“Of course he did. Stubborn fucking hunter.”
A blur of movement caught my eye. Silas and Timber emerged from the tree line. The griffin snapped at the beast half-heartedly, more for show than actual aggression, and Timber ignored him, padding toward us with obvious concern.
Pip’s voice was so small, I almost didn’t hear her. “I’m glad you’re here. Can we please go back inside now? The Bloodwood is very scary, and I would like walls between me and everything that lives here. Preferably very thick walls. Maybe made of stone. Or steel. Probably both.”
We crowded into the cottage.
“Wickett. Chair. Now.” I was already gathering supplies. Water, clean cloth, needle and thread from Eda Mire’s collection.
Aureth pushed through, gesturing to the couch and a few random chairs shoved against the far wall. “Everyone else, give them room.” Pip immediately claimed a spot on the armrest while Calder took position near the door, Timber settling at his feet. Silas perched on the back of the couch, wings tucked tight as Riot stood near the table, staring out the window.
Wickett stepped back. “This can wa?—”
I cut him off with the kind of authority Gran used to use when she was done with people’s nonsense. “It absolutely cannot wait. If you finish that sentence, I will stab you myself just to make a point. You’ve lost too much blood. If that wound gets infected out here, you’ll die. Slowly. Painfully. Probably while complaining the entire time. So sit down and shut up.”
“You’re scary when you’re bossy,” Lucy observed from where she stood near a bedroom door. “I like it.”
“She’s always been a little scary if you give her enough room to be herself,” Calder muttered, but there was fondness threaded through the words.
After Wickett sat on the edge of the kitchen table, I pulled his shirt up. It was worse than I’d expected. All the stitches from last night had torn open. The wound gaped, its edges inflamed and angry, the blood soaking his clothes despite his body’s desperate attempts at clotting.
“You should have bandaged this tighter before you climbed on the back of a dragon and went joyriding over the city walls.” I moved my hands closer to the wound. “Aquaflux.”
Everyone watched as water streamed from the basin on the table to the wound. I guided it through the injury, unsure if this would even help at this point.
Wickett winced, but otherwise didn’t complain. “There was no time.”
Lucy walked over, handing me a fresh bandage and a bottle she’d pulled from the shelves. Antiseptic. “There’s always time to prevent dying from blood loss. That’s basic self-preservation. They teach that to children.”
“He killed a hunter in the Oracle’s chambers,” Calder said as if that would provide a strong defense. “I doubt the wound was first priority on the list of problems this morning.”
My hands stilled mid-motion, water hovering between my fingers and the wound. I looked down at Wickett, really looked, seeing past the blood and pain and stubborn refusal to admit weakness, and finally spotting what it must have cost him. What it meant. “You killed one of your own?”
Wickett’s voice was flat, emotionless. “He was questioning my authority. Suggested you were a traitor. Implied the Oracle conspired against the Magistrate. It seemed appropriate to the situation.”
Wickett Veyne hadn’t just escaped. He’d burned every bridge he’d ever built, made himself a target for every hunter, chosen this group, chosen me, over everything he’d ever known.
Over his own future.
I returned to cleaning the wound, but my touch was gentler now, more careful. As if I could somehow make up for what he’d sacrificed by not causing unnecessary pain. “The antiseptic is going to hurt.”
“I know.”
“I don’t have anything to numb it.”
His eyes narrowed on me, and once again, I couldn’t think beyond that stare. “I know.”
I poured the liquid onto a cloth and pressed it to his wound, holding eye contact. The man didn’t even flinch. I laced thethread through the needle eye, but it took me three tries because everyone was still watching. He was watching.
“I can do it,” Lucy said from beside me, though I hadn’t heard her move. “I’ve stitched plenty of players up on the field.”
I nodded, handing her the string.
The only sound was the whisper of needle and thread through flesh. Each pull made Wickett tense, muscles jumping under skin that was too pale, but he just stared at the ceiling with the kind of control that came from years of learning how to suffer quietly.
Pip hovered nearby, watching with wide eyes full of sympathy. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He’ll live.” Lucy said, tying off the last stitch.
