I reach for my sword again, but the icy bite of a blade buries deep into my thigh before I can free my weapon. Too stunned to do anything else, I roar and wrap my hand around the blade’s protruding hilt.
Mannus rears, kicking wildly. I try to regain control with one hand on the reins, but my thighs instinctively tighten around his sides, and the knife digs deeper.
I press my hand to the slick of warm blood. I cannot breathe around the pain. All I can think is that I’m fucking tired of being stabbed.
As my shock passes, my thoughts shift to Raina. I yell her name, but the only sound that meets my ears is that of two bodies colliding.
She’s fighting an Eastlander, and I can’t see her.
The part of me that I keep locked away jerks against the prison of my ribs, longing to be free, tasting a fight, tempting me for release. I grab the hilt of my sword instead, all while the wet heat of fresh blood courses down my leg. I have to leave the knife in. It would be far more dangerous to take it out.
A sound splits the night, freezing me in the saddle. It’s a sound I know far too well—the slick slice of a dagger’s edge through thin flesh, followed by the gurgling of blood in a choking throat.
“Raina!” Her name tears from my lips, and a hand grabs my knee,making my pulse ratchet higher. I don’t know whether to attack or hold back—if it’s the Eastlander or Raina.
The blackness around me is all-encompassing, and my head swims, but I ready myself to strike a deadly blow.
A tender intake of breath and the small fingers squeezing my leg are what stays my hand. Even in this short time I’ve been with her, I’ve learned the way Raina shudders out an exhale, memorized the sweet taste of her sighs. It’s strange, but I recognize that breath. Feel it.
Know it.
After I sheathe my sword, I reach out and find her arm, then slide my hand down to her trembling fingers. Relief floods through me, though I worry there might be more Eastlanders waiting in the briars.
I think to dismount, or maybe I should haul Raina up on Mannus with me and ride to safety, if thereisany safety here. But I don’t get the chance to do either one, because suddenly I’m tilting, my head light as air, and tumble from my horse.
Idon’t know much about Alexus Thibault, but I do know he’s as heavy as a fucking ox.
My blood is still ablaze from the fight with the Eastlander, and though I’m half Alexus’s weight, I manage to not only catch him before he slides from his horse, but I also have enough strength to shove him upright until he’s facedown against the animal’s neck.
The only death I smell is the earthy scent of the Eastlander, which means that Alexus is only wounded, but I don’t know where. His hand is tacky with blood, and I’m trying not to panic. He’s not dead yet, but if he dies—if I can’t keep him breathing—then I’m alone. The very thing I hoped to prevent by agreeing to ride with him in the first place.
Calm, Raina. Think.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and feel for the pulse at his neck. It’s sluggish and weakening. I have to find and stop the bleeding, or Iwillsmell his death.
But gods. The night is thick, an ocean of ink. Contours are all I see thanks to the few buds of light struggling to remain aglow at the road’s edge, and even those distort if I gaze at one spot too long.
I run my hands over Alexus’s body—his powerful thigh, his wide back, his muscled side, his corded arm, his baldric and sword hilt. I slide a hand along his chest, too, from curve to curve, feeling his heartbeat, but there’s no sign of blood.
I go to his other side and am instantly met with a telltale metallic scent. It mingles with the smell of the Eastlander’s death still lingering in my nostrils.
My hands tremble harder. The rush from fighting turns into remorse over killing a man, but dissipates into awful realization. Alexus’s breeches are wet, sticky, and torn. I flit my fingertips over the hilt of a dagger.
Gods. I have to take it out if I’m going to heal him.
I count to three, then I jerk the blade free. He doesn’t stir.
Carefully, I touch the gash, assessing the open meat where blood pulses free. The stab wound is deep, maybe to the bone, and perhaps far too close to valuable vessels. He’ll bleed out soon if I leave him like this.
I sigh. How many times will I save the Witch Collector’s life?
As many times as it takes to reach Nephele.
“Loria, Loria, una wil shonia, tu vannum vortra, tu nomweh ilia vo drenith wen grenah.”
I form the words, and with an image of my will—a whole Alexus—I begin weaving the glittering red strands of his injury back together to stop the bleeding.
But something catches my attention as I sing and weave. It’s so unusual that I almost stop, but I force myself to keep going. The strands of the flesh are different from the strands of life or even of a spell. They’re often easier to control, though in truth, I’ve only ever worked with minor injuries. I’ve closed my own wounds a time or two, healed a little cut on Tuck’s paw, a nasty forge blister on Finn’s arm while he slept, and stitched a parchment cut on Mother’s finger once when she wasn’t looking.
