. I’m good, thanks.” “Okay. What’re you doing, anyway?” Jesus! What part of “I can’t talk” is so unintelligible? “I’l show you later,” Alex said. “I gotta go. Later, man.” He flipped the phone shut, made absolutely sure to put it on silent, and slipped it back into his pocket. A minute of still ness later, Alex had his nerves good and settled. Nobody came out looking for him after al that noise. Whatever night watchman the place had was doubtlessly not really watching. Sacred Heart cemetery was fairly large, with ground that gently rose and fell and a few bushes and low hedgerows here and there. It was creepy and still at this hour. The only lights shining within the grounds were a couple of external floodlights at the large chapel at the center of the cemetery and a few more at the closed-up main gate. Seattle hadn’t given up on summer yet. It was still early September, with the usual rain still days or weeks away and the leaves still on al the trees. Alex kept low and moved slowly, still mindful of using whatever trees and bushes he could for concealment, just in case. His assignment was for night photography of still subjects. He could have picked a considerably easier site…but there were a couple of drop-dead hot Goth girls in his photography class. They seemed to like creepy stuff, so he figured—naively, he had to admit—some shots of the cemetery at night would at least be conversation starters. The cemetery groundskeeper hadn’t bought into it when Alex cal ed during the day to ask if he could do this with permission. The guy was uninterested in Alex’s assignment and probably hadn’t even listened. Alex wasn’t normally one for doing crazy things like this, but lately, that very factor seemed to chafe at him. He didn’t

take enough risks. He tended to play by the rules. Just boring, nice guy Alex, never with anything crazy to share at parties. Even now, his hopes that this little stunt could turn his life around were not high. A single act of trespassing wouldn’t change life forever. He was just out for a couple shots as icebreakers with Molly and “Onyx,” nothing more. Yeah, those are from Sacred Heart cemetery. No, they don’t al ow you to get in there at night. But if you climb the fence and stumble around in the dark anyway, you can get this really cool shot of this statue here. And you can sneak up on the chapel and get a pic of the steeple with the moon overhead, and it feels totally creepy and there’s this mist and stuff, and you almost feel like you can hear wailing… Alex stopped taking pictures and listened. Was that really wailing? It sounded like a scream coming from the chapel. A woman’s scream, in fear or pain or both. Alex stopped, listened and heard another one. It sounded like someone yelling “no.” His imagination ran away with him for a moment, but he quickly stomped on it. For al he knew the groundskeeper was inside watching a movie with the volume on full blast or something. still , Alex wanted to know what was up. He was more concerned than curious. If a woman really was screaming about something bad, the last thing he wanted to do was walk away because he was afraid of being yel ed at or maybe hit with a fine for a little after-hours photography. Slipping closer to the chapel—quickly now, as he was pretty sure whatever was going on inside would give him some cover—he thought he heard men chanting something unintelligible, muffled by windows blocked by curtains. A dim orange glow flickered behind the white fabric. Up near the wall s and windows now, he heard a sharp shriek of pain, probably a woman’s, while another woman distinctly yel ed, “You’ve got to stop this! You don’t know what you’re doing!” “Shut her up!” bel owed a man’s voice, breaking the chant only momentarily. There was a sharp crack, a grunt, and then the cries of agony from the first woman’s voice resumed. Alex’s did his best to stay calm as his heart raced. He suddenly felt out of breath. He still couldn’t be sure this was really what it sounded like, but he was positive this wasn’t someone’s television.

Alex stayed low and alert as he moved around to the back door. It was locked, naturally, and the windows were shut. Crazy as it was, he thought about checking the front door. There were lights there, but this place was truly dead outside the chapel. The noise wasn’t going to carry beyond the cemetery and the odds of someone looking right when he ran up were pretty slim. The first woman’s yelling stopped, leaving only the male chanting to be heard. It was quieter here, closer to the front of the building and away from the action. He heard the sharp “crack,” though, which elicited a yelp of pain, fol owed by another, and then another. He had never heard the sound of anyone being whipped outside of television, but that seemed to fit the bil . He decided to go for it. Alex slipped up onto the porch quickly, slowed down as he grabbed the doorknob…and found it unlocked. He had no more time to think now that he was exposed in the porch lights. Alex pushed the door open al the way and then slipped inside. The foyer, thankfully, was empty and dark, lit mainly by the intense glow of candlelight from down hall ways on opposite sides of the room, both leading to a central chamber. It had comfortable chairs and random pictures on the wall s and a shelf of books that probably nobody ever read. From down the hall ways off to his right Alex heard the sharp crack of the whip and the cries it forced from its victims, along with the chanting of those male voices. It sounded like there were only a couple of them. The air was thick and warm with a distinctly smoky, sulfur smell that overrode other stenches. “Why are you doing this?” a woman asked in a desperate, almost sobbing voice. “This is crazy! It’s beyond evil! You’re going to end up—argh!” Her inquiry ended in another scream. “You don’t know—!” The whip cracked. “Agh!—what you’re—” Crack. “Gngh!—playing with, old fool!” It was a different voice—feminine like the first, but lower and angrier. “I know precisely what I am doing, whore daughter of Satan,” said the deeper, clearly male voice. The others kept chanting. “How else did you get here? Why are you trapped? Why do you bleed?”

