Wren’s hands land on my shoulders. I need that comfort as I smooth Quinn’s hair away from his bloody brow and focus on the deep gash that nearly took his left eye. It tears across his forehead and up along his scalp. The sight of such ruination on his beautiful face coils a knot in my gut so tight that my entire body spasms. I wipe the blood from his lips. Then I rasp, “I’m with you, in the darkness and pain.” I slip my hand in his. “I know you feel me, Quinn.”
Then I seal my words with a kiss.
And there it is.
With the tiniest squeeze from his hand, I breathe out on a small cry of hope.
“He’s not…dead?”
I straighten my spine and shake my head at Dax’s question. “He squeezed my hand. But they must hurry with those herbs. We’re on borrowed moments.” Skating on the edge of a sword.
“Fuck.” Wren comes around and hits the ground hard next to me. Between these two imposing men, I’m…safe. Strong. Capable. Calm. And when he threatens to join Quinn in hell to kick his ass if he dies, even I laugh at the absurdity of the promise.
Dax joins in, and he and Wren yell at Quinn, demanding that their friend fight. That he better not have the audacity to leave them. With each warning, Quinn’s fingers coil tighter around mine as if he’s using me as a lifeline to this mortal plane. As if I’m the anchor that holds him here. Saving him from the demon who’s come to collect him. A demon that, when I close my eyes, I see in the darkness now that Quinn’s suffering has connected us.
Finally, Emma delivers the mortar and pestle. Backing away, she wraps her arms around her torso as silent tears cascade down her ashen cheeks. Everyone is family here, and when one hurts, all hurt. It’s not just Quinn bleeding out in this courtyard.
We all are.
There’s a commotion behind us as the men rush back. Ian reaches me first, winded from his sprint. I release Quinn’s hand in time to catch the large burlap sack Ian tosses at me.
“Is this enough, my lady, or will you need more?”
I peer inside the sack. “Plenty, thank you.”
Arthur and Tristan come tearing up next and toss two more sacks at me. I get busy while everyone gathers around to watch me work. Ignoring their watchful eyes, I sprinkle a fair amount of woad into the mortar. Then I add a healthy quantity of yarrow. Last, I pepper in a good measure of comfrey. Satisfied there is enough of each healing herb, I steel myself for what’s coming. I pick up the scissors. Lick lips that have gone dry with dread and keep my focus on Quinn’s severed throat. I select a lock of my hair. Fit the strands between the sharp shears. Draw deep breaths, and…
…cut.
Knowing Quinn is alive on stolen time keeps me from blacking out. Sybil was always the one who prepared the potion while I broke her heart and sobbed from the pain. I lack that luxury now. Instead, I bite back my cry as the twin blades slice off the golden hair as if they’re sawing through a limb. Agony slows my hand, making each second prolonged, with each second crawling over me as the strands snap like tendons. The magic dies at the roots, turning what’s attached to my scalp brown. The length in my hand thrives, radiating power. And, barely breathing, I place the severed locks in the mortar and quickly use the pestle to grind it to a fine powder. Within seconds, the mixture transforms into a thick, golden liquid.
“It’s ready.” My voice is a hoarse whisper the cracks the tension in the charged air around us.
Scowling, Wren sees my suffering, but I give him a curt shake of my head as I hold out the mortar. He takes it from me. “What do we do with it?”
“He drinks it.” I’m dizzy from the clash of mine and Quinn’s pain.
Dax grabs me when I sway on my knees. I lean against him, trembling. He whispers reassuring words in my ear, believing I’m upset about Quinn. And I am, but I also hurt.
I hurt so badly, but thankfully, the physical pain is momentary and is already passing. The emotional toll, however…
I fear that will linger longer.
But I can’t cry. Not now. That can come later when I’m alone.
Tristan positions himself by Quinn’s head and props him up as much as possible. Wren puts the mortar to Quinn’s mouth. He forces the elixir past his parted lips. Some of the precious liquid spills down his chin, but he still swallows most of it.
We don’t have to wait long for the magic to work.
Quinn coughs on the elixir, thrashing violently. Tristan leaps backward, landing on his ass. He jumps to his feet and rushes away, likely afraid that Quinn will wake up swinging.
Wren, Dax, and I stay where we are and watch as Quinn’s flesh knits together. First, his face mends, the magic making it as if the blade never sliced him. Then his throat starts to heal, with the outer edges coming together until the entire laceration seals. What’s left behind is the scar he already had and his black tattoos.
And then we wait, with bated breath, for him to open his eyes.
Quinn jolts awake and gropes his throat. Wren and Dax grab for him, but Quinn fights them off and springs to his feet. Everyone bolts away, obviously afraid of him. Who can blame them? Quinn is a bloody mess. His hair drenched and his clothing soaked. And there is a feral edge to his black eyes that would even strike fear in the demon waiting for Quinn to join him in hell.
I warned you that you wouldn’t take him from me, you sonofabitch.
