Chapter 20
By midafternoon, the meadow and cottage were scenes of bustling activity, something his kigara would’ve no doubt disliked. Balar would apologize to her when he could.
And he would. He’d get that opportunity, for she would recover. There was no other choice.
His terror and his anger sat heavily in his chest, bearing down on his lungs and making it difficult to breathe. Balar didn’t allow that to stop him, though. His Imogen needed him, now more than ever. He wouldn’t fail her.
When Diar returned with Sofie Brádaigh, a renowned healer, in his arms, Balar already had water boiling and was in the process of cleaning Imogen. While he allowed the expert to take over her care, he remained nearby, always ready to lend a hand as Sofie got to work.
He was there to hold Imogen’s hand and brace her as Sofie cleaned and rebound the leg. He washed her face with cool water and brushed her hair after she fell into a dead faint, then propped her in his arms when Sofie held a tonic to her lips.
His chest wouldn’t stop rumbling, but he kept it to a purr with sheer will. Imogen needed his comfort and strength now, not his fury. He was saving that for later.
Finally, it was time to peel Imogen out of her clothes and put her in something more comfortable.
Sofie arched a brow. “And are the two of you officially mated yet?”
“She is kigara,” Balar answered. “Her health is most important. I can control myself.”
“I’m not a prude myself, but how would Imogen feel about you seeing her bare?”
If their last interaction was any clue, then not well. Not yet at least. Balar’s ears swung backward, and Sofie nodded.
“I can manage. I’ll call when I’m finished.”
Balar grumbled at his dismissal but did as he was told.
Stepping out into the main room of the cottage, he occupied his mind by considering what else needed to be done.
Pots of water were boiling for cleansing and making tonics.
He’d already cleaned up Shadow’s waste from what had to be at least a day stuck inside.
The windows had been opened to allow in fresh air even as a fire roared beneath the mantel.
Movement caught his eye, and he watched through the open front door as Akila landed in the meadow. Balar strode quickly to meet him.
“Sorcha and Orek are on their way. They’ve packed saddlebags with supplies. Shouldn’t be another hour,” reported Akila.
“Thank you, urum-ka.”
His usually jovial cousin nodded gravely at the cottage. “How is she?”
“The healer is with her now.” That was all he dared say. Between Sofie’s knowledge and his own determination, though, Imogen would recover. He’d found her in time.
Clapping a hand on Balar’s shoulder, Akila asked, “What else can I do, akash-ab?”
Balar took a long breath, trying to clear his head. Soren and Kiri had the animals well in hand and would soon be aided by Sorcha. Diar had already set off again, retracing Imogen’s route through the forest to see if he could find any clues or explanations.
That left, “She has a sister on a farm somewhere outside Granach. She should be told. Ask in town—Emelda will likely know.”
“Consider it done.” And with a running start, he flung himself back into the sky, pushing up through the break in the canopy.
Balar hurried back into the cottage, the line between his heart and Imogen’s pulling taut. Stopping just short of the threshold, he scratched at the doorframe.
“Yes, come in. Almost done.”
He entered to find Imogen propped up against pillows, her nightgown over her top half with the thin skirts gathered in her lap.
“Come lift her, if you will.”
Balar was there in a moment, carefully lifting Imogen beneath her back and knees as Sofie straightened her nightgown. When Balar placed Imogen back onto the bed, she was clean and properly dressed. A little sigh puffed from her lips, and her head lolled to the side.
“That will have tired her out. What she needs is a good long rest.” Sofie reached to pull the blankets back up to cover her, sparking Balar’s memory.
Reaching back into the main room, he snagged the paper package he’d brought from Granach. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he’d purchased it from Emelda. Undoing the twine and tossing away the brown paper, he unfolded the soft blanket and laid it across Imogen.
She rewarded him with another sigh, her head turning toward him.
“I hope you like it, urisá,” he murmured. He tucked her in, fussing over the folds of the blanket, before stealing a small kiss on her cheek. She wasn’t as clammy as before, and that gave him hope.
“I’m sure she will,” Sofie said kindly. “She’ll tell you herself soon enough.”
“You swear it?” Balar rumbled, not looking up from Imogen.
“Healers never swear to things, occupational hazard. But I can say that she’s young and strong. With a little help from us, she has every chance of recovering.”