Alex crept up to the hall way. This is totally crazy, he thought, but he didn’t want to go calling the cops on just what he was hearing. What if this is…? He scowled fearfully. He didn’t know what it could possibly be. He had to see. The memorial service chamber was cleared of furniture. Lit candles occupied virtually every possible space along the wall s, which al together put out significant heat. Bizarre runes written in some powder decorated the floor. Circular shapes in the same powder sat here and there, al with the bloody bodies of dead dogs, cats and birds in the center. Alex could even make out a human hand in the mess. A smoldering pile of ashes occupied another large circular outline near the hall way. Two bloodied, mostly-naked women hung from the ceiling by chains attached to their wrists near the center of the room. They were spaced several feet apart, facing away from Alex. Bloody pentagrams had been drawn on the floor around the feet of each. A trio of men lurked around them, one with a whip and one with a goblet and a bloody, wavy-looking dagger. Both women bled from nearly identical wounds on their backs: two deep vertical gashes paral el to the spine, below the shoulders. The woman on the right was blonde and lithe. An odd scattering of long, white feathers lay around her bare feet. A few more of them stuck to the trails of fresh blood on her back. A white cloth of some sort hung around her waist, torn and sagging off of her hips. The one on the left had no feathers around her, but looked much worse for wear. She bore an additional deep, wide gash just above her rear, which was only barely covered by a black thong. Her dark-haired head slumped forward, steadily dripping blood. Alex couldn’t see either woman’s face. Both had shapely, young bodies, but at the moment Alex wasn’t thinking about their measurements. Watching from the shadow of the hall way, Alex got a good look at the three men. The apparent leader was dressed in a priest’s cassock and looked fairly old, but hardened. The others wore ordinary street clothes. The first goon, wielding the whip, was a scruffy forty something. He grinned as he let loose another lash, looking more than a little excited. The other, with the goblet and dagger, was probably also in his forties, noticeably bigger and marginally better groomed. Scary as the scene was, none of them looked particularly imposing. Beyond the funky

dagger and whip they weren’t really armed with anything. The whipping paused and the chanting picked up. It made the air tenser. Alex watched as the priest took the goblet and held it between the two women, chanting something new, loudly and forceful y. “No!” the blonde shrieked. “You stupid fucker, don’t do this!” The other woman yel ed nothing, but instead spit a bloody mess onto the priest’s face. His eyes flared, and he faltered in his incantation, but began again and this time finished it. He held the goblet under the dark-haired woman’s head, which he had to hold in place to prevent her from resisting. Alex saw that blood was flowing from wounds just at her hairline. The priest then turned to catch blood running from the wounds at the blonde woman’s back. “With this cup, I gather your essences,” the priest said solemnly. “The purest of your good. The foulest of your evil. You will bend to my will , and you will serve me loyally and faithfully forever.” The other two men paused and looked at each other. “And us, too,” the whip-wielder reminded. “Shut up, Harold,” the priest growled. The men glanced at one another again. “Just sayin’ is al ,” muttered Harold, mostly to his feet. He busied himself coiling up the whip again. “There’s no turning back from this! No absolution!” yel ed the blonde. “You’re damning your own souls!” “You’l burn in hell for this,” hissed the other woman. “That’s a lovely way to talk to your new master, whore daughter of Satan. You can feel it happening, can’t you? Your connection to your old master is already broken. We can fix that right now, though,” the priest said, glancing between the two women. “I think I’l start with you first. Harold. Troy. Spread her out on the altar.” He waited a moment, and then rolled his eyes as the other two men hesitated. He sighed. “You’l have her when I’m done with her, of course, but it’s necessary for

