Chapter 12 #2
He stares at me. Which is fair. I'm being very confusing right now. But Syl's lowered her blade and Ruvan's shadows have stopped writhing quite so aggressively, so progress.
"Okay," the boy whispers.
I set the bones first – he screams, but that's normal – then let the healing light do its work.
Quick and clean because we really don't have time for gentle.
Around us the fighting continues but there's a bubble of stillness where everyone watches the shadow guild's pet civilian heal an enemy child.
"There. Don't put weight on it for at least a day." I stand, immediately dizzy. Too much healing too fast. "Someone should probably take him prisoner. Nicely. He's very young."
"I'm fifteen," the boy protests.
"That's basically twelve," I tell him. "Practically infant territory."
Grimm appears from nowhere – they all do that, it's very unsettling – blood on his knuckles but moving fine. His shirt's torn though. Right across the shoulder seam. That's going to be impossible to fix properly. Shoulder seams never sit right after you mend them.
"I've got him. Go."
Right. Going. We were doing that. Though someone should really check if anyone has dry socks. Wet feet in these drafty corridors is just asking for pneumonia.
The main hall is worse. So much worse. Water and shadows colliding everywhere. The water keeps trying to flood everything while shadows rise up to block it. The collision points make these interesting splash patterns on the ceiling. Someone's going to need a very tall ladder to clean those.
The beautiful wooden floor I spent an afternoon polishing is ruined.
Not just wet – there are actual gouges where ice spears missed their targets.
And the blood. Why is there always so much blood?
It mixes with the water into these diluted pink streams that are definitely going to stain the grout between the stones.
You need cold water for blood. Hot water sets the stain.
These Tide Runners are using room temperature at best.
Bodies scattered everywhere. Some still moving, making those awful gurgling sounds that mean water in lungs. Not drowning – that's different. This is water magic forcing itself where water shouldn't go. Very rude of it.
"How many came?" I ask, then realize I probably don't want to know.
"Too many." Ruvan's scanning the space, calculating. "This was planned. Coordinated."
"To kill you?"
"To test me." His jaw tightens. "Someone wanted to see if the rumors were true."
"What rumors?"
He looks at me then. Really looks. Blood on my hands from healing. Paint still in my hair from this morning. His ruined shirt twisted in my grip.
"That I've gone soft."
"Oh." I process that. "Have you?"
"I just let you heal an enemy."
"That's not soft. That's practical. He's fifteen. Killing children is bad for morale." I think about it. "Also just bad generally."
Something crashes above us. Ruvan pushes me against the wall as debris falls where we were standing. His body cages mine, protective, and I can smell him – shadows and copper and that soap he uses. My brain helpfully notes this is inappropriate timing for attraction.
My body doesn't care.
He pulls back once the dust settles, and I see him notice. See his eyes darken as he realizes I'm breathing too fast and not from fear. His hand comes up, then drops.
"Later," he says roughly.
"Later what?"
"Everything."
Oh.
We find Grimm holding the training room with the newer guild members.
He's got them arranged in defensive positions, very professional, except two are definitely crying and one's throwing up in the corner.
Poor thing. Probably motion sickness from all the water magic.
Or regular sickness from all the violence.
"Status?" Ruvan asks.
"Seventeen down on our side. More injured." Grimm glances at me. "Could use healing if—"
"Of course." I'm already moving, checking the worst injuries first. Stab wound on Davis (not fatal but needs attention), broken ribs on someone I don't know (painful but manageable), various cuts and bruises and one dislocated shoulder that pops back in with a sound that makes everyone wince.
My magic flows easier each time. Like it's happy to finally be used properly instead of hidden. Each person I touch looks at me with something between awe and fear.
"Thank you," Davis manages. "I thought— when you made soup, I didn't know—"
"Nobody knew. That was the point." I move to the next injured. "Though clearly that's not working anymore."
Ruvan's coordinating defense, sending people to different positions, but I catch him watching me. Not suspicious watching. Something else. Something that makes heat curl in my stomach despite the entirely inappropriate circumstances.
"Incoming!" Someone shouts from the doorway.
More water crashes through. More fighters. More violence. And this time I have a front row seat to watch Ruvan work.
He doesn't just fight. He dominates. Every movement calculated for maximum damage with minimum effort. Shadows responding to thought, becoming weapons, shields, transportation. Five attackers become four become none in the space of heartbeats.
