“Vessik is my savior,” the man said in an eerie monotone. “I won’t betray his trust.”
“Creepy.” Sikras’s abhorrence faded into concern when he stared beyond the captive’s shoulders to survey Helspira’s condition. Pink hair a mess, lips cracked, blood snaking down from a laceration on her temple. “You’re injured.”
Helspira arched a brow. “I’d hardly call them injuries. Standard hazards of battle.”
“Benjamin”—Sikras spun—“find something heavy to which we can chain our disturbing little friend, would you? Or break his legs to keep him stationary, I don’t care. Whatever keeps him from wandering off.”
Skeletal fingers wrapped around the man’s wrists, and Benjamin freed Helspira from the burden of securing him. “I’ll chain him to that bronze horse statue just outside the castle.”
Sikras patted the man’s shoulder as Benjamin led him away. “Flawless craftsmanship, that horse. You’re going to love it.”
Helspira watched them depart, head tilting. “Aren’t you going to interrogate him?”
“First thing’s first.” Gambling on standing unassisted, Sikras leaned his scythe against a wall and grunted as he hoisted the chainmail over his head. The metal rings clinked together, crumpling into a steel pile on the ground. From the now-exposed leather satchels attached to his belt, he removed a small glass vial and a thin piece of cloth. The bottle’s cork topper made a delicate pop when his teeth tugged it out, freeing the faint scent of lemon.
As Sikras poured the vial’s contents onto the cloth, Helspira parted her lips, presumably to speak, but she clamped them shut when he dabbed the cloth against her laceration. Even under his gentle touch, her body went rigid.
Sikras recoiled his hand. “Sorry. Too much pressure?”
“No, no, um”—the color drained from her skin, and she swallowed—“I’m just ... I’m not used to ...”
Sikras’s stomach sank in a sudden realization. Of course. The sickness that the magical backlash left must have robbed him of his common sense. Helspira hailed from Chthonia, land of nightmares, where ethics were optional and everything was taken, never given. No doubt, the woman had endured the ill side of touch far more than she had endured the empathetic side. “My sincerest apologies. It’s unbecoming of a gentleman not to ask first.” He lifted his hand but made no move to touch her. “May I?”
She said nothing, appearing far too embarrassed by her actions to speak, but she offered a quick, curt nod.
Slow, tender strokes wiped the blood from her skin, and he attempted to smooth over the awkwardness with small talk. “Without my beloved cleric and the abilities instilled in her by her goddess, I’ve been tasked with the misfortune of curing my own wounds. Alas, my knowledge stops short at scratches and scrapes.”
Helspira managed a few blinks but remained otherwise frozen under his fingers. “Um ... thank you?”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Sikras murmured, smiling. “Astringent or no, this cloth has been living in my satchel for months. I question its sterility, and yet here I am, holding it against an open wound. I’ve seen festering lacerations before. There’s a very real possibility I may have made things worse.”
She met his smile with a sudden one, a brighter one. “Is this a bad time to tell you demons heal from their injuries much faster than humans? This scratch will be gone by sunrise. One of the evolutionary perks of being a violent race.”
“If what I witnessed on the battlefield was any indication, that isn’t the only perk.”
Color flooded her cheeks, a deep shade of red. “You saw that?”
“Yes. Very impressive. And horrifying. In the best possible way, of course.”
She held his gaze as if it was a challenge to do so but broke contact with a downward glance. “That wasn’t even ... I mean, I prefer to fight like a human. Like a sentinel.”
“Don’t temper your natural ability with emulation, especially where the R.S. is concerned. They may don an image of heroism, but I couldn’t help but notice they left you to fight alone.”
“It’s not their fault.” She gripped her elbow. “Demons are known for feral, unhinged frenzies. They’re just looking out for themselves.”
“The R.S. should be grateful.” Sikras pulled the rag away, content to see the bleeding had stopped, but placed the cloth into her palm should she find need of it later. “If there’s a feral, unhinged woman on the battlefield, I can say with certainty I’d want her on my side.”
A breathy laugh slipped out, and she thumbed over her shoulder. “I—I should find Banneret Rowan. He’ll want to be present for the interrogation.”
“Just listen for the sound of popping blood vessels, and I’m sure you’ll find him. I’ll be at the bronze horse if you need me.”
A quiet nod was all she gave before turning away to vanish in the congregating horde of returning sentinels and still-panicked townspeople who had survived the slaughter.
After chastising himself for unsettling her with his touch, Sikras rounded his shoulders and made a mental note to never touch her again without consent. Couldn’t risk violating the trust of Benjamin’s ally. Not when he had so few. It certainly didn’t hurt that she seemed like a good one too.
On the subject of violating people, he started toward the bronze horse.
He had a captive to interrogate, and one whose feelings he cared considerably less for than that of Benjamin’s demonic companion.
