The wolf rears back, its gaping maw black with the promise of death.
I plunge my dagger into the wolf’s red eye, yank the blade free, and carve across the beast’s throat before it can do any more damage.
The wolf dies with a whimper, its legs twitching and bloody eye trained on me. The foolish part of me feels guilty for taking its life, even though the beast would not have felt any guilt over consuming my flesh for supper.
My heart continues to race as I fall to my knees to take stock of my wounds. There are three gashes. Not deep enough to see my ribcage but deep enough to burn like hellfire. If I did not have a flask of Seelie healing water, I would be worried, but since I do?—
My pocket is empty. Where is my flask?
It must be in my rucksack.
Which is also missing.
Dammit.Where did I leave the fucking thing?
The tree. I hung it on a branch, and then the squirrel distracted me. If these wounds are not healed, I will not have the strength to drag this wolf back to camp.
I will need to retrieve it and return.
Through the woods I stumble, blood splattering the dirt as I make my way back to the tree where I saw the squirrel.
Climbing with fresh wounds is as enjoyable as sleeping on a bed of hot coals.
Which is to say, not at all.
I end up having to pour all the water over my side to heal the gouges. Unfortunately, there is not enough, and my wounds continue to seep and pull as I climb back down. I should return to camp, but then all of this will have been for naught, so I go to the wolf instead—only to find the carcass already ravaged by scavengers.
With the meat tainted, I cannot possibly bring what remains to camp. The thought of arriving empty-handed does not sit well with me, but it would be foolish to stay out any longer without access to healing water.
Side aching and heart in tatters, I start for the Unseelie camp where I spent my whole life wanting desperately to be chosen only to be abandoned time and again.
The camp sleeps in silence, tucked beneath its quilt of fog and darkness. Gryffin is not on his stairs, which is of no surprise at this hour. My hand trembles as I grip the railing leading to the small stoop that hangs behind his barrel top.
My fist feels too heavy to raise for a proper knock. Perhaps I should wait until morning to wake him. He is not very congenial, even when well rested. When roused from sleep, he might very well be as deadly as that wolf. I will sit here for a moment. Give my eyes a chance to rest.
In the distance, the creaking of a hinge reaches my ears, followed by a gruff voice. “Why are you covered in blood?”
There is a lot of blood, isn’t there? Who knew a fae could bleed so much and survive? “Wolf.”
I blink at my friend. One moment, he is standing; the next, he is crouching in front of me, his rough palm pressed to my forehead, forcing my eyes to remain open. “That is all you have to say? One word. No heroic tale? No ‘it was the size of a mountain?’”
“The wolf was small, but its claws were sharp.” I press my hand beneath my wounded ribs. “I left my water behind, and by the time I returned, something else had eaten it.”
His scowl deepens, and his hand falls away. “Where?”
Why won’t my head stay upright without his assistance? I prop my ear against the side of his wagon. There. That is better. “Eastern trails. About four kilometers past the last stand.”
He bobs his head and disappears into his wagon, reappearing a moment later with his flask and offering it to me. I drink until my wounds have healed, but the ache remains. When I look up again, Gryffin has a short sword in his fist and a bow on his back.
I let my eyes fall closed for a moment, just for a rest. Five minutes, and then I will go home.
Five minutes. . .
19
“Not all those who are lost wish to be found.”
— Author Unknown