He supposed he could swallow that. Like medicine, the truth didn’t have to taste good, so long as it did its work.
Passing a paw over her head, he pushed the fringe of hair off her forehead. He took heart to see that the line of consternation that’d been etched there had eased; she certainly looked more at peace. As though she was just in a deep sleep.
Balar sat with her while Sofie took the opportunity to lay out her healer’s things and make herself comfortable in Imogen’s bedchamber.
Although Balar considered he should say something, make conversation, he couldn’t bring himself to.
Sofie didn’t pry, her presence unobtrusive, and Balar was grateful.
He had nothing to say, really, other than wishing Imogen would hurry up and recover.
They watched over her in companionable silence until Balar heard his name called from outside.
“That will be Diar,” he said, getting to his feet.
“You go ahead. I’ll sit with her for a while.”
“Thank you, satana,” he said. Before stepping away, he bowed his head in respect. “I will be in your debt.”
“No debts, Balar. I’m happy to help.”
Straightening, Balar told her seriously, “When I called you for aid, you came. Know that should you ever need it, I shall answer your call.”
Sofie didn’t smile or wave off his words, instead meeting them with wide, awed eyes. She merely nodded, accepting his gratitude.
With one last gentle touch to Imogen’s cheek, Balar pulled himself away. It hurt, but he put one foot in front of the other. There would be time to watch over her, to see for himself every small change for the better.
For now, though, Balar would take care of everything else, ensure that there was nothing for her to worry about when she opened her eyes again.
Out in the meadow, Diar had indeed returned. Soren and Kiri had come to join him, and all three inspected a pile at Diar’s feet with faces wrinkled in disgust.
Balar could smell it before Diar said a word. Rusting iron caked in old blood.
A shiver of rage twitched between his wings.
“They walked into a trap. Many traps,” Diar growled. “This is just a few of them. They were everywhere along the path, well hidden under leaves.”
Picking one up by the chain, Balar’s nose wrinkled. He could smell not just animal blood but Imogen’s as well along the teeth. To a one, the release mechanisms had been tampered with, and the traps seemed almost purposefully rusty and dirty.
To inflict maximal pain and suffering.
The metal chain bent in Balar’s grip.
Dermott.
This was all that man’s doing. Taking another deep pull, ignoring how the scent of his kigara’s blood and fear soaked the metal, Balar could just smell that worm. He’d touched these traps. Set them.
Their placement and number couldn’t be a mistake.
These weren’t for a stray animal—they were a message.
Balar’s chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, his turuk inside him prowling just beneath the surface. He’d held back the worst of his rage, suppressed the violent instinct to maim the threat, and now it was time to unleash it.
His gaze met Soren’s.
His brother bowed his head in deference. “Go, seska. We’ll watch over her.”
Looking between his brothers, Balar said, “Guard your erēz until I return.”
“With our lives,” they vowed.
Pulling his shirt and kilt off, he handed them to Soren.
The change took hold within a breath, his body stretching and reforming. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t pleasant, his bones elongating and strengthening, sliding into new positions. His bulk expanded and his wings trembled as joints popped and muscles grew.
The shift took but a moment; perhaps it might’ve taken longer, with how little he’d shifted in his years here in the Darrowlands, but his turuk was ready.
The scent of blood and vengeance hung heavily in the air.
Falling forward onto all four limbs, Balar shook off the final lingering sparks in his nerves. When he next looked upon his brothers, it was with the sharper vision of his turuk form.
“Sha-het takal,” said Soren. Good hunting.
Imogen never told him where Dermott resided, but he didn’t need the information now. With a trap in his mouth and Dermott’s scent in his nose, his senses led him unerringly through the forest.
The trees watched on in silence as he ran between them, sentinels standing witness to his vengeance. Nothing crossed his path, every other animal in the forest sensible to stay out of his way.
It’d been a while since he ran in his four-legged form, and every stretch of muscle as he threw himself forward was a delicious pleasure. Bloodlust reddened his vision, and as he pounded the earth of the forest floor, Balar was only motion. An arrow loosed, aimed at its target.
Imogen’s lands were vast, but Balar found Dermott far too quickly. The worm was too close to his mate, had violated her land and trust and safety.
This ends now.