I should be horrified. I am horrified. But I'm also—
"Behind you!" Finn yells.
I turn in time to see water rushing at my face. Not regular water – this is compressed, shaped into something solid. It makes this hissing sound as it moves. Pretty color though – that deep blue-green you only see in very deep water or very expensive paint.
No time to dodge. But the shadows are already there, forming this solid wall between me and drowning. They feel cold as they pass by my skin, protective cold.
Ruvan appears from nothing – I really need to ask how he does that without getting motion sick – his hand pressing the attacker's face into stone.
There's resistance at first, water trying to cushion the impact, but shadows are persistent.
The sound when the man's nose breaks is very specific. Wet crunch. Like celery but meatier.
He turns to check on me, still holding the probably-dead Tide Runner by the face, and I have the wildly inappropriate urge to grab his face and kiss him senseless. Which would be messy. There's blood on his hands. And water everywhere. Very slippery conditions for kissing.
"Stop looking at me like that," he says quietly.
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to do it again."
"I—" Can't deny it. Won't lie. "Maybe I do."
His eyes go dark. Not shadow dark. The other kind. "You're insane."
"Probably. But I'm also honest."
"Boss!" Gray Streak appears in the doorway, favoring his left side and definitely needing dry socks. Those are soaked through. "They're pulling back!"
The sounds of fighting are getting quieter. Less splashing, more groaning. Everyone's too tired to keep trying to kill each other.
The temperature in the room changes. Not from magic. From Ruvan going completely still.
"How many?" His voice has gone flat.
"Seventeen dead. Six got away. They saw—" Gray Streak glances at me. "They saw everything."
Ruvan's shadows start writhing. "Someone talked. Someone told them exactly where to hit."
"Boss—"
"I want to know who." He's not looking at anyone now, which is somehow worse than if he was staring someone down. "Six hours. Find them."
Joss walks in, still wiping blood off her blade with someone's abandoned vest. Very thorough about knife maintenance. "The ones who escaped will spread word. Every guild will know about her by morning."
She's looking at me when she says it. Not unkind, just practical. Like she's stating the weather.
"She's guild property now." Ruvan's voice is cold. So cold. "No one touches her without going through me."
Property. That's... not great.
"I can't go home," I say, because it's just hitting me. My studio. My paintings. My life where I worried about rent and sold landscapes to people who didn't really want them.
"No." He's looking at the bodies now. His people. Seventeen of them. "You stay where I tell you. Do what I tell you."
"Fourteen prisoners," someone reports. "Including the kid she healed."
"They'll be questioned. Thoroughly." The way he says thoroughly makes my stomach twist.
"They'll need food first," I say quietly. "And dry clothes. Wet prisoners are just asking for pneumonia."
Everyone stares at me. Ruvan turns that cold gaze my way.
"They killed my people. And you're worried about them catching cold."
"Someone has to be." It comes out smaller than intended.
He stares at me for a long moment. Something flickers across his face – disbelief maybe. Or exhaustion. Then he turns away.
"Joss, start evacuation procedures. Gray Streak, secure the prisoners. Grimm, count our dead properly. I want names." He pauses. "And find out who leaked our location."
They scatter to follow orders. The hall empties except for bodies and water damage and me, still standing there trying to process that my life just ended. Or changed. Same thing maybe.
"Your shoulder needs cleaning," I tell his back.
"Later." Sharp. Final.
He walks away, shadows trailing behind him. I'm alone with corpses and puddles and the knowledge that I'm now property of the Shadow Guild. Because I healed people. Because I couldn't watch them die.
Because I watched him kill and wanted him anyway.
The morning's portrait session feels like a different lifetime. Was I really worried about his curtains? Was that really my biggest concern?
I look at my hands. Still faintly glowing. Then at the water damage. Then at the bodies that need... something. Dignity maybe. Sheets at least.
"Hey," I call to a passing guild member. "Where do we keep the mops?"
He stares at me. Which is fair.
But someone has to clean this up. The water won't mop itself. The blood needs cold water before it sets. And I need something to do with my hands that isn't thinking about how Ruvan moved when he killed. How my body responded. How I'm trapped here now with nowhere else to go.
One crisis at a time.
Starting with finding enough mops for this disaster.
After all, what else am I going to do? I'm guild property now. Might as well make myself useful.