Seren shudders. “Yes,” he thinks he answers. Everything is so blurry.
Watching Nevander’s hand is easier than craning up to read his face. Seren’s skin tingles as Nevander touches his collar bone, then his shoulder. Like he’s checking for deeper injuries. The examination is gentle, warm, but Seren can’t forget how well the fae’s fingers fit around a sword.
A blue glass bottle appears in Nevander’s palm. “This is a healing elixir. I’m going to apply it to your shoulder.”
His tone is stern, as if he expects Seren to resist. Maybe where he comes from, people have enough strength to struggle after getting mauled by a magical panther-hound.
Nevander tips the bottle over the deeper chunks of wound. The bottle is actually clear, and the liquid is blue. It pours out with viscous slowness, but has no weight as it seeps into blood and flesh. It doesn’t hurt. It’s not even cold. It feels like nothing at all.
Until the pain eases.
“Gods’ fickle eyes,” Seren swears under his breath. The tearing pain is gone. The sharp wrong pressure of what must have been a broken collar bone. Seren touches his shoulder and beneath the blood finds a sprawl of smooth scars.
Nevander exhales, like he’s been holding his breath. Then his golden brows knit. “Something’s wrong.”
“Was the healing elixir not supposed to heal me?” Seren asks, laughing with giddy physical relief. “My shoulder barely aches.”
“It shouldn’t ache at all.” Nevander traces the scars with clinical but intense attention. His mood is impossible to read. Then he swears. “The elixir is Summer magic. It doesn’t work as well in Prima.”
“What is Prima?” Seren asks.
“The mortal realm,” Nevander says absently. “You cannot remain in the open. Can you stand?”
Seren’s pride wants to lie, but Seren’s never been good at lying. “Not yet,” he confesses. “What was that creature?”
“An augray,” Nevander answers. “They’re hunting cats, native to the nightlands. They shouldn’t be here.”
A thread of anger hardens his voice. The first clear emotion Seren has heard from him.
And only heard. Not felt. That’s what’s missing.
“I can’t feel you,” Seren breathes.
Nevander withdraws his touch. “Is there any numbness?”
No onslaught of loathing or disdain or concern or anticipation. No hint of the fae’s intentions towards Seren. Either he feels nothing for Seren, or Seren’s talent doesn’t work on the fae.
Seren can’t explain. Shouldn’t explain. This is what he always wanted: someone whose emotions don’t push and claw at his psyche. But Seren never realized how much he relied on his talent. He can’t tell if Nevander wants to kill him or not.
Probably not, given the tender way he’s examining Seren’s injury. Unless Nevander needs him whole for some dire fae purpose.
“What’s wrong?” Nevander asks, and Seren can’t speak.
This is too much. The fae warrior stroking his chest. The augray hunting him. Running away in the first place—clearly a terrible mistake. Edith was right.
“Seren?” Nevander says, drawing close again. His bloodstained fingers lift, then fall away before touching Seren’s face.
Seren looks away. “I think I can stand now.”
He still gets no emotion as the fae helps him up. Strong hands support him by the elbows until he stops swaying. His shoulder hurts more when he moves, but still nothing compared to the pain of the fresh bite.
Nevander brushes leaves from Seren’s hair with casual presumption. Seren’s own heart feels slow to react, without someone else’s emotions to play off. He can’t tell whether he feels scared or grateful or embarrassed.
At least Seren has a change of clothes in his satchel. Wherever that ended up. And at least if a terrifying beautiful fae had to accost him, it was a helpful one. Seren would have been easily disemboweled if Nevander hadn’t arrived.
And Seren has been rude and ungrateful.
“Thank you,” Seren says quietly. “I’m lucky you were…” A thought catches like another sharp claw.
