He crouched in front of her, ice-blue eyes searching her face. "You hurt? Did it touch you?"
"No. You kept it off me." Her voice came out thin, barely recognizable. "It wanted to kill me, Tristan. Wear my face and take my life and I couldn't even fight back because my magic wouldn't work against it."
"We find the locket, then destroy it, and end this thing before it gets another chance."
Maren looked at the blood still seeping through his coat from where shadows had torn flesh. He'd thrown himself between her and death without hesitation, taken wounds meant for her, fought something he couldn't kill to buy her time to survive.
She asked a question torn from somewhere deep. "Why would you do that? Risk yourself for someone the whole town wants gone?"
"Because losing you isn't an option I'm willing to consider."
19
TRISTAN
The storm hit thirty minutes after they barricaded themselves inside.
Tristan could tell it wasn’t natural. It carried intent, like malice wrapped in wind and snow that battered the safe house with supernatural fury.
The doppelgänger was out there somewhere. Watching. Waiting. Probably laughing at them cowering behind wards that had barely slowed it down earlier.
Maren sat on the floor where he'd left her, back against the wall, arms wrapped tight around herself. Her shadows moved erratically across the floorboards, agitated in a way he'd never seen before. They kept reaching toward the door, toward the windows, like they were searching for the thing wearing their mistress's face.
"Let me see your back," she said suddenly, her voice steadier than he'd expected.
"It's fine."
"It's bleeding through your coat. That's not fine." She pushed herself upright on shaking legs. "Sit down before you fall down. Plus, I need something to distract myself."
Tristan wanted to argue but recognized a losing battle when he saw one. He shrugged out of his torn coat and sat in the chair near the fire, letting heat work on muscles that had gone rigid from combat and cold.
Maren moved behind him, her hands cool against his shoulders as she assessed the damage. "Your shirt's shredded. I need to see the wounds properly."
He pulled the thermal shirt over his head, aware of her sharp intake of breath when she saw what the doppelgänger's shadows had done. He could feel three long gouges diagonal across his shoulder blades, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough to be truly dangerous.
"It could've been worse," he said.
"It could've been you dead instead of just bleeding." Her fingers traced the air above the wounds, not quite touching. "I have salve in my bag. Freya gave it to me for exactly this kind of thing, though I don't think she anticipated shadow attacks."
She disappeared into the other room and returned with the canvas bag from the apothecary. Her hands still shook as she opened containers, mixing herbs with practiced efficiency despite the tremor.
"This will sting," she warned.
The salve burned when it hit torn flesh, but Tristan kept his breathing even, refusing to flinch. Maren worked in silence, her touch gentle despite her obvious distress. Her shadows curled around his shoulders, curious about the wounds, almost apologetic.
"They feel guilty," Maren said quietly. "My shadows. They think they should've been able to fight the doppelgänger."
"It's not their fault. You said yourself that your magic feeds it."
"Doesn't make them feel better about it." She applied the last of the salve and stepped back. "That should help with healing. You'll need to keep it clean and reapply tomorrow."
Tristan pulled his shirt back on, ignoring the way fabric caught on raw skin. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me for patching wounds you got protecting me." Her voice carried edges of something he couldn't quite identify. "If you'd been slower, if it had aimed better, you could've been killed."
"But I wasn't."
"This time." She moved to the window, staring out at the storm. "Next time it might not go after me first. It might target you to remove the obstacle."
