Chapter 37
Blaze
The Bear is dead before he hits the ground.
There’s a crunch as he falls flat on his face, my dagger sticking out of his back.
His eyes are blank and staring, and the ghost of his last scream is still etched on his face.
He lies with his arm outstretched, hand curled into a fist. The brass knuckles gleam in the torchlight, the inlaid row of bear teeth all dripping blood.
The noise from the crowd sounds distant and distorted, as though I’m in a dream.
The Baron is apoplectic with rage, hollering at Garrick, who is utterly incapacitated – rolling on the wooden platform, clutching his bleeding leg.
My stomach lurches as I place one foot on the Bear’s spine and yank Silverclaw free.
Fox’s jaw is clenched tight, but choked, rasping sounds fight their way out of his mouth.
I kneel in front of him to inspect the wound.
It’s bad. The skin on his chest is shredded right down to his navel, the flesh torn and streaming.
I can only hope those incisors didn’t penetrate deep enough to puncture an organ.
‘Can you stand?’ I yell over the din.
Fox nods dazedly and grits his teeth as I help him to his feet. He doubles over, then staggers, drunk with pain.
I spot a flash of copper darting among the crowd.
‘This way.’ I pull Fox over to the portcullis. ‘Time to climb.’
He places one foot on the bottom rung, glances up and swallows. It’s barely ten feet yet it might as well be a hundred.
I take the lead and look back when I reach the top. Fox’s golden skin is ashen, with sweat beading on his forehead. Every movement looks excruciating. Twice he appears to almost lose consciousness. I haul him up the rest of the way, gasping with the effort.
‘Seize them!’ cries the Baron.
Those nearest to us begin to close in, then shrink back as I brandish my dagger. But I can’t fight off an entire province with a single weapon. We’re entirely surrounded. And if we reveal ourselves now, it’ll have all been for nothing.
Suddenly the crowd begins to part down the middle as people throw themselves aside to make way for something racing towards us at speed. My heart leaps as the air rings with the unmistakable clattering of hooves.
Cedar.
He skids to a halt in front of us. Fox leans heavily on my shoulder as he clambers into the saddle. I waste no time before swinging myself up behind him.
The Baron is howling with fury. ‘Stop them! Don’t let them get away!’
Cedar rears on his hind legs, tosses his head, then bolts through the crowd and out of the square.
I cling on for dear life, my arms wrapped tightly round Fox.
He’s clutching his wound as if attempting to hold his torn skin together.
My nose fills with the metallic tang of blood.
I burrow my face into Fox’s back as we ride, and squeeze my eyes shut.
When I open them again, the winding streets of Wellwall have been replaced by towering trees. Moonlight leaks through the branches, illuminating the path ahead. I flinch as something darts across it, but it’s only Scout – a streak of rust-orange fur.
‘That’s far enough,’ I say, pulling gently on the reins. ‘They won’t find us here.’
Cedar slows to a halt, and I slide off his back. Fox lets out a low groan as his feet hit the ground, and I thrust an arm out to steady him.
His slightly unfocused gaze comes to rest on my collarbone. ‘You’re hurt.’
I blink, incredulous. ‘Never mind me,’ I say, using the sleeve of my shirt to blot hastily at the thin gash left by Garrick’s knife. ‘I think your wound takes precedence here. Tell me what to do.’
‘Satchel,’ he murmurs.
I nod, then unfasten the bag from the saddle with trembling fingers and empty the contents on to the forest floor. Fox leans back against a tree, panting through clenched teeth.
I yank off my glove and drop to my knees, illuminating the pile of medical supplies with the glow from my brandmark.
Fox’s voice is gravelly. ‘I need essence of fenhallow.’
I rifle through the various vials, pots and pouches. ‘Come on, come on,’ I mutter. Then, mercifully, ‘Got it!’ I call, almost tripping in my haste to reach him.
‘I need to assess the damage,’ he grits out. ‘Could you …’
In the pale-gold light I watch his throat bob as he swallows.
I nod, understanding. I pocket the bottle of fenhallow and take a deep breath as I begin to unbutton his tattered shirt, which is so stained with blood it looks as though he’s dressed in Ignitia colours.
I fumble clumsily over every button before carefully easing the fabric off Fox’s shoulders.
At my command, rivulets of water begin to stream down his chest, and I press my lips tightly together as we take in the full extent of the mutilated mess.
‘Now the fenhallow.’
I remember Fox telling me about this particular tincture. It’s used to clean wounds. It doesn’t damage the tissue in the same way liquor would, but it burns just as badly. I hesitate, but already the blood has begun to pour afresh.
‘Wait,’ Fox says as I pull out the stopper. He tears a thick piece of bark from the tree and bites down on it hard before nodding.
The moment the fenhallow makes contact with his skin, Fox screams. He grips a branch for support, the agonized sounds muffled by the bark between his teeth. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes and track their way through the flecks of blood on his face.
My hands are shaking so badly I drop the bottle. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m –’
Fox doubles over, staggering away through the trees.
