“Looks like some battle,” she said, stepping around the prostrate body of the manticore, which had too many wounds to count.
Damion lifted his spoon from the bowl left by the campfire, frowning. “I need to wash this,” he said and started back towards the stream.
“Aren’t you going to help me?” she asked, gesturing to the scaled tail of the creature.
“I’d say the venom’s in the stinger. Cut it off,” he said. “I still haven’t cleaned my swords either. Besides, I really don’t want to be here when you...”
Her eyes narrowed. “When I what?”
He took a step back. “I’ll just go wash my spoon.” He hustled away.
She scowled after him and then hunkered down and started to cut away the tip of the stinger. Once she’d sawed it off, she packed leaves around the tip, tying them with a bit of the rope that Damion had left in a slender coil by his kit. She salvaged one of the trampled and blood-spattered blankets to wrap it in. All told, it was the size of a healthy baby. She wasn’t sure if they’d be able to bring the others—if it was wise or worthwhile or even feasible.
Plucking up one of the water gourds that had been kicked off near the trees, she tipped the trickle of remaining water into her throat. Light slanted down, shining bright on the destroyed campsite and the sundered flesh of the manticore—black and red and purple.
Her stomach lurched into her throat when she focused on it. She leaned against a tree, catching her breath. Killing had never bothered her in the past, the sight of gore and blood... never from battle anyway. Only when she’d seen meat eaten had it knotted her up inside, but she’d been too sheltered from the carnage all these years.
How was she ever going to survive, let alone triumph, when her strength kept rising and falling like this? One moment she felt as though she could conquer the world, and the next, she could barely keep her legs upright.
“Magda?”
She flinched, pushing away from the tree.
Kaelan stopped in the midst of the battle-broken camp, not coming any closer.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She laughed, a humorless huffing sound. “Am I all right? You’re the one who was dead.”
The red had started to fade from his eyes, the discoloration of his skin too. He moved closer, slowly.
Her teeth scraped over her lip as he approached. When he came close enough to touch, she skirted away from him, back towards the camp. He stopped again.
“Magda, listen . . .”
“Where’s Honey?” she asked, glancing towards the stream. “And Anqa? I haven’t seen her since the battle.”
“I don’t know—”
“We can’t stay here much longer. Who knows what kind of creatures will be drawn to all this blood,” she said. “Are you strong enough to leave?”
“I think so, but—”
She gathered up the ends of the blanket with the stinger inside. “Does Honey still have some of the panchress—?”
“Magda!”
She froze, clenched.
He closed the distance between them more quickly. By the time he reached her, sweat beaded on his face and his breath was ragged, as if he’d run miles instead of walked a few feet.
“I don’t know what I did,” he said, “but I’m sorry.”
Her throat ached, tears prickling across the surface of her eyes. If she spoke, she was afraid the tears would start to fall again. She began to turn away, but he sidestepped into her path.
“I died,” he said.
She kept her gaze trained on the trees on the other side of the stream. “It’s a good thing Honey was here or else you’d still be dead.”
