The Mist and the Lightning. Part 19. Ви Корс

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      Thirdly, it was forbidden to the Demon to heal and restore the human body of its owner, this is part of the punishment, and Kors understood this. But the Demon could accept treatment from others if they themselves offered. And Kors offered it to him, and the Demon accepted it.

      Now he treats himself. But he repeats the actions of Kors and Cassiel! Can he repeat the way others treated him? Reflect their actions? Not anything more?

      And Nik trusted Kors. He believed in his authority and accepted treatment from him. And here is the result of the irresponsible actions of Kors! Now Nik is treating himself wrong!

      “Son, let me do everything differently now!” Kors exclaimed ardently, overshadowed by his conclusions. “Let me see what’s wrong with you, and now I’ll do everything right. I will choose the right treatment, and then you yourself will repeat after me, as needed, and not as it is now. Let’s fix it, make everything right.”

      “I can handle it myself,” Nik answered indifferently, without even looking at his father, and pulled out his black box from his bag.

      “Let me order to call Doctor Cassiel…”

      Nik just chuckled and shook his head.

      “He won’t come.”

      “He will!”

      “They are three days ahead from us, people have gone far ahead,” Nik opened the box and took out a small metal cylinder from it. Smooth, it gleamed silver in his black fingers, and Kors knew full well what Nik kept in that case.

      “He’ll come!”

      “No, he won’t. In the Fort, he still tolerated you, but now he is not at all obliged to go to the camp of the unclean ones on the orders of the disgraced black to treat his lover,” Nik unscrewed the lid of the protective case and carefully took out his syringe from it, attached the needle to it.

      Kors clenched his teeth.

      “I’ll go after him myself and drag him here by force!”

      “Zagpeace will quickly put you in a cage there. You’re not going anywhere, and I don’t need any doctor,” leaning heavily towards the box, Nik slightly rattled the bottles of drugs, sorting through them.

      “I…”

      Nik raised his voice.

      “Calm down!”

      Kors froze: “I can’t show that I’m afraid.”

      Frustratedly turning away from Nik, he took off his cambric shirt and elegant doublet from the back of the chair – the things that Nik had given him yesterday in exchange for wet clothes. Well, what else was left for him? It was cool in the tent, and there were no other clothes nearby. Having dressed, Kors approached the table. The dirty countertop was covered with spilled wine, there were unwashed plates with the remains of meat, pieces of bread were scattered on the table, the ashtray was full of cigarette butts. Kors took the jug and, bringing it up to his nose, sniffed its contents. Again wine, as in a couple of unfinished bottles, and as in a goblet. Well, what a morning! All was going wrong! Kors slammed his goblet on the table with an already barely concealed irritation.

      And Nik, who was concentrating on filling the syringe with the drug from the bottle, involuntarily shuddered and turned to him:

      “What are you looking for?”

      “Water!”

      “What?”

      “Just water. I’m thirsty, my throat is dry.”

      “Have some wine.”

      “I don’t want wine!”

      “Vitor, stop your whims.”

      “I just want to drink a couple of sips of clean water, do you think this is a whim?”

      Nik somehow wearily sighed, but didn’t answer. Kors realized that he was mentally calling his Verniy, because very soon he stumbled into their tent. His cloack was wet as the rain still hadn’t stopped. The dog’s head was covered by a helmet. Ver didn’t take it off, he stopped at the threshold. Kors saw his bestial eyes gleam in the narrow slits of his helmet.

      “Ver, Vitor needs water,” Nik said without even looking at his unclean habir. He turned his hand palm up, and seemed to carefully examine the inside of the wrist.

      The dog turned to Kors.

      “What kind of water do you need, sir? Should I bring a bucket of water for you to wash up?”

      “Is there any drinking water?” Kors asked.

      “I haven’t gone to the spring yet. But the buckets have stood in the rain all night, they are full. Can you bring rain water? She is clean.

      “Pour it into the kettle and boil it properly,” Kors ordered, “I won’t drink raw water from a dirty bucket!”

      “Okay, sir,” and Ver turned around and left.

      “Though I can wash myself, too,” Kors muttered. His mood didn’t improve, and he thought he could still smell the scent of Arel’s body on his skin. The smell left over from the prince’s strong embrace and his hands. It remained on Kors’ body, on his back, his shoulders, his chest. Everywhere that Arel had touched him. Kors looked at Arel. He was half lying relaxed on the trestle bed, the golden blanket almost sliding down to the floor, exposing his muscular torso, his oblique abdominal muscles, and part of his thighs. The prince had another bottle in his hands, and he took a sip from it.

      “Arel, don’t mix up the bottles,” said Kors, “I put that one away, of course…”

      “Very funny,” he snorted indifferently, and lazily tousled a long lock of his smooth dark brown hair back out of his face.

      “Well, I’m just not sure you’d know the difference, it’s just habit, you know…”

      But Arel only smirked indulgently with his lips covered with a thick layer of black dye, glinting in contrast with the white jagged edge of a chipped front tooth. He took another sip from the bottle and gave an audible burp, unresponsive to Kors’ jabs, but still as gorgeous and uncommonly attractive as ever.

      Kors shook his head judgingly, but habitually:

      “A descendant of royalty, indeed.”

      He involuntarily continued to admire Arel, knowing that he didn’t give a damn about the impression he was making on those around him.

      Kors glanced at Nik. Strongly tightening his forearm with a black cord, he somehow miraculously found a living vein on his arm and managed to inject himself, injecting the drug just below the elbow bend.

      “Nik, maybe you can lie down with Arel, cover yourself with a blanket?” Kors suggested. “It’s cold on the floor, I feel it with my feet.”

      “I don’t feel cold. I’m not cold,” Nik said. Kors called him Nik, but he didn’t correct him.

      “Just because you don’t feel cold it doesn’t mean you have to lie in a draft.”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