This will be fun, p.22
This Will Be Fun, page 22
Clare and Vandra capitalized on the lull by charging toward a massive column of shimmering amethyst. It would be large enough to create a barrier between the henchmen and the others, and it also seemed to hold the entire cave together. Elowen joined them, knowing that they needed as much force as possible to dislodge it. They were making decisions together using only instinct. And it was working.
The load-bearing column cracked. Elowen shoved again, channeling every bit of her pain and fury into the action. The Fraternal Order would never have this. They wouldn’t win.
After another satisfying crack, the column began to sway, preparing to tip over.
Vandra turned to Elowen and smiled. “Good job, darling.”
One of the henchmen, taking advantage of Vandra’s distraction, grabbed her, right before the column crashed to the ground. Vandra and the two henchmen got stuck on one side of it, with Clare and Elowen on the other. Shimmering crystal surfaces began to tremble without the support of the smashed amethyst.
“You need to run!” Vandra yelled. “The walls are about to fall down!”
“I can’t just leave you!” Elowen shouted back. Crystals started pouring down, first in drizzles, then in sheets, like a dazzling prismatic rain.
The henchmen shook dislodged dirt off their clothing with grins on their faces. Elowen could sense their growing excitement. They took great pleasure not just in the unfolding chaos, but the promise of killing the one and only Vandra Ravenfall, even if it meant they’d die doing it.
“I will be fine!” Vandra said. She kneed one of the henchmen in the groin while elbowing the other. “Get out of here immediately!”
It was Clare who stopped Elowen’s hesitation. “She has survived this long without you. Trust that she can survive this, too. We must go.”
Startled, Elowen broke from Clare’s grasp to grab Beatrice by the shoulder, yanking her off Myke to guide them toward the tunnel. She wasn’t saving Beatrice, per se. She was just doing the logical thing.
The shower of crystal destruction followed them as the three retraced their steps, exiting the way they’d entered. Beatrice was slower than usual, and Elowen almost chastised her for it, until she looked back to see Beatrice grabbing her side. Myke had no doubt nicked her with his dagger, and in true Beatrice form, she’d said nothing of it.
“Let me,” Elowen whispered, careful not to let Clare overhear. He was busy leading the charge, shoving fallen crystals out of the way to clear their path to freedom. Elowen almost said Let me help, but that’s not what this was. If Beatrice was hurt, she was going to be insufferably silent about it, and it would slow everything down.
“Fine,” Beatrice hissed. The pain must have been immense, or she’d never have agreed so quickly. She held out her hand for Elowen to grab.
When Elowen latched on, she closed her eyes, taking the opportunity to use the full extent of her powers. If she focused, she had the ability to completely absorb other people’s emotions. She could pull out the feelings and take them on as her own, then dissolve them into nothingness inside her.
She did not want to take on all of Beatrice’s pain. That would have been exhausting—and yes, painful—but it also would have taken too much time. She took off a bit, softening the edges, and even that much made her break out into a sweat. Beatrice really was carrying a lot.
Beatrice seemed to almost say thank you, but must have thought better of it, and they charged forth.
When they emerged from the cave, the fresh air tasted bitter on Elowen’s tongue. She gulped it down, heaving, all of the adrenaline hitting her after the fact. She shook as violently as the crystal caves did, while the sounds of shattering walls still rang through the hollow hill.
Elowen had let Vandra die in there. And worse, Elowen knew she could not send herself back into the trees to get over it. It hadn’t even worked the first time. She was not over a single thing that had happened to her ten years ago, from Galwell’s death to her stolen moments with Vandra. She’d already held too tightly to all of that, and now she’d made it worse. She’d asked Vandra to come. She’d let Vandra protect her. And she’d done nothing in return but put Vandra in danger.
She has survived this long without you, Clare had said as the walls were coming down.
And she didn’t survive knowing me again, Elowen thought. The first seed of devastation began blooming in her chest, pressing against her lungs, threatening her ability to breathe.
