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“Are you okay? You look pretty green.”
Oh, yes. The voice. Kenma had forgotten that he wasn’t alone. He could sense a hand hovering over his arm, unsure. Kenma took one last steadying breath before responding.
“I’m a wood nymph. I’m supposed to be green.” His voice was low and hoarse, made rough around the edges from biting back the niggling urge to vomit.
“Okay, that’s good,” the voice said, a bit relieved. “But are you supposed to bleed out the side of your head?”
Kenma winced, made suddenly aware of the wetness against the back of his arm where he’d cast it over his face. “No,” he whispered, “That’s not supposed to happen.”
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