the spel !” “Ooohhh,” the two men nodded. They quickly set to undoing her chains. “You’re going to rape her?!” the blonde gasped. “Both of you, before I’m through,” the priest grinned. Oh, fuck that noise, Alex thought from his hiding spot. He retreated back a bit, frantically trying to figure out what to do. Cal the cops, definitely, but by the time they got here…Alex frowned. He couldn’t waste time talking to them right now anyway. He quickly found a phone in the foyer, picked it up off the receiver, dialed 911 and then left it off the hook. The cops would get there when they got there… hopefully in time to rescue my stupid ass, he frowned. Dropping the backpack, Alex fished around in his pockets and found the pepper spray he’d brought along just in case there really were freaks in the cemetery. It wasn’t enough, though. He had heard that crazy people weren’t always put down by pepper spray. What if he missed? What if the canister jammed? He looked into the side rooms. Like most funeral chapels, this one had extra small rooms for private conversations and grieving and such, but comfortable chairs and boxes of tissues weren’t going to be of much use. The first room had nothing useful, but in the second was a fireplace, complete with a set of fireplace tools. Alex rushed in and grabbed the long, heavy iron poker. It would have to do. This is fucking nuts, he thought. I’m going to get caught. I’m going to die. If I hadn’t pulled this stupid stunt I wouldn’t know this was even going on… One of the women cried out in terrible pain. I’l never forgive myself if I don’t do something. At the far end of the room was an altar, desecrated not only by candles and what Alex decided was random spooky cultist ritual junk but also by the bloodied, dark-haired woman. The chains were still on her arms, both of them

wrapped around the back legs of the altar. Her legs were spread apart by the sheets or tablecloths tied from her ankles to the altar’s front legs. The priest stood before her, removing his cassock. The others stood by while the chained blonde shouted at the priest about how wrong al of this was. “There’s no turning back from this, you batshit freak!” she cried. “You’l be damned forever!” “Troy, hold the cup for a second. Harold, shut her up,” the priest grumbled. The whip-wielder stepped behind the blonde, yanking her hair back hard while the priest cast aside his cassock and undid his belt buckle. Alex couldn’t think of a better moment to ambush three guys than when their backs were turned and one had just dropped his pants. “I’l see you burn,” the woman on the altar snarled at the priest. “Stop!!” the blonde screamed. Under this distraction, Alex quickly covered the few feet between his hiding spot and Harold with the fire-poker coiled up to strike from behind his shoulder. He brought it down across the back of Harold’s head with al the torque he could muster. The curved head of the poker struck solidly across Harold’s skul , sending him reeling to the floor. The blonde’s scream ended in sharp surprise as she looked up. Alex pul ed the spray canister from his pocket and kept going. “The blood anoints your master! It protects from your lies and your curses! You feel the master’s pleasure as your pleasure! You shall loyally and faithfully serve and protect the anointed one!” The priest reached off to the side for the cup—but Troy, looking backward at the curious sound, faltered. “Boss!” he yel ed just before getting a face full of pepper spray. Reflexively, Troy lashed out with the only thing in his hand. The cup of blood splashed across Alex’s face and chest, bonking him on the cheek without really hurting him. Troy went down on the floor screaming.

The priest turned but stumbled with his pants still around his ankles. He narrowly avoided the second blast of spray. It was close enough to make him choke, though. The priest fell backwards, bumping into the altar and then hitting the ground. Alex pressed on, kicking him hard in the groin and then stomping on his side. The pepper spray was spent. Alex dropped the canister, heaved back with the fire poker and swung it down on the priest’s head. It was an awkward strike, getting more shoulder and neck than skul . Alex wiped some of the spil ed blood from his eyes and wound up for another strike. That was when Harold came barreling into him from the side. “Kil ya, you little fuck!” he growled, pushing Alex’s head down onto the altar and groping for his neck. Alex groped too, fumbling around for a way to hurt the man. He finally found the thug’s crotch and grabbed as viciously as he could. Harold roared in pain, giving Alex the chance to shove him off. Alex hit Harold again with the fire poker, this time squarely in the base of the skul , which sent the older man staggering to the ground. “I can’t see!” Troy wailed, blindly crawling away from the action. “Free me!” both women yel ed. “No, me first!” they both yel ed again when they realized they had spoken simultaneously. “Not her, me!” “Stop!” the priest groaned, trying to get up. “Don’t know what you’re… doing…” Not stopping to say anything witty, Alex punted the priest’s head like a footbal and then turned his frantic attention to the two women. The blonde’s shackles were attached by chains to hooks in the ceiling, with too little slack for her feet to even touch the floor. The dark-haired woman on the altar was tied by cloth around her feet, while the chains around her arms were simply circled around the far legs of the altar. She struggled to keep her head up to watch, al owing Alex to see her wounds. Two round gouges marred her forehead, each slightly below the scalp not far out of line from her eyes. Her face was stained with blood and bruises. Alex’s eyes flared in shock at how badly the women were hurt. He looked at the manacles of the one on the altar. The

