44. Poisoned
Chapter forty-four
Poisoned
T he sound of galloping horses stirred me from a light, restless sleep.
I opened my eyes to find the glass window only an inch from my face, the sky outside barely beginning to lighten from onyx into a steely blue.
Dawn was still a fair way off. I’d paced the length of my bedroom long into the night, occasionally trying to reason with the House or make a bargain for my release from the bedroom, but I must have fallen asleep when I eventually conceded and took up watch by the window.
There had been nothing to see. My window provided a view across the back gardens and the loch, and the shadows remained undisturbed all night.
Scrubbing the sleep from my eyes, I pushed away from the window and shuffled around on the seat to face my door. Absolute silence enveloped the House as if all of the occupants were fast asleep, and I wondered if Wren and Lucais had come back yet.
I checked the doorknob. Locked.
Right as I was about to recommence cussing out the House, there was a crash in the hallway. Another blanket of eerie silence followed, and I pulled my leg back, ready to kick at the door until the House let me out.
The flick as the locks switched stopped me.
When I pulled it open, I found the hallway empty. The walls flickered with shadows cast by the faint candlelight from the sconces, and the air was chilly. I swept my gaze down both ends of the hall before I stepped outside.
Something wet and sticky touched my bare feet, and I looked down to find the carpet smothered with blood. The trail ended a few feet away, just before a corner of the hallway. I followed the river of blood towards the doorway that Wren had been standing in front of the previous night.
Glass was shattered on the floor, a cabinet of magical relics was pushed on its side, and a blood-soaked body was lying slumped over in the middle of the mess.
The blond hair was more familiar to me than my own reflection.
Wren.
Stifling a scream, I dropped to my knees and scooted across the shards of glass, covering my hands with my sleeves and being careful to keep my bare feet elevated behind me. When I was close enough to touch his outstretched hand, I grabbed it and began to shake his arm.
“Wren,” I said, my voice trembling. “Wren, wake up.”
He was clad in black leather, slick with moisture, but there were no visible injuries. I found myself praying to the human gods that we were not lying in his blood.
“Wren,” I repeated, louder. “Wren, wake up! ”
He cracked open a bloodshot eye and swore at me. “Let me sleep, heathen.”
His eyes closed before he could see the disbelieving look I gave him, so I dug my knuckles into his rib cage and shouted his name. The groan that rumbled out of his chest turned my blood into ice.
It was filled with pain. He was injured, but I couldn’t tell where .
Moving closer to him, I pressed the palm of my hand against his cheek and brushed the hair back from his face. “Wren, you’re hurt. You need to move. You’re lying in broken glass.”
Both eyes flew open, his gaze going straight to the overturned glass cabinet. Before I could say anything else, he shot to his feet, swaying like he’d spent the night consuming more of that faerie wine instead of hunting down caenim beyond the wards.
He leaned against the wall and examined the mess on the ground with dazed, half-lidded eyes. “What have you done to me?” he demanded. “Why have you made such a mess?”
I didn’t have it in me to react to the absurd accusation because my eyes were trained on the fleshy spike protruding from his side.
It was not a weapon, nothing like a sword or a knife. The spike looked like it was meant to be part of another creature, like a giant faerie-sized splinter, and was leaking a watery purple fluid from both the end shoved into his stomach and the raw side where it had broken off from its original owner.
“What happened?” I breathed.
“I think I should be asking you that question,” he drawled, struggling to keep his eyes open. He pointed a shaking hand towards the broken cabinet. “Clearly, you attacked me.”
“What?”
He swayed, eyes shuttering, and I didn’t have time to protect my hands and feet from the broken glass. I rushed over to him, wincing at the slices against my heels, and caught him before he fell back to the ground.
By the High Mother, he is heavy.
With my elbows underneath his armpits, I threw all of my strength into holding him upright as I dragged him backwards. My feet were screaming at the additional weight, pushing them deeper into the pieces of glass that had stuck to my skin, so I closed my eyes and put all of that pain into yelling out for Batre.
“Batre! Batre! Somebody! Help! ”
Wren stirred in my arms, struggling to get to his feet again. I kept my hands on his biceps as he straightened, bracing a hand against the wall for support. He was floating in and out of awareness, so I screamed out for help again as I tugged his arm and started to walk towards the nearest door.
