Four bells ring out, faintly echoing down into the Vincula. My own foolishness becomes so apparent all at once—seeking out the Lupa Nox in the middle of the night? Pinpricks cluster on my skin, my stomach flipping. The Holy Guard will surely report my presence to Sergio, perhaps even Renault. For one skittering moment of madness, the two men blend into one—an impossibly tall shadow, looming over me, clawed hands outstretched.
I release a long breath, settling myself as I reach for the healer’s kit. It is a simple enough explanation: I was having trouble sleeping and wanted to get a start on the day’s duties. The First Son approves of productivity, of hard work.
“How are you feeling?” I ask her, keeping my gaze on the healer’s kit as I rummage through it. “Any headaches or nausea?”
“No, I don’t think I have a concussion,” she says. “A rib may be broken, though.”
I still, only my head turning to examine the knight, immediately feeling like the most selfish monster alive. The bruising I saw yesterday across her face has darkened further, and there is a bone-deep weariness to her, none of the usual elegance in her limbs.
“I was worried about internal bleeding,” I say, “but none of your ribs felt damaged beyond a bad bone bruise, perhaps.” My stomach twists, some part of my mind already knowing what she might be about to say.
The muscles in the knight’s jaw strain and her eyes dart away, slippery as silk. Then her gaze captures mine again. “No, not when you last examined me,” she replies slowly, like she’s measuring each word. “But your people have . . . visited me since then.”
Guilt consumes me in a furious gale, just as vicious as the Godwinds that barrel across the Sundered Lands. “We don’t want to hurt you,” I murmur. “It would be easier if you cooperated.”
The Lupa Nox stands up straight then, her eyes alight with a dark fire, every angle of her sharp features standing out like the edge of a knife. “Youdon’t want to hurt me, Ophelia,” she replies, her voice strained. “You don’t. But your knights, your priests? They want my blood.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “They may be angry about the people they’ve lost at your hand. But that is not the Way of Light. On the battlefield, yes, we cannot allow you to slaughter our people. But here, within our walls? No.” I dare to look at her again, and she is so much wolf, so little woman.
“Lift up my shirt, then,” she hisses.
My face burns at her words. I gather myself, moving more easily thanks to the salve, and close the distance between us.
With a shaking hand, I gather the hem of her blouse—loose, untucked from her waistband, thankfully—and slowly raise the fabric. The linen is stiff with sweat and grime, I notice, but then the planes of her muscled abdomen become visible to me and I gasp.
Bruises gobble up the floral tattoos that seem to cover every inch of her, twisting the lovely, elegant designs into something ruinous. One side of her stomach is a deep blue-black, almost the same color as her eyes but sickly, like the shade has been perverted. I drop her shirt, glancing up at her face. Up close, I can see one eye is slightly swollen and her split lip looks like it may have reopened.
“I suppose you’re right,” she says in the ghost of a whisper, dark eyebrows knotting together. “I did not cooperate. I would not give them what they wanted.”
I swallow hard, clutching at the pillars of my belief, the fences that have hemmed in my life and my mind. These are, after all, extraordinary circumstances, I tell myself, though all I can see is the purpling shadows on her skin, the pain such blows must have caused. But she is the Lupa Nox, after all. She has taken so many of our people between her teeth, torn their throats in two, salted the earth with their blood.
“This, Ophelia,” she says, her breath stirring the loose strands of hair around my face, “is the truth of your God.”
My hand clutches at my skirts, and my tongue leaps to decry her blasphemy. But this is not idle conversation—I am meant to persuade her. Convert her. It is, after all, the only way I can save us both. And with every watchful glance of the Holy Guard, every blow of the flail, every desperate prayer, I feel closer and closer to damnation, to an eternity spent in the fires of Inferna.
“What, exactly, do you think about the First Son?” I ask, preparing a strip of flannel with chamomile-infused vinegar to clean her split lip.
The knight lets out a long laugh, dark and low. When I look up at her, that dangerous mouth is curved into something arch and unkind.
“Namely that He is a liar and your city is built on bones,” she tells me, her tone airy, as if she’s stating a fact.
My heart pounds against my chest, every bit of air in my lungs fighting to bring praise to His name. Despite all the destruction that Sergio has wrought, the curl of doubt I feel about Renault, they are still mortal, still fallible, perhaps. I do not doubt my God, so I quell the urge.
“How is He a liar?” I ask, reaching forward to dab at her split lip. She heals fast—there’s only a bit of dried blood and a shallow wound. I don’t—can’t—meet her gaze as I work.
“The Sepulchyre does not wish to fight you like this,” the knight says, and there’s a weariness in her tone I don’t understand. I can feel her dark eyes searching for mine, but I keep my gaze averted. “We want this war to end, too.”
Unease tightens in my stomach. How wonderful it would be to lap up the words dripping from her mouth like honey, to taste the sweetness of this other world the knight offers on my tongue.
I tuck the used cloth into a side pocket of my kit and search for a tincture for her ribs. She’ll need a physician with Mysterium, though—I can’t fix such damage on my own. When I turn back to her, the candles sputter as if a breeze has tumbled through the cell, deepening the sharp angles of her beautiful features.
“You have no reason to believe me,” she says with a sigh, her shoulders sagging as she examines me, “but it’s true.”
Without thinking, I measure out a full dropper of the tincture and raise it to her mouth, like I would with any other patient.But the knight isnotany other patient. Something like a flame unfurls low in my belly, sweeping up to my chest, making the place between my thighs throb mercilessly. With a trembling hand, I hold the dropper to her lips. Her gaze locks onto mine, and I do not have the strength to pull away. My throat constricts as her lips part, like the blossoming of a rare flower. It takes me several seconds to release my finger from the top of the dropper and administer the tincture.
As I pull away, my heart fluttering, the tip of the knight’s tongue darts out to moisten her lips. For some reason, this makes my blood pound against my skin, as if the sin living beneath may burst out and consume me entirely. I can find it within myself to resist the knightorresist her lies of a different world; I cannot do battle with both at once. But I try anyway.
“I grew up in a small village,” I tell her, tucking the dropper into the same pocket as the dirty flannel. “I don’t remember much, but the Sepulchyre raided when I was a child and killed my mother. The Host took me in. Gave me food, clothing, shelter, a vocation. Taught me all there is to know of the world and the First Son. The War of the Sundering only happened because the Sepulchyre would not allow Him to establish Lumendei. He was willing to give you the entire continent except for this one holy city for His people, but you refused. And now much of our land is destroyed, haunted by strange beasts infected with your cursed goetia, tortured by the endless gale of Godwinds and their dangerous Nocturnes, luring in anyone who gets close enough with the voices of those they’ve loved and lost.”
