“HA!” Evander laughed bitterly. “You wouldn’t survive ten minutes where I spent my happy childhood. I clawed my way through hell to the life I had, but if you keep making rash, vengeful choices, none of us will live to get our old lives back!”
By now, Evander was aware that he couldn’t move his shoulder without searing pain. The whole right side of his body hurt, and he carried himself stiffly, trying not to jostle his arm.
He winced. “If you want to survive, do what I tell you and convince your friends to do it as well.”
“If you want us to survive, stop treating us like we’re idiots.”
“If you don’t want to be treated like idiots, stop doing idiotic things!
“People rise to their leader’s expectations!”
Evander glared at Samara until she wilted, a flower under an icy wind.
“Your shoulder is dislocated,” she sulked.
“I’m aware,” Evander said, walking past her down the dock.
“Who will tend it?”
“I’ll tend it myself,” Evander said.
Samara watched him go, looking uncertain.
His breath catching with each movement, Evander found a secluded place behind the dragon barn and knelt on the damp grass. He grasped the corner of the building with his good hand, counted to three, and slammed his body into the wall. The impact sent a shot of red-hot pain through him, and he screamed through his teeth. The scream felt like lancing a blister or letting out a long-held breath.
Evander came undone.
Bending forward, he beat the ground with his good fist until sand spattered his face.
He was angry at everyone—Valenna for getting him into this mess, Samara for her stubbornness, Haldir for his brutal stupidity, and himself. Mostly himself. He couldn’t help his wife or Cobblepine. He couldn’t run. He was a rabbit in a thicket, the fox creeping ever closer.
Staggering to his feet, he cast around for something to break. An unlucky clay jar stood on a pile of discarded barrels, and he picked it up and flung it into the barn wall. It shattered, but the movement of throwing it jolted his shoulder, and he dropped to his knees, biting his shearling collar.
Shaking away the rising dizziness, he took two deep breaths, clutched the corner again, and was about to slam into the wall a second time when someone caught his jacket and yanked him off-balance. He fell on his rear with a yelp.
Samara stood over him, her mouth gaping. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Go away, Samara,” Evander said, struggling up again and squaring up to the corner.
“Stop that!” Samara cried, her voice cracking. “Are you insane?”
“I need to reset my shoulder,” Evander gritted.
“And you think this’ll work?”
Evander blinked at her, the world reeling.
Samara looked green. “I know how to set it.”
“Liar.”
“No, I really do. I worked at my father’s apothecary, and he taught us how to set dislocations. I’ve done it before.”
Evander hesitated. “I don’t think I trust you …”
“I’m a bleeding lot better than the blasted wall!”She held her hand out to him.
With a sigh, he took her hand and she hauled him to his feet, then led the way to the barn. Evander sat on a bench in the supply stall, and Samara offered him a shot of whisky. He took it gratefully and tossed it back, wincing as it burned down his throat.