“Are you all just going to stand there gawking, or should we get on with our quest?”
Elowen whipped around, finding Vandra feeding Killer some straw she’d plucked from the ground outside the cave. The fallen amethysts had scattered through her dark, flowing locks like some of the fashionable hair jewels that were popular many years back, and the fractured crystals clung to her cloak in constellatory patterns. She was radiant in all ways she could be, from her clothing to her smile to her mood.
“How did you—” Elowen asked, faltering. The sight of Vandra stole all of her breath.
Vandra petted her horse’s mane. She wore no distress in her emotions, or even the slightest hint of worry. “There was a faster exit on the other side. Without you three around to distract me, I found it quite easily.”
If Vandra wasn’t upset, why was Elowen? And why did it bother her so much that Vandra was fine? It was exactly what she wanted, and yet, Elowen found herself sulking as she walked over to the horses, confused by her own pain. Perhaps it was the implication that Vandra had an easier time without Elowen. Even though Elowen herself had just thought it, she didn’t appreciate Vandra confirming the assumption.
“It isn’t all good news, though,” Vandra continued. “Myke is still alive. I could not reach him in time. He went out a different way than all of us. We need to be on our way at once.”
Climbing atop his steed, Clare mumbled, “This was all for nothing.”
Elowen had been too distracted by her own feelings to first notice how angry Clare was. It was much like the caves—a shimmering fury on the verge of collapse. For the first time, Elowen felt like she was seeing a reflection of herself in him. This was what it was like to be around someone who did not shield their hurts. Where others may have been put off by this, Elowen found herself charmed.
Good for Clare. The realm needed more curmudgeons.
“It wasn’t actually,” Beatrice said. She hoisted herself onto her horse with a grin that only faltered when her injured side had to bear some of her mounting. There was no time to manage her pain further or bandage the wound. She would have to endure.
“How so?” he snapped back.
“I went into Myke’s memories and found out where Hugh is,” she said with no shortage of satisfaction. “He’s near the Straits of Baldon.”
When she’d thrust Myke toward Beatrice, she’d hoped Beatrice would comb his memories for Hugh’s location. And she had. They’d executed a wordless plan to perfection. Elowen might have been excited, if she wasn’t so confused.
So much for conjurating Lettice to yell at her. Elowen might need to conjurate her for the very reason most people used heart healers—to talk about her romantic feelings.
22
Clare
They rode for an hour deeper into the woods, following no path except Vandra. Rocks and caves marked the way descending into the forested darkness, the cover of the dense foliage choking out the light.
The decline followed the group’s spirits. Though they’d escaped their enemies, Clare felt no rush of victory. He found himself in his head, replaying the past hours. The return of Myke Lycroft did not upset him the most. Not the reemergence of probably the vilest man in the realm, intent on recovering the Sword of Souls. Not even the inevitable peril of Mythria, and so on and so forth.
No, what upset him was Beatrice. Beatrice, who’d done exactly what he wished he could not have predicted.
He welcomed the release from his rumination when Vandra slowed her horse, her eyes scouting the forest in evaluation, searching sharply for hidden risks. Evidently deciding they were far enough from the possibility of the Order’s pursuit, she stopped the questing party.
“I’ll water the horses,” she declared, dismounting Killer in front of the mouth of the dark cave where she’d paused them.
“I’ll help,” Beatrice volunteered with unusual haste.
Vandra shot her a look. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You’re injured.”
Clare’s head whipped to Beatrice. Fear clenched suffocating claws into his chest. Injured? Wasn’t what she’d pulled in the cavern overwhelming enough? Would the Ghosts never give him peace?
“What? When?” he demanded. He could not, he found, pin down which question he needed spoken first. They rushed out of him in clumsy chaos. “How—why—why didn’t you say anything?”
“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” she replied. He recognized the shortness of someone wishing to forestall a conversation.
