She replaced her hands with Jason’s. “Put pressure on it.” Then she rose to her feet and ran toward the store cabin.
“What’s happening?” called Telamon. “Is he going to be all right?”
She glanced back at him as she ducked into the cabin. “I’m not Dolos, but I’ll do my best.”
Once inside, she leaned against the door, head spinning. She took a deep breath, then scoured the room, shoving aside boxes of biscuits, weapons and packs of furs. Her eyes lingered on a skin of the pirate wine. She picked it up and took a swig to calm her nerves, then continued her search. Dolos had a collection of fine needles and thin gut string designed specifically for stitching flesh. She had neither, but perhaps she could improvise.
She emerged from the cabin, the wine in one hand, a tarpaulin needle and twine in the other. Telamon turned almost as pale as his brother when he saw what she was carrying.
“You’re not going to...with that?”
Danae didn’t have time to answer as she rushed back to the benches. Taking Jason’s place, she helped Peleus raise his head and held the wine to his lips.
“Drink this, you’ll need it.”
Peleus spied the needle in her other hand and took a large gulp. Danae took back the wineskin and splashed the remaining liquid on his wounds and over the needle. From across the deck, Atalanta moaned. It could have been sympathy for Peleus, but it was probably prompted by the wasted wine.
“This is going to hurt.”
Danae bit down on her bottom lip. The pain helped steady her hand as she separated the strands of twine and threaded the needle. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the sides of the first gash together and sank the needle into Peleus’s skin.
It wasn’t so bad if she imagined she was stitching a fig and the blood was just juice. There was so much juice. She fought down a wave of nausea as an image of Myron, the butcher, elbow deep in the carcass of a cow, invaded her thoughts.
Please work,she thought with each plunge of the needle. Peleus’s screams ripped through the benches every time she broke his skin. By the time the wounds were stitched, the poor man’s voice had reduced to a whimper. Danae sank back on her heels and looked down at her trembling, bloodstained hands. How she’d held them steady, she did not know.
As the men moved Peleus behind the benches and made him comfortable in a bed of furs, she pushed herself up and walked over to Telamon.
“He’s stopped bleeding.” She sank down next to him. “I think he’s out of danger for now.”
Telamon nodded, then held her bloody hands in his. “Thank you.”
She drew them away, mumbling, “It’s the least I could do.”
When night came, and the crew lay down between their benches, Danae remained beside Telamon and Atalanta.
Telamon’s head lolled on his chest, gently bobbing as he snored. In her sleep, Atalanta had slid sideways against the stern platform, her bound hands resting on the deck, fingers nestled against Danae’s thigh.
The moon was half swallowed by darkness, but it cast just enough light to see by. Danae gazed at Atalanta’s face. She would never dare look this long when the warrior was awake. Her features were surprisingly soft without her permanent scowl. She seemed younger than Danae had first thought, perhaps around her twenty-fifth year, like Santos. Her mouth was slightly parted, breath whistling gently between her full lips. She was beautiful, in her own fierce way. She was a woman who could take on a god.
Danae wondered if the night she’d comforted Atalanta had really happened. It felt like a dream. A moment stolen from a world ruled by different stars.
The warrior’s eyes snapped open. Danae flinched.
“How long have you been staring at me?”
“I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were.” Atalanta heaved herself up and began rooting around for the wineskin. She winced.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Show me.”
Atalanta clenched her teeth. Grimacing, she lifted her arms revealing the tip of a gouge below her right armpit. Mercifully, it didn’t look like it needed stitches.
“It’s just a scratch. One of those bastard Earthborn got me when I was trying to hold on to Hylas.”
