Then again, we shot him out of the sky. He took our bows so we couldn’t do it again. I’ve never been afraid of magic, but I do know what it’s like to fear soldiers.
I think of Jax and his gentle patience. “I’m not trapping you,” I say quietly.
Nakiis scoffs and looks away, but he doesn’t pull back any farther. Every muscle on his frame is still tense, though, his fangs slightly bared.
I come closer, though I stop when I’m within reach. He might be injured, but he could absolutely rip out my throat if he wanted to. “I can’t heal you with the arrows through your body. Can I pull them?”
He draws a breath, and ice forms on the bark of every tree around us. “Yes.”
I draw my dagger, and his hand whips out to catch my wrist. His grip is so tight and sudden that I feel every claw digging into my skin, and I swear.
I have to speak through clenched teeth, because ithurts. “I have to cut the arrowheads free first, or it’ll hurt more coming out.”
His grip loosens marginally, but he doesn’t let me go. His black eyes hold mine for a long moment. Nakiis reminds me so much of his father sometimes that it’s uncanny—but Iisak would never be wary of me.
But I’m tired and running out of patience. “Do you want me to help you or not, Nakiis?”
He lets go of my wrist. “Do it.”
I take a step forward and slice the arrowheads off, and even that makes him hiss in pain. I know better than to hesitate, so I pull the arrows hard, one right after the other, and they come loose with a sickening sound. I’m glad I’m quick, because the first one earns a low growl, but the pain of the second one—the one through his shoulder and the root of his wing—chokes off the growl and makes his knees buckle.
Silver hell.I drop the arrows and catch his weight automatically. He’s notheavy, but he’s not exactly light. His claws dig into my arms as he fights to stay upright, and I feel fangs against my shoulder. I can’t tell if he’s broken my skin, but if he hasn’t, he’s a breath away from it.
“Tycho!” Malin calls, his voice sharp with concern.
“I’m fine!” I call back, just as blood begins to trickle down the outside of my arm. “Sort of,” I mutter under my breath.
When I ease the scraver to his knees, Nakiis wavers a bit, so I adjust my grip to catch him under the arms. It must hurt more than he’s ready for, because he hisses a breath and recoils. That’s somehow worse, because he drags me onto one knee just trying to keep him upright. His claws definitely find my skin again, and I wonder if I’m going to regret dropping the armor.
Eventually, he ends up all but leaning against me, his forehead against my shoulder, one hand braced on the ground. It’s like supporting a drunken soldier. I can’t tell if he’s going to pass out or vomit on my boots.
I should pity him, and I do, but too many things have happened in too short a span of time. Despite my vow, I still don’t know if he’s ultimately going to be an ally or an enemy.
The wound through his shoulder is bleeding freely, his blood a darker shade than a human’s. I don’t know if he’s ready, but I press my hand right to it and let my power flare.
He hisses in pain again, but maybe he expected the magic. This time, he doesn’t move away.
“I should have made you sit down first,” I say, though I’m not sure he would have obeyed. The blood under my fingertips slows as the wound closes, and Nakiis eases more fully onto his knees, sitting back on his heels. His injured wing hangs crooked, limply dragging in the dirt.
I reach for his arm first, because it’s slick with blood, but he shakes his head a bit. “The wing,” he says breathlessly. “Please.”
“All right.” I wait to see if he’s steady before I move to crouch at his back. He’s facing the fire, so it’s harder to see, and I have to seek the wound with my fingers. I gently spread the wing wider so it splays along the ground. I was friends with his father, but I don’t remember ever touching Iisak’s wings like this. The black feathers are likesilk, catching glints of blue and purple from the firelight. There’s plenty of blood, but I don’t see the arrow wound. My fingers must find it, because he growls, and every muscle in his back goes taut, his claws digging into the dirt.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He doesn’t respond.
I sigh and let my magic work. After a moment, cold wind wraps around us, his own magic lending its weight to mine again.
“Could you have healed this on your own?” I eventually say.
He doesn’t respond to that either, but I suspect not. He hates having me at his back; I can tell. His head is cast in my direction so he can watch both me and Malin, and his shoulders are tight, the muscles of his arms flexed and ready.
The wound eventually closes, though, and his chest expands with a slower breath. He puts a hand against the ground, sagging a little.
“Thank you,” he says, and his voice is quieter, the growl gone. It’s hard to resist the soothing nature of healing magic.
“You’re welcome.” I expected his wings to be cold, the way his magic feels, but they’re warm under my fingertips. There was another arrow wound, closer to the base of his wing, and I search for it more carefully this time, my fingers moving slowly along the feathers.
