Chapter 19 #2
Two goats wandered around the side of the house, poking around the garden and paddock. Otherwise, the meadow was still and silent. He couldn’t hear Imogen moving about anywhere. In fact, only the loose goats seemed to be home.
Balar crossed to the paddock, herding them toward the gate. The goats baaed gratefully, hustling through the opening.
They were met by the others, several trying to rush out.
Balar closed the gate quickly, keeping them inside.
His nose wrinkled at the strong scent of droppings.
As the goats crowded close to the gate, loudly complaining at him, he was able to see the dirty straw and droppings littering their stalls.
Their food and water troughs were empty, and several had what looked to be bandages around a leg, red blotches of dried blood staining the fabric.
Most concerning of all was Chestnut. She lay on her side in her stall, her belly rising with quick, shallow breaths. He didn’t know much about livestock, but even he knew it was dangerous for horses and donkeys to be laying on their sides for too long.
Something is wrong.
His concern mounted and his ears swiveled backward at the sound of frantic barking from the cottage.
Leaving the goats, Balar jogged to the front door, pressing his ear to it.
From the other side, he heard Shadow barking and scratching at the door. It wasn’t his happy, excited bark, but something higher, more worrying.
A slick, sludgy kind of alarm built in his chest as he pounded a fist on the door.
“Imogen? Imogen, are you there?”
Only Shadow’s barking answered him.
He knocked harder, calling her name, and considered checking around the cottage. But no, there wasn’t time. His turuk pushed at his chest, even the beast beginning to panic.
Balar tried the door and exhaled in relief to find it unlocked.
It swung open, and a black blur darted outside. Shadow circled his legs, barking manically.
Rushing inside, Balar put down his gifts as he called for Imogen.
Shadow pushed past him, running toward the threshold to her bedchamber. He stopped just short of it to turn and look at Balar pleadingly.
A roar and his own panic crammed his throat as he ran for her bedchamber. It only took about six strides, but it felt like an eternity, the cottage lengthening, the doorway always a little further away.
He skidded around the corner, throwing himself into the room.
“Imogen!”
There she lay on her bed, body convulsing in shivers.
Her hair lay matted to her skull with old sweat, her cheeks a ruddy color although the rest of her face was ashen.
Parched lips lay open, her teeth chattering beneath.
She lay above her blankets, one boot still on but her other leg bare, swollen, and bandaged.
A fetid smell permeated the room, and he knew without looking that whatever was beneath the bandage had become infected.
Falling to his knees beside the bed, Balar moaned mournfully as he passed his hands over her. He didn’t know where was safe to touch, feared anything would cause her pain.
“Imogen,” he called softly, “Imogen, it’s me.”
Her head turned toward the sound of his voice, and her eyes almost cracked open.
“That’s right, urisá, it’s me, I’m here.” He cradled her face in his paw and laid a wing over her. Every feather barb felt the heat she radiated, her body burning up with fever.
Brushing her sweaty hair back from her face, he purred and crooned in soothing tones.
Ibás, how long had she been like this? How long had she suffered?
Why did I stay away?
As gently as he could, Balar used a claw to cut away her soiled bandage. The fetid smell grew worse as the linen fell away. He hissed through his teeth to see the angry red of her flesh, pockmarked by a corona of evenly spaced punctures that oozed and bled.
The regular shape and spacing itched at his mind.
“What’s happened, Imogen?”
She moaned, nudging her cheek further into his palm. He watched as she lifted her hands. It took obvious effort, and his heart ached to watch her struggle. Balar almost stopped her, but she seemed determined to tell him something.
Three times, she lifted her hands, brought them together, and then seemed to pull them apart again. It was a strange motion, and after the third try, he caught her hands in his.
“Rest now. I’m here. I’ll see to everything. Just rest.”
He felt her sigh against his palm, and he hoped he didn’t imagine that her shivering had lessened.
Balar’s head fell to hers, and he pressed a kiss into her cheek. Her skin was salty yet cool, Imogen but wrong.
Inside his chest, his turuk seethed.
This was all wrong.
The strange wound on Imogen, the bandages on the goats and Chestnut, her odd gestures…
His stomach revolted when he realized—the iron teeth of a trap.
Kud, was that what she’d meant? She was motioning pulling apart the mouth of a trap?
Rage like Balar had never known seeped into his blood. He’d never hated before, not truly—not even Artash, his arrogant elder brother.
Today, Balar hated. He hated an idea, a theory, but it was enough.
He burned with it, would burn as surely as Imogen’s fever until he could make this right.
His turuk roared for vengeance, for justice.
His kigara had been hurt.
Unacceptable.
Balar himself trembled with his rage, and the second kiss he gave her wasn’t as gentle as it should’ve been. “I’ll be right back,” he promised. “I’ll make this right.”
As quickly and gently as he could, he moved her beneath her blankets, making sure she was covered and secure before he marched back out the front door.
In the middle of the meadow, Balar set a wide stance, threw back his head and roared.
The sound shook the trees, resonating far and wide through the forest. Birds jumped from their nests in terror, and he heard the goats bleating in fright.
But Balar roared and roared. Lips peeled back and stretched as wide as they could go, he bared his fangs at the world, the fates, the goddess, everything.
Let the whole cosmos hear him now and know that this was his mate and she would not be taken from him.
The world would have to go through him to get to Imogen, and he was a manticore with a mate to protect.
I’ve only just found her—you won’t take her from me!
Balar filled his lungs and roared again. And again. He roared and roared his rage, his panic, his terror.
He roared until the call was answered.
It hadn’t taken his brothers long. The four of them dove into the meadow like arrows, landing at a run. They didn’t stop until they all stood before him, wings lifted high and ears alert.
“Akash-ab,” murmured Akila.
“What’s wrong?” asked Soren.
“Something’s happened—Imogen’s with fever. Diar, go find Sofie Brádaigh. Bring her. Soren, Kiri, tend to the animals, they’re frightened and hungry. Akila, fetch Sorcha, some of the animals are hurt. Go. Now!”
Without question, his brothers moved. Diar and Akila threw themselves back into the sky as Soren and Kiri hurried off to tend the animals.
As for Balar, he ran back into the house. He needed to boil water. Start a fire. Clean the wound. Rebind it. Wash Imogen. Feed Shadow.
Find who did this—rip their head from their neck—gorge on their blood.
Later, he promised himself. When she opens her eyes, we’ll have our revenge.