Balancing on one foot at a time, I brushed as much of the glass from my feet as I could, trying not to react to the sensation of blood trickling down from where it had broken through my skin.
Wren followed me obediently, his eyes beginning to glaze over.
The closest doorway wouldn’t open, though I shoved against it with all my might, so I urged him around the corner and down towards my bedroom instead. Halfway there, he gained back his awareness and shook off my hands.
Confident that he could stand by the time we made it to my room, I left him leaning against the doorframe and sprinted into the bathroom to wet some washcloths.
When I came back, he was staring at my bed suspiciously.
“You’re very pretty,” he said without looking at me. “So please don’t take this the wrong way.”
Frowning, I ignored his nonsense and started wiping the blood from his face with a warm washcloth.
He swatted my hand away. “Please,” he said, his voice clear and strong. “I have a mate.”
My chest ached with a sudden pang as I realised what he was thinking, despite the fact that he was still out of his mind. “So do I,” I muttered, turning my attention to the spike in his side. If I move it, he could bleed out, couldn’t he? How am I supposed to deal with High Fae injuries?
“You do?” Wren swayed against the doorframe. “He’s a very lucky man.”
“Come and lay on the bed, please.” I placed a hand on the small of his back and gestured towards it.
“I told you—”
“Wren!” I shouted, startling him. “Please. You’re injured, and I need to get help.”
He gave me a confused sideways glance. “Who?”
“You,” I groaned.
“No, you said Wren. Wren is injured. What happened to him?”
“Oh, for High Mother’s sake—”
“Wren!” He was shouting. “Wren- lock ! Where are you? Wren- lock !”
I almost smothered him with my hand, but I figured his insanity was loud enough to draw attention, and we needed help. “ Please go to the bed.”
He rolled his eyes but sauntered towards the bed and lay down. Somehow, he remained completely oblivious to the spike sticking out of his stomach. I didn’t want to leave him, but I had to go for help, so I placed one of the washcloths across his forehead and turned towards the door.
Batre was standing there, wide-eyed, and I sagged against the nearest bedpost in relief.
“By the Elements,” she whispered. “He’s been stung by a locust. We need to take out the spike.”
“A locust?” I repeated with uncertainty. “Like a grasshopper?”
She gave me a stern look as she rushed over to the bed. “Not in Faerie, they’re not. That spike is poisoned, and every second it stays in his body, the poisoning is getting worse.”
I swore at the High Mother, at the Elements, at myself.
Batre wasted no time in pulling the spike from Wren’s stomach, immediately applying pressure to the wound with two of the damp cloths I handed to her. His scream almost sent me to my knees—a tortured sound, like the echo of pain I’d heard in my dreams every night for three months—
“We need more,” she told me.
I didn’t move.
His scream.
I’d heard it before.
Where have I heard it before?
“Aura! Towels!”
Batre’s voice startled me back to reality, and I nodded, mumbling an apology as I raced back into the bathroom to wet the remaining washcloths.
When I returned, she was unbuttoning his leather clothing, and he was glaring at her.
“Keep your hands to yourself,” he huffed, lifting a hand to stop her. “I am a person, not some piece of meat for you women to have your way with whensoever you like.”
“Hush,” she hissed, placing his hand back on the bed at his side. “You’ve been poisoned. I need to close the wound before we give you the antidote, or it will bleed straight out of you.”
“I’ve not been poisoned, wench,” he argued.
“Quiet,” I scolded him. “You’re not yourself. You’re unwell.”
His eyes fell upon my face, the golden light slowly leaking out of them. “You. This is your fault.”
Hurt stabbed through me, but I pushed it away. He was not himself. He was poisoned.
Wren turned his attention back to Batre, who had managed to rip open the buttons of his shirt and peel back the leather to expose his chest and the gaping wound on his side. She covered it with fresh cloths, slowing the bleeding.
“I’ve not been poisoned,” he repeated. He raised a hand, forefinger extended in my general direction. “If I am unwell, then it is her fault.”
I almost growled at him like some kind of feral animal. Even on the brink of death, he was still such an asshole.
He blinked a few times as he swung his gaze back to me. “I knew this would happen,” he murmured, beginning to slur as his eyes fought to slam shut again. “I’m so in love with you, it’s made me sick.”