fasteners didn’t look locked, so he tried to unlatch the one on her left wrist. It was tough to budge the pin holding the shackle closed. Were he not so wired on adrenaline he might not have been able to move them at al . “Hurry,” the captive urged. “I can help you if I can just get… free…” With one wrist finally freed, Alex looked up to check on the men. Troy was almost to his feet, blindly, as was Harold. Not wanting to let them regroup, Alex shoved Troy into Harold. The two crashed to the ground through the big pile of ashes near the hall way, creating a big mess of the whole ritualistic arrangement. Circles of powder were broken. Candles and sacrificial remains were scattered. “No!” Alex heard the priest gasp. “Yesss!” the woman on the altar hissed, partially rising now that one arm was freed. She looked at the priest with an odd mix of triumph and rage. Fear washed over the priest’s face. The woman on the altar inhaled deeply and then bel owed a long stream of fire at her tormentor. The priest shrieked as he was engulfed. His burning form soon flailed about in panic. “Holy shit!” Alex blurted. The woman began to laugh viciously despite her obvious fatigue and injury. Alex looked at the blonde, who caught his gaze with pleading eyes. “Get me down,” she said. “She—we won’t hurt you, but you have to free us both, now!” Alex didn’t think twice. He wrapped one arm around the blonde’s waist, heaving her up a bit to give the chains some slack so he could unlatch the manacles around her wrists. By the time he managed it, the priest had crashed into a far wall , knocking candles and bookshelves over onto the floor with a crash. Fires began to catch here and there among the curtains and wall s. “I only need a moment,” the blonde said, gasping and slumping in Alex’s arms. “Leave me. Get her off the altar.” Alex obeyed, al owing the blonde to sink to the floor while he rushed over to the other woman to work on the knots

around her ankles. The heat and stench from the burning priest, now surely dead, were overwhelming. Alex pushed past his fear and revulsion to get the job done. “My hand, mort…mas…no,” the woman groaned. Apparently breathing fire had taken the last of her strength. She couldn’t twist enough to reach her chained wrist with her free hand. Alex reached over her naked chest and fought to unlatch the iron around her wrists. “I’l get you out, you’re gonna be okay, we’re gonna be okay” Alex said in a rush. He was trying to convince himself as much as her. With her hand freed, he pul ed her upright, holding her to him and moving away from the altar. He turned straight around to see Troy and Harold on their feet, staggered but recovered enough to fight. “Oh, shit,” Alex gulped, seeing the bloody, wavy dagger in Troy’s hand. “You have done your part already,” the blonde said, rising to step out of the pentagram beneath her with one hand raised toward the ceiling. A long stream of fire extended from her palm, and as she lowered it to her side it formed a sword of flame. Alex, Harold and Troy al had a moment to be stunned. The woman in Alex’s arms just grunted. “Showoff,” she muttered. “This desecration of the Lord’s house will not stand,” the blonde said gravely. She swung her sword wide, cutting through both Harold and Troy and igniting their bodies as if they were dressed in flash paper. “Jesus Christ!” Alex blurted. “Don’t blaspheme,” the blonde replied absently, looking around the room. “I can walk on my own. Take her and go.” “Right,” Alex said, not wanting to argue with the woman with the flaming sword. Alex hauled the dark-haired woman out to the foyer, having just enough presence of mind to grab his backpack where he’d left it before heading out into the night. Behind him, he heard the screams of burning men and the roar of an inferno coming to life.

Chapter 2

It’s Not You, It’s Me

“Why don’t they come up here and arrest us?” Alex asked. He stood with the two women by a statue of an angel on a small rise away from the chapel. His face was still wet with the blood from the goblet. The chapel was fullly engulfed in flames, with firefighters spraying it down and police looking around for who might be in the area. The three of them stood in darkness, but plenty of flashing lights had passed over them already. Both women answered at once. “That’s me,” the blonde replied, while the dark-haired one answered with, “I am concealing us.” They stopped, looked at each other sharply, and then turned away. Given a quiet moment to get his bearings, Alex realized that underneath al the blood and bruises, both women were shockingly beautiful. Both seemed to always have either hair or shadow or a convenient stance just barely covering their breasts. The blonde had clearly recovered more quickly, standing tal er and more alert. She seemed roughly Alex’s age. The other, perhaps a decade older, mostly looked away from the other two. “So they don’t see or hear us here?” “No,” the blonde answered. “Huh. …’kay… I can’t believe you’re both standing, you were hurt so bad…” “I am recovering rapidly,” the blonde answered.

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