Even Emillie could not close her eyes without hearing the screams of the injured and dying.
When she arrived at the medic tent, set far enough south to make the walls of the Hub barely visible on the horizon to thenorth, snow began to fall from heavy clouds that blanketed the night sky. Pausing outside, she turned her face up so that the small frozen flakes gathered on her lashes. It was too early in the year for snow, but something about the turn in the weather felt right—feltprophetic.
Shivering, Emillie pushed through the tent entrance to where Phulan barked orders at the dhemon women who had become something of trauma-bonded friends to her. Though they barely understood one another, they knew one thing was certain: they would all work their hardest to ensure the survival of their soldiers, be it dhemon or vampire, fae or lycan. Without needing to be asked, she swept into action to prepare the stations with bandages, salves, and stitching supplies.
“I have a task for you, girl.” Phulan’s switch from the dhemon tongue to common snapped Emillie’s attention to her, ready for the orders she now knew would come with such a quick transition.
Setting down the roll of bandages, Emillie hurried to the mage. “Yes?”
A heavy basket was shoved into her arms and another into the arms of a dhemon woman she now knew was called Vhin. Phulan looked between them and said, “Gret speaks very little common, but between the two of you, you’ll be able to communicate with just about everyone in the camp.”
Emillie peered into the basket to find several pitchers of a steaming liquid within. “What is this?”
“Don’t ask silly questions.” Phulan waved her off. “I want every fae soldier to take a sip of this before they leave. It will…bolster them for the battle.”
That seemed like a very short period of time to reach every single dhemon, high fae, and lycan. Surely they would be marching out sooner rather than later. Nonetheless, Emillieknew better than to talk back to the mage when she was in one of her flurries.
Emillie nodded and turned away with Vhin. Behind them, Phulan called, “Donotgive any of it to vampires and do not even think of drinking it yourself, Emillie Harlow.”
Now she cast the mage a quizzical look, but rather than argue with her, she merely said, “My name is Emillie Nightingale and you will do well to remember that.”
There was no world in which she would live that she would allow Alek’s name to die after all he had done for her.
“Harlow. Nightingale. I care not.” Phulan’s mouth quirked into a small smile, and she winked an amethyst eye. “Go do what I said.”
Back out in the late autumn cold, Emillie was shocked by the sheer amount of snow that piled up in small drifts over the grass and shrubs. It had not seemed quite so heavy when she had entered the tent, yet it had built so much that she was certain it would make the forthcoming battle a mess. After what happened to Madan against the incensed dhemon in the mountains, she had no doubt there would be enough slipping to cause more injuries than they would want.
Trying not to think about the possibilities, she followed Vhin with her basket toward the dhemons and fae troops as they fixed their armor and checked their blades. The dhemon woman offered her drink to the dhemons one by one, and Emillie turned toward the high fae to explain her mission. They sipped from the pitchers without complaint, their brows furrowing a bit as the taste hit their tongue.
Only when she ran out of high fae to whom she could deliver the potion did she turn to the dhemons and pause. Most were unfamiliar and, quite frankly, dour. Not that she expected any of them to be excited about walking into a battle. One, however, stood out with her long black braid and severe expression.
What was her name? Sylvia? Samara? Sara?
The dhemon’s red eyes fixed on her, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Vampii?”
Now if that did not send a shiver down Emillie’s spine, she did not know what would. Rather than allow the woman to stare at her as though she were her next meal—andnotin the way Luce did—Emillie stepped closer and held up the pitcher. “From Phulan.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, then she leaned forward, sniffed the steaming drink, and shook her head as she rocked back on her heels. “No.”
Biting back a sharp retort, she held it out a bit more. “For the battle.”
“Sasja no fight.” The dhemon shook her head and held out her arms to show her lack of weapons. “No drink.”
Sasja. Right. The woman who had been with Azriel in Algorath and protected Madan by going with Ehrun. Emillie once believed she had been forced to remember too many names when it came to the Society. Expanding her circles as she had in recent months had her memorizing more faces and names than she would have previously deemed possible.
“Why are you out here, then?” Emillie asked.
Another dhemon woman stepped up beside her, though this one was covered in blades and even had a crossbow on her back. She whispered something to Sasja, then frowned at Emillie in wonder.
“Cinisja fight,” Sasja said with a grin spreading across her face. Then she directed the other woman’s attention to the pitcher. “Drink.”
Emillie held the pitcher aloft and, after grumbling something to Sasja in their language, took a sip of the steaming liquid. She sputtered a curse and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, glaring at a laughing Sasja who waved Emillie on.
No need to tell her twice.
It was not until Emillie came upon the lycans that a true knot formed in her belly. An entire pitcher had been emptied, and she wondered if she had enough to continue her task. What would happen to them if they did not sip from Phulan’s potion?
Moreso…what would happen if vampiresdid?