‘Don’t,’ I implore as I follow him deeper into the forest. ‘Come back, Fox –’
He turns sharply. Somewhere through the red-hot haze of agony, it seems to register: I just said his name.
He spits out the bark and sags against a tree, his entire body racked with shudders as the pain reaches a crescendo. I smooth his sweat-soaked hair back from his brow. The wound on his torso continues to bleed, showing no sign of stopping.
‘Bandages,’ he croaks. ‘I’ll need to bind it.’
‘It’s no good,’ I protest. ‘They won’t stop the blood.’ I wring my hands helplessly. ‘Surely there must be something in that pile of potions –’ Then I stop abruptly and my eyes widen with realization. ‘Lachrymortis,’ I breathe.
Before Fox can utter a word I’m darting back through the trees towards Cedar and Scout and the pile of supplies. When I return, clutched in my hand is a small glass vial.
Fox shakes his head. ‘No.’
‘Yes. You said in the inn that it can heal any wound.’
Each word is an effort. ‘I also … said … that I possess … the last remaining … vials. I’m saving them … for something … worse.’
I stare at him incredulously. ‘Look at you. You’re bleeding out.’
‘I vowed never … to use it … on myself.’
‘And how do you intend to keep that vow when you’re dead?’ I remove the stopper and thrust the vial into his hand. ‘Take it. There’s still one left.’
Fox looks from me to the lachrymortis, torn. His skin is hot to the touch. He screws up his face as the pain persists.
I wrap my fingers round his. ‘Please.’
I feel his resolve begin to weaken. Gently I ease the vial between his lips before pouring the contents down his throat.
Relief clouds his features. The euphoria is almost tangible.
I gasp as the lacerated skin on his chest begins to knit back together. Ragged flesh turns smooth once more; every cut seals shut, scrapes and bruises fading into nothing.
Fox blinks and stumbles slightly. The agony was so all-consuming that I imagine its sudden absence must be dizzying.
Hesitantly, I lay my palm on his chest, right over the spot where the Bear plunged his tooth-spiked fist. I trace the outline of the wound, from just next to his heart all the way down to his navel.
‘It worked,’ I whisper. ‘You’re healed.’
That’s when I begin to shake, small tremors quickly turning into shudders so violent I can’t seem to catch my breath.
Fox looks alarmed. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. I’m f-fine.’
I suspect I’m just in shock. It’s the adrenaline wearing off, nothing more. To my dismay, drizzle begins to fall above our heads, light and hazy. I curse and turn away, but Fox pulls me back instinctively, his arms locking round my waist.
‘Tell me.’
‘I thought … I thought you were going to …’
His lips part in surprise, his green eyes scanning my face. ‘It’s all right now,’ he says softly. ‘I’m all right. We’re all right.’
I nod, balling my hands into fists to keep them from trembling.
Fox tucks a stray curl behind my ear. ‘Look at me.’
But I just hang my head, a blush staining my cheeks.
He cups my face, tilting my chin. ‘Blaze,’ he breathes, my name as sacred as a prayer on his lips. ‘Look at me.’
My eyes flicker up.
Everything else seems to fall away, and I see only him.
The boy who broke the world. Beautiful and bewildering and covered in blood, looking down at me as though I’m the answer to a question he hasn’t dared to ask.
The cloud of drizzle grows warm, falling like ash from the midnight sky.
In the light from my brandmark, I watch his pupils dilate.
‘This is a very bad idea,’ I whisper.
‘You’re probably right,’ he says.
Then he kisses me.
Time seems to slow as his lips meet mine. I’m frozen, suspended somewhere between trepidation and disbelief as I wait to come to my senses. Except I don’t. I just melt into him, wrapping my arms tightly round his neck.
The kiss is hot and hungry, almost feverish.
It’s not like it was in the maze. This time there are no masks, no case of mistaken identity. This time, I know it’s him. I choose him.
I let out a gasp as the sharp sting from the knife wound dulls, then vanishes entirely. Some of the lachrymortis must have lingered on Fox’s lips.
Fox drops his hands to my waist once more, reeling me closer, banishing any remaining space between us. I think about the first time I saw him. I think about how often I’ve thought of him. I think about how long he’s haunted me, running circles in my mind.
Then he slips his tongue into my mouth and I forget my own name.
He backs me slowly into a tree, pinning me gently to the trunk, kissing my jaw, my throat, nipping at the spot where my neck meets my shoulder.
A small sound escapes my lips, and any lingering restraint shatters.
My hands move instinctively, running over his body as though committing its shape to memory – my fingers gliding across his blood-slicked chest, digging into his back, tangling in his hair.
He tastes like blood and salt and summer rain.
I want to lose myself in his touch, in the soft slide of our mouths. But I’m worried that if we don’t stop now, we won’t stop at all. And I barely know what I’ve started.
Fox must be thinking the same thing. He groans softly. Then, with what seems like considerable effort, he pulls back, breaking the kiss.
For a moment we just stand there, panting, staring at one another, our faces flushed and smattered with blood.
I blink, dazed.
Fox leans against a tree. His voice cuts through the silence, low and rough. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he says, ‘I rather like your bad ideas.’