Page 28 of Blood of the Fairest

As I wait for these men to decide whether they like having their limbs attached, one of the X-marked doors opens.

A plague doctor emerges, his black coat and hat a shadow through the mist. Vials, herbs, and iron tools hanging from his belt clink softly as he turns toward us, planting a cane.

The dark glass eyes of his beaked, bone-white mask reveal nothing behind them, yet I can feel his attention latch onto Verena.

One of the lechers swears about the doctor being creepy.

Another whispers, "Shh, are you trying to get us killed? That's the White Mask," before they all scurry away, down a different alley.

The White Mask says nothing, only watching the woman in my arms.

I meet his stare. "Heal her. Whatever price you ask, I will pay."

The puddle ghost said to expect this legendary healer to be unwilling, yet he merely nods and walks closer. The sweet scents of his medicinal herbs waft over me along with his own soul-scent, much like rosemary.

Is he going to tend to her injuries right here on the street?

When he removes one black glove and reaches for Verena's face, a wave of vicious protectiveness catches me by surprise.

I tense, bundling her closer to me. "You were just with the infected. Must you touch her?"

"Yes."

Resigned, I watch as the White Mask's bare fingertips brush over the thin cut my knife left on her cheek. I think he is examining how deep the wound is—until the injury seals instantly, vanishing so not even the hint of a scar remains on her beautiful skin. The bruise on her chin also fades quickly.

My eyes widen.

I have witnessed instances of magic before. I myself carry runes upon my body which occasionally grant talisman-like magical abilities, including the one I used to put Verena to sleep before I took her to the faerie. These runes were another boon I was gifted after hunting monsters north of Hamelnmark.

And then, of course, there is my curse.

But anyone who uses such strong magic this easily…

He must be one of the witchfolk.

Without a word, he moves on to healing Verena's broken fingers. He also heals her other hand, which has a scabbed-over cut I didn't notice earlier.

His fingers brush over her scalp—but my eyes narrow when he twists a thick lock of her dark red hair around his finger, ever so briefly, in a motion that can only be admiration.

The White Mask touches her healed cheek once more, as if it is the most fragile glass. I can barely hear his words, so quiet is his whisper.

"My queen. At last."

"Remove your touch from this sleeping woman," I warn quietly. He pulls away reluctantly, sliding his glove back on as I remain tense. "You hail from Isenmere?"

He must, to recognize Reinhilde's face as the queen's.

But he ignores my question, taking a small step away. His white mask makes his voice sound strange.

"Return her to safety, Beowulf."

He knows me by name?

Perhaps he knows northern settlers in Hamelnmark who have described my appearance. Outside of my homeland, most only know me by the obnoxious titles incessantly heaped upon me.

I nod in reply, before something crosses my mind. "They say you can heal curses."

"Some."