“Wait,” she protests, wriggling her pretty hips on my shoulder, but there’s no real fight in her. She used up everyounce of her energy on that tiny sprout. “Wait, I can do it. I promise.”
“Little violet, trust me, I’ve seen you do the impossible. I know you can sprout a damn seed. But right now, I need to take care of you.”
I scan the garden. A cluster of pit diggers toils near the entrance—I’d rather not have them see Sabine up close like this, vulnerable and in desperate need of sustenance. I could carry her beneath the giant hemlock where the branches form a natural tent, but Woudix is only paces away. And I don’t like that dark smirk on his lips, the way he’s rolling a plucked rice shoot between his fingers.
I pivot sharply the other way, swallowing a bite of jealousy, and spot a greenhouse nestled near the garden wall.
Inside, it’s hot and bright—but maybe that’s what Sabine needs to balance her silver blood. Potted ferns seem to turn our way as I push past them, as drawn to Sabine as every eye was in the courtyard. A showy orchid bursting with blooms bends forward to brush her cheek, but I swat it away.
“Thanks, but I’ve got her.”
Gods—talking to plants now, Basten?
With every minute, Sabine’s pulse grows more erratic, and in my urgency, I shove a stack of clay pots off a table to make room for her. They crash to the ground as I set Sabine’s ass on the table.
Her eyes are frenzied as they roll around in her head. I don’t think she even notices how the potted vines strain toward her with a preternatural life of their own.
She chatters, voice falling in and out from exhaustion, “Woudix said that it was time to move on from the research books…”
“That right?” I mutter, utterly uninterested in anything to do with Woudix, as I start to unroll my sleeve back over the scars that spell out her name on my wrist.
“Yes,” she gulps, “and he also said… He said?—”
“Hey,” I cut her off gently, offering her my bare wrist. “You need me. Drink.”
Her eyes dart briefly to the throbbing vein beneath my wrist, her irises tightening for a second like a predator’s, but then her feverish excitement returns.
She grabs my shirt collar, pulling me close.
“Basten, it was like nothing I’ve ever felt. True connection. Like the seed and I were speaking a language no one else knows.”
“That’s great, sweetheart.” I know I might sound like a dismissive ass, but Idomean it. I’m proud as hell of her, but the thing is, I never felt a second of doubt that she could tap into her powers. “Now, drink.”
I wiggle my wrist temptingly, and it’s enough for her incisors to lengthen and gleam in the sunlight filtering through the greenhouse windows. She grabs my wrist lightly, distractedly.
But doesn’t bite.
She continues, “It was all just theory until Woudix put his hand over mine. When I felt his fey against my own, it awakened something.”
Immediately, my muscles pull tight as bowstrings.
Hold on. Hetouchedher?
I flex, ready to slam my fist into whatever clay pot around here most resembles the God of Death’s face.
Through the glass windows, I’m very aware that we still have an audience. Gardeners, pit diggers, and, sure enough—the damn miracle man himself.
Staring straight at the greenhouse as if his blind eyes can somehow see every move we make.
It stokes the huntsman in me. But Sabine seems oblivious to my growing jealousy as she rattles on about the seed’s call to her and how Woudix made it all possible.
That God of Death and I? Yeah, we’re going to have words.
“Woudix says…he says that with the right guidance, I might soon sprout…entire fields!” she continues, energy fading fast.
“Mmmhhmm,” I mutter, wriggling my wrist.
Instead, she tightens her hold on my shirt collar until it digs into the back of my neck. “With Woudix’s help, I could…answer the refugees’ prayers, Basten. You wouldn’t have to…help them all on your own. I could fix everything.”
