He caught her before she even hit the floor, pulling her up into his arms like an exhausted child, blood inexplicably pouring from her hands. The room stank of flowers, bad enough that even Dahlia could smell it.

“Right jacket pocket, gauze,” Will grunted at Dahlia rather than to her, eyes wide and excited and looking for a suitable place to lay her down.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

“Gauze!”

“Uh, um, put her on a slab,” Dahlia barked, not used to thinking this fast. Will leaned out with his right hip as Dahlia reached for his pocket.

“No, a bed.” One of Pit’s arms was loose, and it swung down as Will shifted her weight. It smacked Dahlia in the side of the face and she could feel a dime-sized spot of blood land on her forehead.

“Blood on my sheets? Good sheets,” She dug through his impossibly deep pocket - he must have torn the lining out of the jacket. She was angry now.

“Not if - Gauze!”

“I’m - fucking - ah!” She found a tight bundle of gauze and tore into it with three hands, using the fourth to ward off any more unexpected blows. Pit still bled like one of those pissing cherub water features, the stream from each hand hitting the floor with a drumming slap-pop sound.

“Wasting time. Grab, press,” he hissed. She caught the loose arm and jammed the gauze into it while fishing for another lump of gauze and Pit’s other arm. Will shifted again to accommodate.

Dahlia and Will glanced at each other, feeling a moment pass between them. All was still. After a moment, she snorted, her face settling into its usual grin. Will nodded once in agreement. It quickly became obvious that no more blood was coming. There was no wound, either: when she removed the gauze, only that same cross-and-crown glyph stared up at her, deep-set into the palms of Pit’s hands as if it had always been there. Dahlia swallowed hard. Pieces fell into place. She stared at it, almost too shocked to be upset. Almost. She was about to touch the mark with animus, try to disperse the melanin and wipe it away, when Will turned sharply and jerked Pit’s hand out of her own.

“Back,” he scolded, “When She says aye, then thou mayst. ‘Til then - beds.” Dahlia could hear the capital S on She. She regained her footing, began to think like herself from a few seconds before.

“Do you think it’ll happen again? In her sleep?”

“Ignorant, I.”

“Can we wrap her hands, just in case? They really are good sheets.” Dahlia took some of Pit’s weight as Will fished for more gauze and a roll of medical tape, and proceeded to give her what even Dahlia recognized as two very competently done bandages.

“Signs and portents,” He pronounced, placing the last of the medical tape.

“Great. Bathroom next, get her changed out of all the bloody... Everything.” He looked over Pit, apparently not having considered the blood. Her hoodie was streaked with it, as was the shirt underneath, but her jeans escaped the worst of it. Perhaps he had expected it to disappear along with its source. She turned, gesturing out the studio door and to the bathroom beyond as she continued on to her own room.

Once alone, she breathed out. And in. And out.

When she returned with a sleep shirt and a set of sheets, Will was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, still cradling Pit. They were of similar stature, but if the weight bothered him he didn’t show it. He had removed a crucifix from the collection around his neck and put it around hers - a plain brass-colored cross at the end of a string of blue beads.

“You can put her down now,” Dahlia said, flapping the spare shirt to unfold it, “Get her shirt off.” The novelty of the situation had worn off now, and she was beginning to wonder how long she would be harboring the two strays. A week at least, until opening night of the gallery show. He set her down in a sitting position and began to remove her hoodie and then her shirt, quickly and efficiently, as one used to working with children or the elderly or servitors would. Dahlia imagined it was not the latter, and therefore wondered which of the former it could be. With the hoodie gone, Dahlia could see three pink raised scars standing out on each of Pit’s wrists.

He pinched Pit’s jeans, looking up at Dahlia. She still leaned in the doorway.

“I don’t have anything her size,” She shrugged, gesturing to herself, “So on or off?”

Will set about angling Pit’s arms to receive the oversized shirt as Dahlia squinted at the bloodied pants, all four hands on her hips. Together, they slipped the shirt onto her.

“Leave them. We don’t know if she’s wearing underwear,” Dahlia winked, watching him visibly blanch. He gathered Pit up protectively, glaring at Dahlia in disbelief, and carried her off to the guest bedroom. Dahlia collected Pit’s things and followed, trying to remember the last time the room had been used. Usually, anyone staying over was doing so in her bed.

Will tucked Pit in with terrified care, like a child packing a glass vase for shipping. When she was in place, he went back and straightened the blanket over her, even folding it down. When he was done, he stepped back, saying a quick prayer that Dahlia didn’t catch. Pit’s chest rose and fell, but otherwise, she was utterly still.

“I have to make a call, then I’ll be in bed. Well - hose out my studio, then call, then bed. Man. Anyway, you’ll be on the couch in the living room, so make yourself at home, I guess.” He took the sheets from her as she moved to toss Pit’s bloody clothes into the guest sink from the doorway of the bathroom. Will was still staring down at the sheets and feeling the fabric between two fingers when she turned back.

“Good sheets.”

“Thank you. Gimmie your shirt so I can put peroxide on it.” He tossed it to her. As he turned around to pick up the sheets again, she could see perhaps a dozen scars crosshatching his back, each as wide as a man’s belt.

She pulled a half-gallon of hydrogen peroxide from under the sink, found it was mostly empty, and then pulled out another. There were a half dozen of them down there. Using both bottles, she filled the sink, watching the resulting stew turn sunset-orange. Will appeared in the doorway.

“Guardian, I. Sleep at the foot of this crowned bed.”

“Don’t be fuckin’ weird, man. She’s fine. Sleep on some real furniture for once.” Will clenched his jaw, sensing the air with some scrapper’s organ Dahlia didn’t have. Finally, he nodded.

“Bless you, Miss Rhode.”

“For what?”

“Sheets. A bed. A roof,” He said, moving to leave, “Blessed be.” Dahlia chewed her lower lip, watching him pass back into the hallway. There was something she had been kicking around in her head, something she had been trying to put together ever since she saw the signs on Pit’s palms. There had been chunks of the new Lens that didn’t make sense, equations she couldn’t place in a larger context until that exact moment. But now...

She tried to envision the conversation - how to bring it up, what the hell she might even say. It was a hard sell, even to Will: They had only just met, the three of them, but already she could tell that he didn’t see Pit as a person - more an idea. A canonical figure. He was unsure how to act around her, unsure the kind of deference to give her, unsure how to address her: it was obvious that she outranked him in his estimation. He hardly spoke to her, but he glanced at her often while her attention was elsewhere. When she took a header, though, it was like he had been training his whole life for this. Maybe he had.

She poked her head out after him.

“Is there anything you wouldn’t do, if God asked?”

“‘Nothing.” A statement of fact, without embellishment. She could tell. He had stopped, turned back towards her, his face neutral and apparently as relaxed as it got.

“Even kill somebody?”

“His Will be done.”

Next Chapter: VIII-Pit