Yet when she leaned to dismount her horse, she stopped short, wincing. He saw her knuckles whiten on the reins.
He was off his horse instantly, rushing over the rocks, reaching her the fastest he possibly could. While fear’s clutches hadn’t released him, what joined them was even more powerful. Anger, lancing into his soul, hissing into him like fresh-forged steel. She’s injured. They hurt her. His vision red, he scoured her for signs of harm.
He could find nothing before Beatrice waved him away, irritated.
“Get off your horse,” he ordered, knowing she would only continue obstructing him.
She held her chin high.
“I’m fine here,” she informed him. “I’ll sleep on the horse. It’ll be more comfortable than the bedroll.”
He was livid.
Fear did not merely grasp him now. Like the darkest magics, it possessed him. “You need tending,” he ground out.
She held his gaze, furious, until finally his suggestion prevailed. She started to dismount—then promptly winced, wobbled, and looked woozy and weak from the exertion. She lost her balance, sliding from the horse right into Clare’s arms. He wrapped his grip under her legs with gentle desperation, holding her aloft.
“Ghosts, I’m fine,” she insisted, yet her voice held no confidence.
He ignored her, not wanting to risk depositing her on her feet only for her knees to give out under her. He glanced to Vandra instead. “Healing supplies?” he demanded. The rest of his vocabulary was gone.
Vandra wordlessly tossed a small pouch from her belt, which landed in Beatrice’s lap. Vandra’s efficiency left him grateful—in one who’d quite recently made her money killing people, her instinct for compassion startled him.
The projectile’s presence only sharpened Beatrice’s glare.
“I’ll just help Vandra with the horses, then,” Elowen interjected. The women skittered off, obviously wishing distance from the sparring soon to occur.
Clare could not fault them. If Elowen, whose dourness was incomparable, feared the oncoming clash of Clare’s anger and his patient’s stubbornness, the fighting was certain to prove fearsome.
Which it would. Good Ghosts, Clare was going to nurse her so furiously. He was going to unleash the full strength of his fury on helping ease her pain. In the healing caress of his experienced fingers, she would know his wrath. Yes, he was going to nurse the living shit out of her.
“How dare you—” she seethed.
He marched into the cave, carrying her as one would a mellifluously yowling lyricat left out in the rain.
The cave welcomed them ominously. No crystals grew here. The obsidian walls consumed light, leaving only the shimmering indication of the moisture dripping down the dank walls. It was no place for escapades or escapes, no place for heroism. It was the manner of underworld fit for fugitives, for last resorts and lost hope. The sort of place where wounded creatures would go for quiet to—
No. He would venture into despair no further.
He lowered Beatrice. Gently, he set her down on the rough ground.
“Don’t. Move,” he uttered. “Except to put pressure on your wound.”
She eyed him, glaring. He met her gaze unafraid. Or, unafraid of her. Indeed, her resistant resentfulness was nothing next to the cavalcade of horrors conquering his heart. Injured. Injured. Injured. What the fuck did injured mean? He was riven in half, needing to know and horrified of what he might find. What if he exposed her wound only to find her vitally punctured, impossibly pale? What if minutes or moments from now her gorgeous eyes went unfocused, her precious chin drooping to her chest?
What would happen to him?
He was grimly pleased when she leaned back on the wall in silent, bitter surrender.
In the dark, he could not properly minister to her wound, and if she’d lost blood, cold would only draw her strength. While he did not wish to wait long, he needed firewood.
He ventured from the cave, returning in haste once he’d collected handfuls of dry wood from the woodland ground. As he stacked kindling on the edge of the cave and sparked the flame, feeding it wood until it raged strong, he fought to do the opposite in himself. He controlled his heart rate and his breathing despite the roar within him.
She’s injured. Lycroft struck her.
It was not the whole of his ire.
She was willing to sacrifice herself again.
Remembering how she offered herself to the Order in the crystal caves, he violently snapped a piece of wood for the fire. He could not handle the idea of her acting this way again. Discarding her life for others, offering herself up whenever the mouth of danger opened.
