35
The Healer’s Scarf
Blair
A knock comes at the door just as I’m rocking on a soldier’s lap. Well, might be my third round, or fifth, so actually I guess it’s more likely to catch me straddling him than not.
My head is tilted back while I ride him, wine spilling from the bottle into my mouth. Some of it runs over my chin and down my breasts, and he leans forward to suck it off my nipples, his teeth grazing them.
He freezes at the knock.
“Ignore it and keep going,” I order, but he’s already smelled something—that strange scent of clean air, herbs, and blossoming pink flowers that doesn’t belong in the reek of the barracks. Gods help me, but he goes limp inside me. I think that’s a first for me.
Another knock.
“I think this is for you,” he mutters, shame flickering over his face.
I scowl and climb off him, padding barefoot to the door, still naked, the wine bottle dangling from my fingers. I yank the door open, hissing when the daylight stings my eyes.
But then a grin curls over my lips when I see who it is.
The healer. Meanara’s expression flickers—the briefest flash of shock at my nakedness—before she smooths it away, that perfect, composed mask sliding back into place.
Something about it pisses me off more than anything else.
It makes me want to be mean. Meaner than usual.
Then I remember she probably doesn’t even know who I am, with my glamour still up.
“Maybe you’ve got the wrong door,” I say, ready to slam it in her face—but a surprisingly strong arm catches it.
“Stop playing games, Blair. You never returned to campus as you were told. You didn’t show your face. Not once.”
Right. So much for her not knowing who I am. How the hells she sees through a glamour that even masks my scent is a mystery to me though.
“Well, healer,” I sneer, “that’s because I never do as I’m told. Pity you have nothing better to do than come looking for me this early in the morning.”
“It’s late afternoon, Blair,” she counters smoothly. “And I had to tend a wounded soldier when I heard about a tavern brawl—and that you left with a certain soldier. I was worried about you and decided to stop by.”
My curiosity wins before I can stop it. “How did you know it was me? That brawl?”
Meanara just looks bored, as if it’s obvious. “You called yourself Morrigan. And you ordered a whole piglet and ate it almost alone. And knocked five men off their feet before. Could only have been you.”
“So much flattery,” I purr.
“Seems to be a pattern, though: a whole piglet every night.”
“Afraid I’ll put on weight?” I tease.
“And ten pitchers of beer,” she adds, pouting those perfect lips, ignoring me.
I take a long swig from the bottle, just to see what it does to her. When I swallow, I say, “You told me to go out there and stop being an animal. So I did.”
“I didn’t mean get drunk and…” She gestures delicately toward the room—the run-down barracks, the mattress that smells like sweat and sex and, well, a lot of other things.
“Get my brain fucked out?” I offer.
“I was going to say ‘drink yourself into oblivion.’”
“Well, just so you know, I was getting my brain fucked out by a handsome stranger.”
By now, they’ve all blurred together—usually soldiers or seafarers I trail back to some borrowed room after the nightly brawls that pay my way. After a few weeks, I’ve made myself quite the name. “Maybe you should try it too. Might make you a little less—”
“That’s enough,” she cuts me off, her voice full of authority—the same tone she used the day I wanted to smash Melody’s bones. Gods. Melody. Another failure to add to my ever-growing list. “Wash up and get dressed. I’ll wait here.”
“Have fun waiting,” I chirp sweetly, batting my lashes at her. “Because I’m going right back in there, picking up where you interrupted. Unless…” I bite my tongue, but the words slip out anyway. “Unless you want to join us.” What the hells is wrong with me?
Meanara just says, cool as ever, “You mean, join you and the man currently climbing out the window?”
I whip my head around just in time to see the soldier fling his other leg over the sill. A moment later, there’s the sound of boots hitting dirt, then running footsteps.
Coward.
“Now, Blair,” Meanara says, “since your evening entertainment just ran off, you can take a bath at the temple. Put on your clothes and come with me. You’re drunk and in no state to stay here alone.”
Her tone—that calm, pitying one—makes something in me snap. “Oh, I won’t be alone long,” I purr, tilting the bottle back, only to find it empty.
On the street, soldiers are strolling past, openly ogling me and my naked body. The only reason no one whistles is because Meanara is standing right there—and no one wants to risk offending the healer. A famous fucking beacon.
