“Well, that was fun,” Hector stated dryly, hauling himself to his feet.
“Want me to have a look at that shoulder?” Medea asked him, looking now completely like her normal, bitchy self, her outfit restored as was.
“If I let you look at my shoulder I won’t have a shoulder,” the patient told her, his tone unchanging.
“It does need seeing to,” Medea told him, and shot a sideways glance at Michael, “ask the Arc to lay on hands or something.”
“Can he do that?” Achilles asked, blinking as he glanced at the angel.
“He’s God’s almighty sword of Heaven, what do you think?” Medea said, her tone less than sincere.
She turned away and focused on Amy, leaning down to say something to the little girl that neither of the others heard before lifting the girl up onto a hip. The movement struck Hector as so maternal that it almost scared him.
“You want me to take a look at that?” Michael asked him, coming forward.
Jessica was sitting on the tarmac, shaking but what had looked like a broken arm was completely healed and normal.
“So you really can heal?”
“We can,” Michael told him, and shot a glance at Medea, “but we don’t call it laying of hands. We call them Miracles.”
“Parting the Red Sea isn’t that hard,” Medea scoffed, but the others ignored her.
Michael sat Hector down and touched a hand to Hector’s shoulder.
He spoke Aramaic words that Hector couldn’t understand and there was a flash of icy cold searing through his arm, focusing like needle-points on his shoulder. It burned into his joints and then vanished, leaving him breathless and trembling. Where there had been a vicious claw-mark, there was now nothing.
“Not even a scar,” Achilles muttered.
“Don’t sound so disappointed.”
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