He was still fuming when the fire rose high into the cave’s darkness. “Let me see it,” he said upon returning to Beatrice.
“I’ll do it myself,” she replied, but her hand remained on her side, like she did not know where to start. She was maintaining pressure on the wound, he was gravely relieved to note. For once, she was doing what he’d asked.
He knelt in front of her. Fear had ceded to fury while he lit the fire. Now they resumed their clash on the field of his heart. Hands wavering, he pulled her cloak aside, fumbling over the heavy fabric of her bodice.
“Gentlemen are supposed to ask permission before they do that,” she remarked wryly, until she gasped with pain on the final word when his hands found the damp tear in the garment.
In her.
“We’ve firmly established I’m no gentleman, Beatrice. Not with you,” Clare retorted. Gone was every pretense, every self-presentation, every grasping reach for idealized heroism. Only one wish consumed him—her, safe.
The gash, his fingers’ gentle inquiry found, stretched long. Until he could examine her skin, he could not know the wound’s depth. He reached for the front of her bodice, where buttons and stays held the covering in place. His frantic fingers hesitated on instinct.
Beatrice had the gall to roll her eyes.
“If I told you to stop,” she challenged him, “would you?”
His mouth flattened. Now was not the moment for jabs concerning his honor or lasciviousness. “Are you telling me to stop?” he shot back.
She was silent. When she shook her head, it was the permission he needed to start viciously unbuttoning. The work was intricate and slow, but he did not want to destroy the garment. No concern for immodesty nor fashion restrained him—the clothing was the closest she had to armor. “You’ve obviously had practice undressing women,” she commented once he’d undone the first fasteners easily.
Unceasing in his work, he glanced up at her. “Don’t pretend to be surprised,” he growled, “and don’t try to distract me from my anger.” You’d have it easier convincing Vestryian nobles to cease espionage of each other, he wanted to say. Nothing could ever distract me in defense of you.
He did not need to. The wry fire in her eyes faded. She understood. In the wake of their conversation in Queendom, of course she did.
Watch the worst moment of my life.
Undoing the final buttons, he tugged the bodice off—careful not to rip the piece—exposing her chemise and leggings underneath. Dark red bloomed across the white linen at her side. While the fabric, mercifully, was not too dense with crimson, he nevertheless wondered how long she’d intended to ride with the wound open.
“It’s—” Beatrice ventured.
“Not a word.”
Silenced, she permitted his ministrations.
He grasped the hem of her chemise. The moment he feared. When he would wake up from the nightmare, or step further into one. Incongruously, Galwell’s were the words he heard in his head. Legends never wait.
He exposed the wound.
It wasn’t deep. Thank Ghosts, the gash wasn’t deep.
He exhaled, wondering whether she heard the shudder of relief. The boning of her bodice had caught much of the blade’s clean slice. He saw no deep penetration—nowhere the knife could have punctured her insides or her crucial veins. If he could mend her, preventing inflammation, Beatrice would live.
If.
Despite relief’s rush, the knot in his chest hardly loosened. Not hesitating, he reached into Vandra’s pouch, finding bandages and tinctures taken from hand magicians with gifts for healing. Methodically, calling on skills he’d not used in years from his bounty-hunting days, he commenced work cleaning and applying spelled salve to the gash. He welcomed every wince, every undulation of Beatrice’s skin, for they meant she drew breath.
When he finished, only bandaging the wound remained. Beatrice raised her arms, fighting pain’s grimace.
“Take my chemise off, please,” she ordered him.
He hesitated. On her warm side, his hand lingered. On her skin. Cream pale, with familiar freckles like gems in white gold.
The whole while he tended to her, he wasn’t thinking of her in a way to elicit desire. Her body was only the precious vessel of her life, something to be protected and healed. But her words distracted him powerfully. They reminded him of what else her body could do.