As if she knows it, Meanara steps closer and pulls a silken scarf from her bag, draping it around my shoulders. Her scent hits me—soft, clean, maddening. It smells good and whole and makes me want to vomit all the bad shit out.
“Get that off me,” I hiss.
“Everyone can see you, Blair.”
“Yeah, I’m not such a prudish little healer as you. I like the attention. And maybe I like being fucked by strangers.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” she says, and those strange eyes of hers look like they can see straight into me—into my rotting soul.
I want to slap her. I really want to slap her. But I know I’d be in deep trouble if I did. My fury still needs an outlet though—so I let it pour out, shaping it into knives the way I used to shape my magic, and throw them at her with my words.
“Don’t lecture me when you’re letting Caryan fuck you.
” My voice is loud enough to carry across the whole street .
Ooooops. Every soldier nearby goes still.
Heads turn. And then, just as quickly, they look away—because no one dares be caught staring when someone just accused the famous healer of Avandal of sleeping with the Dark Lord.
I know I’ve gone too far. I know I’ve dug my own grave. But a pathetic, desperate part of me still begs her to deny it. To tell me I’m wrong.
She doesn’t. She just lifts her chin—that perfectly shaped, infuriating chin—and stands there looking like some divine, untouchable thing.
I hate her. I hate that she’s beautiful, hate that she might have sung to Caryan with that haunting voice of hers, hate that she makes me want to smash everything, rip and tear and destroy until the world burns down around us.
“I waited long enough, Blair,” she says finally. “You had a month. A full month to find your way back. It’s over now. If you don’t show up to your laundry duty today, you’ll be banned from the campus.”
I blink irritably. “What fucking laundry duty?”
“The one I’ve just given you.” The woman turns and walks away, spine so straight it must ache.
I slam the door shut, letting the darkness inside me swallow everything whole.
***
I end up at a different tavern later—one just outside prestigious Avandal, in a cattle-wrangling village. The faun is there, signing people up for more fights. He’d passed me the address and date after my last bout.
This isn’t like a regular brawl though. This is where the real fighters come.
The barn is packed, a ring set up in the middle.
People shout and cheer, throwing coins and making bets.
The fighters are faster, meaner, their fists like iron, tattoos covering every inch of their skin.
They’ve clawed their way up here, muscle stacked on muscle, the kind of bastards who’ve seen war, or at least survived enough street fights to count.
I take a few blows to the ribs and face before I manage to win. My victory leaves me bruised and bloodied and nearly broke— most of my coin burned away on booze and another round of glamour for the night.
I end the evening with two faceless strangers, screwing away the fury boiling under my skin until it simmers down to a dull, bitter ache.
When I wake up the next morning, I’m sprawled on a filthy mattress on the floor of a run-down apartment. Well, run-down by Avandal standards—wooden walls with peeling paint, a single, cracked window letting in a sliver of sunlight.
The two men are still passed out, reeking of booze and sweat. Well, I guess I don’t smell any better. I curse silently when the floorboards creak under my feet as I slip out the door, but luckily they don’t wake.
Gods, I need a bath. A real one. I want clean sheets, a bed that doesn’t smell like cheap liquor and worse.
I pull my hood low, my body heavy and sore as I make my way through Avandal.
The streets are alive, filled with the chatter of merchants, the laughter of children.
Shops hawk loose teas, chocolate, cakes.
The dressmakers’ quarter is full of color, the windows filled with new gowns in lush hues, stitched with silver animals and jewel-bright flowers.
Again I think of Melody. She’d like the colors, so different from the human world.
Maybe she’d even paint again. I don’t know when she last picked up a brush.
Maybe she has—and I’m just too damn fucked up to notice, after all the times I snuck into her room at night to answer the demands of that damn bond.
But I hope she did, because it would mean that at least one of us is healing. The thought burns, so I shove it away.
But then I pass a shop window full of brushes, paints, and canvases. I stalk past it without looking too long, but the ache in my chest stays with me all the way back up the hill to campus.
When I reach the manicured lawn of the campus, I feel the glamour being stripped away from my skin. I head for the massive double doors, ready to slink inside—only to slam headfirst into an invisible wall.
