The stag gazed at him warily, ears twitching. Arthur withdrew, uncertain. He’d hoped Ira had remembered himself when he’d killed the huntsman, but if he had it had been short-lived.
“Ira. It’s all right. It’s me.”
Was it the magic? The forest not understanding that the ways it tried to protect him hurt him instead? The hunting knife in his shoulder? Whatever it was, Arthur had to remind Ira of himself and dress his wound.
His stomach turned. Blood. There would be blood. More than what was already smudged into the stag’s mane.
Arthur took a step forward. The stag tensed, and he stopped.
“Ira, please.”
The stag eyed him. Letting out a breath, Arthur sank onto his haunches.
“What now?” he asked Freya.
xxviii. In which Arthur faces several things he’d rather not, including a stab wound and feelings
After a long, long while, the stag lay down beside the cat. She didn’t seem to bother him, but he eyed Arthur warily. Progress nonetheless, until the stag started worrying the knife. Arthur gritted his teeth. His neck was throbbing, and Ira nudging the knife in his own shoulder made it hurt worse.
Arthur’s thighs burned from squatting there for so long before the stag’s ears stopped twitching at him. A while later, Arthur’s legs numbed. His back spasmed; he shot his hands out, narrowly avoiding toppling over.
The stag’s ears twitched again, but his head dropped to the ground. Taking a bath beside him, Freya was unconcerned. She seemed to mind Ira considerably less in this form.
Arthur was not unconcerned. He crawled toward the stag and stroked his neck. The stag’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t kick or bite or try to escape.
“That’s it. It’s me. Please, Ira. You’ve got to remember.”
Arthur lifted the stag’s massive head into his lap. He didn’t know what to do. It had taken so long just to get Ira to let him approach.
“Please. Please remember.”
The stag snorted. Eyes brimming, Arthur laughed, kissed his nose, and pressed their foreheads together.
A moment later, his forehead was resting against Ira’s.
Arthur laughed once more and burst into tears. Ira kissed his brow and lay back in his lap. His hand went to his shoulder. The knife. Bile rose in Arthur’s throat.
“How long’s it been?” Ira asked.
Arthur wiped his eyes. “Too long. I thought I’d lost you.”
Ira scrubbed a hand over his face. His ears had not changed back with the rest of him; they were a deer’s.
“I don’t...” Ira’s brow furrowed. “I don’t remember what happened. The hunt ran last night, the wild hunt. It was the dogs we heard. The Huntsman collects human souls.”
Arthur shivered and held him tighter.
“I was afraid he’d find you. But I don’t...” Ira’s voice was uncertain. “I remember feeling scared and mixed-up. That’s it. I don’t remember changing. It’s a haze until you kissed me. I don’t remember the rest.”
Arthur stroked his forehead.
“You’re all right now.” His voice trembled. “That’s all that matters. What do we do about...”
He touched the hilt of the knife gingerly. Ira let out a sharp breath, then, to Arthur’s horror, yanked the storm cloud blade from his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Arthur cried. He didn’t know much about stab wounds, but he was reasonably certain one ought not to yank objects out of them like that.
The knife vanished in a wisp of light. Blood reddened Ira’s shirt. Arthur wanted to throw up.
