I would have to think about what thegrulhad whispered to me.
So’lis,I’ll be seeing you soon.
My soul.
And I would have to think about last night and how I’d stood in front of the window. My memory was still hazy around the edges, but I had a feeling I knew why I’d stood there. Why I’d asked Casteel what I had. Somehow, someway, I had known thathewas watching, and that the attack on Lowertown wasn’t just a trap but a response.
A reaction.
And, worst of all, resting would give the seeds of fear that had taken root in the very core of my being time to grow. Prove that my biggest fear was no longer losing myself to anger and not being able to control my powers.
Because Kolis had done all of this in a little over a day with hiswillalone.
And that was terrifying.
So, no.
I couldn’t rest.
“I’m okay,” I said, opening my eyes. I stared at the crack in the rafters. “I promise.”
Emil sighed, his doubt rolling off him in waves. “Please, go easy on yourself, Poppy. We only just got you back.”
My gaze shot to him. He was already walking off to begin moving those who could leave, and for some reason, his parting comment made me want to cry.
Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to the man. What was up with these bandages?
“He’s right,” Hisa said. “You’re exhausted. I can see it.”
I can feel it, Delano told me.
“I’m okay.” I carefully peeled back a layer.
Delano grumbled, plopping his furry butt down beside me as I eyed the man. He looked to be in his third or fourth decade of life, but his skin was swarthy, weathered by years under the sun. Only the skin around his mouth was pinched white from pain now. Working on the dock was backbreaking work for little coin. Men like him didn’t live long.
It took a few seconds for the reason for all the bandages to become clear. Something was sticking out of the man. Taking a breath to prepare myself, I lifted the last couple of completely soaked cloths.
“Good gods,” Hisa whispered.
A piece of board jutted from pink, ropey—
Oh, gods.
I quickly lifted my gaze, swallowing the bile threatening to rise and the anger—the bone-deep rage—that built with each injury I uncovered.
“It’s okay,” came a reedy voice.
Startled, I looked down to see the man’s eyes open to thin slits.
“I…I know it’s bad,” he said, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. The time between the rise and fall of his chest lagged. “There are others who…who need your…touch.”
Swallowing a lump this time, I set the soiled linens aside. He knew what I could sense. Death was close. “What is your name?”
“Harland,” he rasped. More blood leaked from his mouth. “Can you…can you tell my wife…and boy that I…I’m sorry?”
“What for?”
“For not…coming home,” he said, shuddering. “And…tell them…that I love them. Please.”