I reel back, dazed. Fuck. My head’s already pounding and now this.
I try again. Same result.
I stare. Other students are strolling past me, walking through the space with no trouble at all. They can go in. I can’t.
The healer. I’m going to fucking kill her.
Fury laces my steps as I storm up the hill toward the temple. My feet barely seem to touch the ground, my pulse a steady, boiling roar in my ears.
I shove open the healer’s chamber door without knocking—and nearly collide with Riven, who’s leaning against the doorframe.
“Polite people knock, you know,” he drawls, as infuriatingly smug as always—though there’s something simmering in his eyes that’s darker than usual.
“Go fly into a tree. Or something harder. A rock. A boulder. A gods-cursed mountain,” I snap, brushing past him before my gaze finds Meanara.
“You—” I snarl. “You locked me out.”
“No,” she says calmly. “I asked the campus to lock you out. You can get back into your room once you’ve done the laundry.”
“My clothes are in there.”
“And there they’ll stay until you do the laundry,” Meanara replies, completely unruffled.
Riven is studying his manicured hands as if he’s bored out of his mind, but I can feel him enjoying this. That asshole is practically radiating glee.
“Melody made a bargain. I’m allowed here,” I growl.
“Yes,” Meanara says smoothly. “Melody did make that bargain—and that includes you participating as a member of this court in whatever way you can.”
“Now be a good girl and do the laundry,” Riven adds lazily, though his eyes flash with something bruised, something raw, something that almost makes me stop breathing. Gods, what is that look? “So you can take a bath. You reek,” he finishes.
I snarl at him, flashing my teeth. “Why don’t you crawl back to your master?” I snap. “Or let me guess—he’s still cross with you for what you did.”
The effect is immediate. Riven’s face hardens, his eyes going flat. Oh yes—I hit the mark. Caryan will never forgive him.
I smile, sharp and smug, right up until Riven’s voice drops low and vicious. “Careful, Blair. You’re dangerously close to being wiped off the proverbial map.”
Meanara chooses that moment to step past me, using Riven’s presence like a shield as she slips out the door.
When I turn back to him, Riven’s gaze is darker, his voice lower. “One word of warning,” he says softly. “He has people watching you, Blair. Whether you know it or not. And Avandal’s alleys can be dark.”
I huff out a dead, cold laugh. “What—you warning me someone’s going to slit my throat if I don’t behave?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Why tell me?” I snarl. “You hate me so much—why not volunteer to do it yourself?”
“I won’t lie. Yes, I hate you, Blair Alaric.” His words are like venom, every syllable deliberate. “Because you are a self-obsessed, selfish, little girl who thinks she’s the only one who suffers. You are a waste. Toxic.” His lips curl, as if the words taste foul in his mouth.
“And you?” I hiss. “You keep crawling to Caryan’s feet, licking his boots, while it kills you to see how he treats her. Have you ever asked yourself who you really love? Or are you too afraid to decide?”
The air between us snaps like a whip—and suddenly, his hand is on my throat, talons curling, pinning me against the wall with terrifying ease. I’ve seen him once before on the battlefield, before he joined Caryan. Terrifying doesn’t even begin to cover it.
A dark fire burns in his eyes, and for a second, he doesn’t look like Riven at all. He looks like Caryan—not because of his face, but because of that dead, yawning abyss in his gaze. For a heartbeat, I see that side of him again—the black flames flaring in his eyes—before he shutters it away.
“I made my choice long ago,” he says, his voice quiet and lethal.
“Long before she ever existed. And yes, it shackles me. But you…she saved you. You could have helped her. You could have grown the fuck up and stood by her. But you chose to drown in your own self-pity. It’s disgusting.
So keep pushing me, Blair—and maybe I’ll be lucky enough to get the order to end you. ”
He releases me just as fast as he grabbed me, straightening the lapels of his jacket with a practiced, court-perfect flick—the high lord, untouchable again.
“You know the healer keeps reaching out her hand,” he says, his voice cold again. “She put in a good word for you. And I’ll be damned if I know why. But know that Kyrith beats Melody into unconsciousness every second day.”
Then he strolls out, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding like war drums, my fury and shame tangled together until I can’t tell which one hurts more.