“Lass,” the boy repeated. His thumb rubbed my knuckles. “I hope we meet again, Lass.”
“And will you tell me your name? Or is this to be a one-sided acquaintance?”
“There’s your delightful sarcasm!” he laughed. “Quinn Byrne, at your service.” He dipped his head into a small, silly bow.
But the bout of playfulness was short-lived.
“Who’s there?” a man shouted. “Oi! There are voices over here!”
“Go,” the boy whispered. “Be safe, Lass.” He turned and sprinted toward the city.
Quinn.
I repeated the name in my head as I trudged through the stream. I didn’t want to forget it.
True to Quinn’s word, the water never rose above my waist, and its current was gentle. Slow. Easy to navigate. It was frigid, though. A chill seeped into my bones that wouldn’t abate, even as the sun rose, bathing the earth in its light and warmth. I continued moving, dragging my heavy feet through the muddy bottom of the water, fighting back the urge to stop, to cry, to wallow in my misery. Quinn had taken a great risk to see me safely from the city. I vowed to reach the river if only to honor the sacrifice he’d made for me.
It was evening again when I found the reverse-swirling current. The waters here were higher, reaching my chest, and more violent. I could go no further.
I climbed up the riverbank, grunting as my hands and feet struggled to find traction on the slick grass. And then I sat there, shivering, as I watched the savagely churning waters.
I wished Quinn had fled with me. Perhaps a few years ago, he would have been eager to escape. We could have run away together, perhaps finding a place where he could practice his music. And I…
Oh, but it was an absurd notion. If Quinn had accompanied me, perhaps he would have found his freedom, but fate would not have been as kind to me. No matter where I went, I carried my power with me. And I’d only ever be seen as a monster.
As darkness descended upon the earth once more, I stood and gave myself another moment to lament everything I’d lost before I walked away.
31
Buckets Of Blood
“It’s alright,” I grunted when a woman leaned into my shoulder. “You’re fine…gonna be right as rain soon.”
That was the baldest-faced lie I’d ever told. Thankfully, the woman was too disoriented to call me out on it.
I grasped my poleaxe, using it to support my weight as I staggered across the rocky terrain. The woman flopped against my shoulder, moaning. Around us, the fight was still going strong. Stacks of dead and wounded crisscrossed over the ground. And carting someone who could barely walk through this mayhem was anightmare.
The woman whimpered as I yanked her to the side, narrowly avoiding a dive-bombing bird.
“Sorry, Addie!” Belanna shouted from across the field. “Another one’s coming on yer left...”
The birdwhooshedpast my left shoulder, talons outstretched, as it made a beeline for a Wraith. I ducked out of the way, cursing when I mashed my right knee against a boulder. “Motherfu—”
The woman whimpered again.
“Fuck, sorry,” I hissed. “Bumpy road, y’know? But you’re okay. You’re going to be fine…”
She’d be a seriously lucky duck if she survived. Because the only thing keeping her innards from becoming out-ards was the strip of fabric I’d wrapped around her abdomen. Fabric I’d torn off a dead guy’s shirt.Superhygienic, right?
“You’re okay,” I kept saying. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re totally gonna scar, but stomach scars are badass. I’ve got one from an ovarian cyst I had removed a few years ago...”
I didn’t know if my rambling helped these people or annoyed the shit out of them, but I kept at it anyway. If I were in her shoes, and my guts were being held together by a dead man’s cloth, I’d want someone to talk to me. Take my mind off the pain. Reassure me things were alright, even if they weren’t.
“See?” I puffed as we stumbled through the last group of soldiers blocking us from the city walls. “We made it! Easy peasy.”
The woman sagged, her eyes rolling into the back of her head.
“I’ll take her from here!” A man rushed to my side, lifting the woman off my shoulder. Maddox. The Healer. And a scary-looking mofo with his six foot five frame and linebacker shoulders. But he seemed as mild as a kitten. He moved slowly, spoke softly, and didn’t even carry a weapon. Because he said he “didn’t trust himself with sharp objects.”
