"It's actively bleeding. That's literally the opposite of nothing." I reach for him and he steps back. Right. Not the time. "We should keep moving."
More sounds from below. Crashes. Screams. Someone yelling about the kitchen breach. The kitchen. My kitchen. Well, not mine, but I just got it properly organized and now people are bleeding in it.
We move. Ruvan leads, I follow, my hand won't let go of his shirt. Like if I release him he'll dissolve into shadows and not come back. Which is probably accurate. He does that. The dissolving thing. It's very inconvenient for keeping track of people.
Down the stairs – the ones that creak on the fourth and seventh step. Past the room where I taught Tooth how to dice onions. He's probably fighting for his life right now. Or dead. Do onion-dicing skills help in combat? Probably not. Though good knife skills are transferable. Maybe I helped after all.
Everyone's so wet. Soaking wet. That's going to be so many colds tomorrow. Do we have enough handkerchiefs? Probably not. These people don't seem like they carry handkerchiefs.
"Stay close," Ruvan says, which is unnecessary since I'm practically wearing him like a backpack at this point.
The kitchen level is chaos. Water everywhere – and I mean everywhere. It's streaming down walls, pooling on floors, dripping from the ceiling. Someone's going to have to clean this up. Water damage is terrible for these old floors. They'll warp. Maybe buckle. Definitely smell like mildew for weeks.
Bodies too. Some moving, some not. The moving ones are making horrible wet sounds as they fight – water magic sounds like someone's doing violent laundry. All splashing and gurgling and the occasional crack when water freezes into ice spears. Which is cheating, really. Pick a state of matter and stick with it.
I see Finn by the stove – my stove, where we made soup – trying to hold off two attackers with a kitchen knife. The attackers are doing something artistic with their water, making it spiral up. Pretty, but impractical. All that spinning takes concentration.
A kitchen knife. Against water magic.
"That's not going to—"
The water suddenly straightens into a spear and takes him in the stomach. The sound it makes going in... I'm running before my brain catches up. Running toward him because that's Finn who takes notes about vegetables and asked about herb storage and now there's so much blood mixing with all that water, making these horrible pink puddles.
"What are you—" Ruvan's behind me, shadows already moving to intercept the attackers who turn toward us. The shadows reach out, sharp and thorny. One attacker tries to shield with water but shadows don't care about water. They slide right through, wrapping around his legs, yanking him down. His head hits the stone floor. Probably concussed. Definitely unconscious.
The other one's smarter. She sends her water low, trying to sweep our feet. But Ruvan just dissolves – one second he's there, the next he's shadow smoke reforming behind her. His hand comes down on her neck and there's this precise application of pressure that makes her eyes roll back. She drops. Very tidy. Minimal splashing.
But I'm already on my knees beside Finn, hands pressing against the wound. It's bad. Very bad. The kind of bad that means quick decisions or permanent consequences.
"Hi Finn. Remember me? We talked about parsley. You said you didn't know it came in two types." My magic rises without permission, warm golden light spilling between my fingers. "This might feel weird."
"You're—" His eyes go wide. Not from pain. From the light pouring out of me. "Magic. You have—"
"Shh. Less talking, more not dying." The wound knits under my hands. Muscle reweaving, organs remembering their proper places. All that blood trying to go back where it belongs but that's not how blood works. "There. Better. Don't do that again."
Silence.
Not total silence – there's still fighting, someone's definitely throwing furniture, and I think that's Gray Streak swearing creatively – but immediate silence. The kind where everyone stops what they're doing to stare.
"She's a healer." Someone whispers it. Prayer or curse, hard to tell with these people.
"Unregistered healer," someone else adds helpfully, because apparently we're cataloging my crimes now.
I help Finn sit up, trying to ignore the weight of all those stares. "You're going to be tender for a bit. Eat something with iron. When this is over. If there's still food. And a kitchen."
Ruvan's hand on my shoulder makes me jump. When did he— right. Shadow movement. Very sneaky.
"We need to go. Now."
He's right. More Tide Runners pouring in through what used to be the nice window overlooking the herb garden. Which is definitely ruined now. All that basil, drowned.
But there's movement in the corner. Young. Too young. Tide Runner blue but the vest doesn't fit right, borrowed probably. He's down, leg bent wrong, trying to crawl away from Silent Syl who's advancing with intent.
"Wait—"
"Olivia, no." Ruvan's voice has that tone. The Shadow King tone that makes people obey.
I don't obey. Never have been good at that. Instead I'm moving toward the boy because he can't be more than sixteen and his eyes are huge and scared and—
