The scent of old blood and antiseptic filled the infirmary, thick in Xavier's throat as consciousness clawed its way back. His lashes fluttered, breath catching in his lungs as pain exploded behind his eyes. Everything hurt—bones aching, skin tight like it had been scorched from the inside out.
He was alive.
Barely.
He groaned, shifting his weight against the stiff mattress beneath him. "Am I dead?"
"No," Jonah's voice said gruffly from beside him. "But you tried."
Xavier blinked until his vision cleared. Jonah sat beside him in a chair, arms crossed, eyes shadowed by exhaustion.
"I feel like I got dragged through hell," Xavier muttered, running a hand down his face.
"You did," Jonah said flatly. "And someone dragged you back."
Xavier's eyes narrowed. "It was her… wasn't it?"
Jonah gave a slight nod. "Elizabeth."
A muscle ticked in Xavier's jaw. "Of course. No one else can raise the dead with a sarcastic remark and a snap of her fingers."
