Marissa froze, then finished her work by the fireplace and scurried out the door. Shea examined me, eyes dark as flint.
“I understand you have no reason to trust me, but no one in this house wants to harm you. You would be dead if it weren’t for my father, Anya.”
She said my name like a challenge, and we continued our staring contest until she broke eye contact to set down the basket, her hard words and attitude in stark contrast to her youthful appearance. She lit the lamp at last, illuminating the side of the room where I sat, then pulled up a chair and silently rewrapped my wounds. The alcohol stung, but thankfully the process was short.
“I’ll bring your meal to you,” she offered, coming to her feet. Before I could decide on the right words to thank her, she retrieved her book and departed.
The room was somehow colder without her, and lonely, even though it was only minutes before she reentered to deliver my food. Still, I did not ask her to stay. The humans didn’t need to know that I was mentally as well as physically weak.
Shea left to join her family, and I ate. Then with the feeble burst of strength the food provided, I stumbled to the wardrobe. My footsteps felt thunderous, and every time my body swayed, its momentum felt impossible to stop. It yearned for the floor, and a near-silent moan of misery escaped from me. Catching the door of the wardrobe, I hauled myself out of my hunchbacked posture, my arm smarting where Falk’s bullet had struck me. It was by far the lesser of my injuries, but it felt like barbs hid beneath the skin regardless.
I swung open the wooden armoire door and fell to my knees before my pack. Reaching farther back, I found what remained of my bloodstained clothes. Beneath the washed but warped cloth lay the Queen’s Royal Anlace, solid, sharp, eight inches long and easy to conceal. I took it with me as I crawled to the bed, dragging along my satchel, and I tucked the blade under my pillow. Then I sorted through my possessions to see what supplies, if any, the humans had left untouched. Except for my travel papers, which I would need to venture farther into the Warckum Territory, everything was in its place: my jerky, my medical supplies, my long-knife...and my flask of Sale. I held it in a shaky hand, watching the firelight take stabs at the small container’s metal exterior as if attempting to drain what it contained. Sale—the drink that rejuvenated my people, speeded our healing and made us warm inside and strong out. I struggled with the cork, then put the bottle to my mouth, ready to endure whatever it took to regain my vitality. But at the last instant, I stopped and frantically scrubbed my lips clean of the amber liquid. Sale killed humans. The elemental magic of the Faerie drink overpowered their systems and poisoned them. Without my wings, was I now human? Would Sale kill me, too?
Wanting to test my nature, I held my hand over the pitcher on the bedside table and concentrated my life force, reaching for the water it contained, trying to connect with it; but there was no kinetic tingle in my fingers, and no accordant ripple on the water’s surface. If it weren’t for my eyes, I would have believed the pitcher empty.
“I’m right here,” I keened, my voice an urgent whisper. The liquid continued sleeping, as though I didn’t exist. Was this how it felt to be dead? Not a part of anything, cut off from your soul? Was this what it was like to be human?
Biting my lip, I buried the flask of Sale in the bottom of my pack, trembling at the possibilities it held. That drink could either heal me or leave me dead, and I wasn’t yet willing to take that bargain.
I lay down in bed, my fist clenched around the hilt of the Anlace in readiness to attack or defend. The vile thing—it was the reason I’d left Chrior. It had frightened me away. Hot tears stung my eyes. I never cried. I never cried.
I needed to return to the Road, now stained with my blood as well as the blood of the humans and Fae who had died in that final battle. I didn’t know how many precious drops of magic might still be inside me, but I had to try to get home before all of it was gone.
* * *
I woke after only a few hours with a pounding head and a body-wide ache—even in sleep, my muscles had been tensed to fight. I unclenched my jaw, rubbing my cheeks and temples, and scanned the humble room. Everything was gray in the morning light. It was so early even the colors were asleep.
A clock was ticking somewhere in the house, but there were no other noises. To all intents and purposes, I was alone. Reflexively, I tried to unfurl my wings to hover to the wardrobe, only to be met with intense pain—the nerves in my back were reaching out to make contact with appendages that no longer existed, and the resulting spasms, while they could probably have been called phantom pain, felt as real as the stabs from any blade.
I stepped softly, not wanting to wake anyone. My balance remained uncertain, forcing me to concentrate on my footing as though I were a young child. Teasing open the wardrobe door, I shuffled through the clothing stored inside—dresses of wool and linen in bland colors hung side by side, none of which would do for traveling. I knelt and slid open a drawer to find leggings and warm woolen tunics.
I threw off the nightgown the humans had lent me, thinking too late of my injuries as my shoulder blades protested the movement. Nausea undulated through me, and I swallowed hard, closing my eyes and steeling myself to vomit. Luckily, not enough remained in my stomach from the previous evening’s meal for me to suffer this indignity. I heaved a few deep breaths, then stood before the mirror to get dressed.
Bandages still swathed my chest and back, bandages I nervously unraveled before the looking glass. Part of me thought it would be wiser not to know, but the dominant part wanted to see the evidence, to see what those hunters had done to me, as though my fortitude in facing the reality of their actions might be some revenge against them. But at the first glimpse of my stitched and broken skin, the sickening proof of an involuntary amputation, I hurriedly rewrapped the wounds. Not now. I couldn’t deal with it now. Getting home was all that mattered.
I put on the clothes from the drawer, assuming they belonged to Shea, for they fit me reasonably well. She was shorter and stockier than I was, but my boots came far enough up my calf to cover the few inches of bare skin left by her leggings, and the bagginess of the tunic was negligible. After gathering my weapons and my bag of supplies, wincing away the ache of every minute addition of weight, I crept out the bedroom door.
In the main room of what I had deduced was a simple house, the ticking I’d heard was amplified. The tall clock that stood across from me was made of rough wood, but it had been carved with care, and had probably been built in the same space it occupied. Chairs sat before a barren fireplace, a rickety table took up most of the room and a kitchen crowded the only available corner. The floor was of raw wood, uneven beneath my boots.
The light outside was growing warmer, and I hastened to the front door. This was my best chance to return to Chrior. But before I could touch the handle, the door swung inward and a cold wind gusted over me, it’s prying fingers finding every fault in my woolen armor while it ushered in a man so tall he cast me into shadow. I could smell blood on him, blood and gunpowder, and the memory of Falk’s Pride flashed in my head as though I were in the square again, shaking in the mud, counting the fallen. I cowered and stumbled away from him, losing the more feeble balance I had without my wings. As my shoulder hit the wall, my back revolted, and I screamed. I would not pass out; I would not give up this opportunity to reach my homeland.
The man was growling something in a deep voice and coming closer, looming over me. I fumbled to protect myself, and my hand fell upon the Anlace just as his fist closed around my arm. I lashed out, and his yowl told me I’d made contact. Taking advantage of the moment, I scrambled to my feet, abandoning my pack. My heart was rising into my throat, and I gagged as I lurched through the door. There were more voices emanating from the house now, and I thought I detected the sounds of pursuit. Without looking back, I fled for my life in a direction I hoped would lead me to the Bloody Road.
CHAPTER FIVE
BLACK MAGIC
I ran and ran, winter birds cackling above my head, the snow turning my hands and wrists red with cold every time I stumbled