I’d eaten it three times to date-after Mallucé had tortured and beaten me to the edge of death, in the middle of the riots on Halloween, and eight days ago when I’d descended the cliff to save Christian. I had no intention of eating Unseelie again. I was tired of being saved by others or, as in this latest case, by divine Jayne intervention. Besides, I was sick of not taking care of things myself. Or how many necessary tendons, muscles, or veins he might slice. Or use flour or something my body would absorb. I could always get Barrons to dig it out. The last thing I did before losing consciousness was hastily retract the blade with my thumb. What if I passed out when I sliced myself? Or while digging? I’d probably heal before I regained consciousness. Never in the mood for a sloppy, random tattoo. Besides, I might end up getting tattooed by the paint as I healed around it. My right arm wasn’t working well at the moment. Not only would it probably sting like hell, I wasn’t sure I’d have enough time to cut, paint, slice, dig, paint some more before my stupid body started healing. I could always smear paint on myself before I cut, but then I still wouldn’t be able to see inside my leg, and I really didn’t want to use one of the spray paint cans they’d dropped to highlight the inside of the wound. Slice, dig, wrestle it out, retract blade.
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